"Surf and Turf" -- Sautéed Monkfish Tail with Braised Oxtails, Salsify and Cèpes

Me: This is a dish that fell flat on its face, and I really wanted to kick it while it was down.

You: Gee, Carol. Tell us how you really feel.

Let's not pull any punches here. This dish was a disappointment. I take responsibility for some of it (you'll see why in a minute), but I also knew going into it that I would probably have a so-so reaction at best for a number of reasons: 1) the ingredients didn't excite me; 2) I was in kind of a bad mood when I made it; and, 3) oxtails can be tricky and I had a feeling mine wouldn't fare well.

Don't get me wrong -- I love me some oxtail. I actually order it when I see it on a restaurant menu because when they're done well, they're fantastic. And when they're not, well, welcome to my world. It's amazing to me that this dish has me in such a funk that I don't even feel like doing this write-up. I actually considered just posting a photo of the finished dish with a sentence or two along the lines of, "I just don't feel like writing about this, so DEAL with it, PEOPLE." But I did not. You're welcome. I am going to make myself write about every single cotton-pickin' step in this dish, but I will not tell you why it's called "oxtail" even though it's really a cow's tail. And the reason I will not tell you is because I don't know. And I don't feel like looking it up. Stupid, rassin'-frassin' oxtails.

Speaking of oxtails, let's start with that (oh joy!). I marinated them in The French Laundry Cookbook's red wine marinade for about 18 hours:



The next day, I put the meat in one bowl and the vegetables in another, while I strained the marinade through a double-cheesecloth-lined sieve into a saucepan:




It looks like Grimace threw up in that pan, doesn't it?



I slowly heated the Grimace vomit, I mean marinade, until it began simmering. I skimmed the impurities off the top and once it was clean, I removed it from the heat and set it aside for later use.

Time to cook the oxtails. I can't even muster an exclamation point for that last sentence. I patted each oxtail dry and lightly coated it with flour, then seasoned them with salt and pepper. I placed them in a pot in which I'd already heated some canola oil. I seared them until they were a dark, rich, brown color, and then removed them from the pot so I could drain out the remaining oil:



I left the nice crusty bits on the bottom, then added the vegetables from the marinade. I cooked this over medium heat, all the while scraping the bits from the bottom of the pan and allowing the moisture from the vegetables to evaporate -- in all, a 3-minute process.



Next, I added the clarified marinating liquid to the pot, stirred it over medium heat, and reduced it until most of the liquid was gone:


Next, I added heated veal stock and chicken stock to the pot, then added the oxtails:


I covered the pot with a parchment lid, brought it all up to a simmer, then put it in a 325-degree oven for 4 hours to braise. When it was done braising, I removed the oxtails from the liquid and strained the liquid through a sieve, then reduced it to about 1.5 cups of liquid:



At this point, the meat was supposed to be so tender, it should fall right off the bone. I am here to tell you: it. did. not. It held onto the bone for dear life, despite the fact that when I pulled one out at the four-hour mark to check it, it seemed as if it was ready and would indeed fall right off the bone. Ten minutes out of the pot? Not letting go. Oh, and do you know how sharp and pointy oxtail bone is? Do you know what it feels like to scrape and slice your fingers and knuckles as you try to work with it? I felt completely inept and contemplated just chucking it all in the garbage. But I didn't. I pulled and scraped and cut and shredded the required 2 cups of meat from those bones, all while the liquid was reducing. I then added the meat to the reduced sauce, and it was at this time that I remembered my lack of salsify for the next step.

So, salsify. The root that tastes a little oyster-y and has the texture of an artichoke heart when it's cooked. Back in the day, I used to think it was pronounced "salse-ih-fi" with a long "i" (eye) sound. Like somehow by adding salsa to your taco, you were gonna salsify it. Oh wait -- I didn't really think that's what "salsify" meant -- it's just the way I thought it was pronounced. Then, I overheard a well respected chef pronounce it as "salse-ih-fee" and did some digging, and by gum, that's how you really pronounce it. Didn't matter, because when I called every market and farm stand in town to try and find it, no one knew what the hell I was talking about. I even tried pronouncing it the old way. Then, I described it. It's like a long, thin parsnip -- sometimes it's white, sometimes it's black. Here's what it looks like, in case you ever need to find it:



