Purity of Essence

Dichotomies
When he was a young man, my father was a steak purist. In recent years, he's done a good deal of experimentation with food and cooking, so I don't know if his attitude about beef has survived the years. When I was a child, it seemed that the least little variation in a meal could initiate Dad's launch sequence into his disquisition On Absolute Steakness: the Proper Preparation and Eating of Beef Steak.

Steak had to be well-marbled, cooked medium-rare, and properly seasoned. Any degree of doneness further than medium-rare was burnt and ruined. Properly seasoned meant liberally salted and peppered (black pepper only) prior to grilling. Only an idiot would ruin a good steak by applying any foreign spice, herb, or sauce. Toppings were acceptable but only sautéed mushrooms or onions or both. Marinades were for game meats only. After a business dinner, my father once complained that he'd had to scrape some goopy sauce off his steak. Only a troglodyte would hide the flavor of a fine cut of meat under a sauce. Dad believed French chefs were all either troglodytes or vegetarians with a mission to make everyone hate beef.

Once I was away from home, I began to experiment with foods, but it was several years before I convinced myself that I really should test Dad's Theory of Absolute Steakness.

In all fairness, I have struggled with my own attitude toward fine meats for many years. Dad's purist line made sense to me. On the surface it makes perfect sense: sauce your steak and you'll taste the sauce and smother the subtle nuances of steaky goodness. In many cases, I believe this is true. I had a Beef Wellington once in Denver that was sauced tableside. The sauce was delicious, but tenderloin is a mild meat. Also, one excellent reason for adding sauce to many dishes—chicken breast, veal, lean pork, many varieties of fish—is to provide moisture. I like my tenderloin rare, though, so my Beef Wellington didn't need any additional moisture. So, yes, in that case the sauce ruined my steak.

On the other hand, grilled flank steak is better with a well-balanced chimichurri; the subtle flavor of tenderloin blooms under the influence of Gorgonzola butter; hot spice rubs focus the sweetness of the marbling in rib eye. In short, sometimes the sauce on a steak is the good guy.

The advertising agency for a popular steak sauce—the one supposedly named for a compliment from King George IV—has argued for many years that their client's product enhances the flavor of steak. In fact, they have long implied an the enhancement is to such a degree that those in the know would never think of eating steak without said royally approved sauce. Frankly, with respect to their client, they're wrong. In my opinion, that sauce completely obliterates every flavor component of steak save the texture. I mention these ads, however, not to ridicule a popular condiment (well, not solely) but because I believe the theory behind the ads to be a truism: the job of any sauce is to enhance a particular food.

So the purists are right insofar as some meats don't require any sauce, but the purists are wrong insofar as a sauce that enhances the flavor of a meat is good. Honestly, I doubt that any meat is so perfect that no sauce can enhance it. Consider the Japanese gourmand eating Wagyu beef sashimi—few will eat it without sauce of some sort.

The Fish Purist

I haven't met too many fish purists. Granted, grilled tuna and swordfish steaks can stand alone (alone as in sauceless, not alone as in without accompaniment) as long as they're not overcooked. Most fish needs something to provide a bit of moisture and maybe a bit of flavor enhancement.

At least, that's my opinion.

Girltzik quietly disagrees. She scrapes my mango salsa off of her mahi mahi filets, the orange/chipotle reduction off of her salmon, the water-chestnut vinaigrette off her albacore. She usually doesn't scrape off Hollandaise, and she likes just about anything soy-based, so my teriyakis she eats as served.

She typically hides her scraping activities behind a book, and she always has a book up in front of her dinner plate. I usually find out only when she takes her mostly-empty plate to the sink and notice that the one thing remaining is a pile of the toppings. Relishes and salsas appear to be on her Particularly Unacceptable list.

I was not surprised, then, to see her dumping a quarter-cup of my sweet-tomato tapenade into the disposal. In addition to prefering her fish steaks naked, Girltzik is none too fond of capers.

*sigh*

Ah well. This is my riff on darne de thon rouge à la provençale (tuna steak the way they do it in Provençe). Princess V and I devoured ours. It was delicious.



Half-seared Ahi Tuna Steak with Sweet Tomato Tapenade and a Side of Pan-Roasted Broccoli

(serves three)

dramatis personae

two tablespoons olive oil
three half-inch-thick, five-ounce ahi tuna steaks

tapenade
one pint strawberry tomatoes, quartered
one half cup Niçoise or Kalamata olives, pitted
one third cup basil, rough-chopped
two anchovy filets
two tablespoons non-pareil capers

one broccoli crown, cut into spears
one sprig green garlic
juice of one lemon

quality of ingredients

See Undiscovering Fire for my quality notes on tuna.

The tomato market has really exploded lately, including a number of fruity, sweet cultivars. If you can't find strawberry tomatoes, look for super-sweet, seriously sweet, or sweet 100s. If none of those are available at your grocer, cherub or cherry tomatoes will do.

Niçoise olives were my first choice (the idea was to stay with Provençal ingredients), but they tend to be harder to find. Kalamatas are a bit oily for this application. Otherwise, both have their charms. Niçoise are nutty. Kalamatas have a winy flavor.

As I've said before, just about any brand of capers should be okay, but I wouldn't recommend the Alessi brand capers packed in white balsamic vinegar. You want tart and salty, not sweet. Taste the capers before you use them. If they're too salty, rinse them and soak them in white vinegar for a while before you use them.

I remember the first time—in some little out-of-the-way pizzeria near Chicago—that I got a bite of anchovy. It was on a pizza with everything. That first little taste of salty fishiness overcame every other flavor and utterly derailed my appetite. Bleah. I doubt that I will ever comprehend the anchovy pizza. I suppose it's like explaining the charm of stinky cheese to someone who doesn't like stinky cheese. Still, over the years I have learned that a little anchovy, mashed and incorporated with other ingredients, can provide a subtle taste of Mediterranean breeze. I keep a jar of anchovy filets (packed in olive oil) in my cupboard.

The broccoli crown should be green or green and purple and the florets should be firm and tight.

If you can't get green garlic, substitute one garlic clove, crushed or minced.

preparation notes

Salt and pepper one side of each tuna steak and set them aside.

Mash the anchovy filets on a small plate with the back of a spoon until the bones are entirely crushed.

If you're using Kalamata olives, press them between paper towels to remove a bit of the excess oil.

Combine the tomatoes, olives, anchovy, and basil in a food processor and process the ingredients until the largest bits are no more than three times as big as the capers. In our machine that took about five seconds. Pour the ingredients into a bowl and mix in the capers.

Over a medium-high flame, heat two tablespoons of olive oil to smoking in a stainless steel sauté pan or cast-iron skillet. Place the broccoli spears in the oil so that each spear has one entire side down on the hot oil and salt them. Let the broccoli spears cook without moving them until they just begin to change color (the green will begin to brighten). Once the color starts changing, you can begin checking the spears for browning. I use chopsticks, but tongs or a small spatula will work. Once all of the spears show some brown, turn them over and brown the opposite side. (Well, another side, anyway. Broccoli isn't exactly rectangular.)

Add in the green garlic, and sauté the vegetables continually for thirty seconds. You want the flavor of the garlic to bloom, but you don't want it to brown. Turn off the flame, pour the lemon juice over the vegetables, and cover. Remove the pan from the burner but don't uncover it. This is, incidentally, one of those moments that makes me want to spend more time in the kitchen. The instant lemon juice flashes to steam, the aromatics from the citrus, broccoli, and garlic engulf you and flood your nostrils. You will salivate, and you will thank me for introducing you to this experience.

Heat a tablespoon of olive oil to smoking in a non-stick skillet. Place the tuna steaks, seasoned side down, in the hot oil. Once the steaks are cooked through one-third of their thickness, remove the steaks from the skillet. Plate the steaks, uncooked side up, and cover each with the tomato tapenade. Plate the broccoli or transfer it to a bowl if you'd rather serve it family-style.