One of the produce guys at Whole Foods tried to sell me horseradish, claiming it was salsify. Upon my insistence that I was not born yesterday and knew what horseradish looked like, he then capitulated and instead insisted they could be used interchangeably because they were, as he put it, "the very same thing, miss." It was all I could do to not throw it at him, make him taste it, double over from the coughing fit that would ensue upon biting into raw horseradish and say, "Good DAY, sir. I said GOOD DAY!" and stomp off. But I did not. No, I was mature and said I'd look elsehwere, which I did, to no avail.

So, I had to skip the whole salsify step for this dish. Is the absence of salsify the reason this was such a disappointment? Maybe. But I'm not going to make it again to find out. I like my knuckles now that they've healed and I really don't need to shred my fingers again with more oxtail nonsense, salsify be damned. Or something.

Aaaaaaaanyway, the last two steps were to do the mushrooms and the monkfish. The mushrooms were easy. I removed the stems from and cut the cèpes (more commonly known as porcini mushrooms) into slices that were about a quarter-inch thick. I put them in a pan with a little oil and some thyme and heated them until they were browned:


I added some brunoise, tomato diamonds, and a few drops of white wine vinegar to the oxtail meat and sauce and kept that warm on the burner. Then, I did the monkfish.

I bought my monkfish already cut into the 8 small medallions I needed, and boy am I glad I did, because have you ever seen a whole monkfish? Oh, you haven't? Well, they're legendary in the looks department, so here you go:


Oh, whoopsie-daisy. How'd that photo get in here?



Okay, for reals, here's a monkfish:


Heh. Sorry 'bout that.

Okay. Monkfish time:


Not so bad once you've seen those first two, huh?

I seasoned my little monkfish medallions with salt and pepper and cooked them on both sides in a little canola oil for about 3 minutes per side. I added a little butter and some parsley at the end of the cooking process and basted the fish with it for a few seconds.


To plate, I started with the oxtail meat in sauce, added the monkfish, then topped it with the mushrooms:


It looks pretty, but it was pretty nondescript in the taste department. I'm not a huge fan of monkfish. I think it's really bland and not a fishy-enough texture for me. Some people refer to monkfish as "poor man's lobster" -- which I sort of get, but in this case, it's more like it was a "waste of my time." The oxtail was stringy and not very good, either. The mushrooms were the only thing I liked, and I'm bummed I didn't have the salsify to see how that might've played on the plate.

I don't really know what else to say here. Spay and neuter your pets? Return your tray tables to their upright and locked positions? Goodnight, Gracie?

I know -- how about a big, fat congratulations to the team behind Ratatouille for their Oscar win Sunday night! As you may know, Thomas Keller was the lead culinary consultant, and if you've seen the movie, you'll see his touches throughout. So, congrats Ratatouille team. I sure as hell hope they didn't serve you monkfish and oxtail at Prince's Oscar after-party... which I'm sure you went to, because that would actually be hilarious and awesome all at the same time. Thomas Keller. Prince. That's a photo-op I need to see and that would certainly cheer me up outta this surf and turf funk.

Up Next: "Tongue in Cheek" -- Braised Beef Cheeks and Veal Tongue with Baby Leeks and Horseradish Cream

Resources:
Oxtails from Union Meat at Eastern Market
Monkfish from BlackSalt
Clos du Bois Cabernet Sauvignon
Produce and aromatics from Whole Foods

Music to Cook By: The Aluminum Group; Little Happyness. I first heard these guys when I was in LA and they got some airplay on KCRW. I love the song "Milligram of Happiness" -- it's got this sort of 60s and 70s pop feel with a modern twist. I love the sound of their voices, and not only is this album great kitchen music, I love driving to it, as well. And really, who couldn't love a group that named itself after a furniture line? But really, how ironic that an album with the word "Happy" in its title was playing while I was making one of the most disappointing dishes from this book? It's like totally like rain on your wedding day or a free ride when you've already paid, or maybe the good advice that you just didn't take, except NOT.

Read my previous post: Per Se, Encore