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

After the Great Oxtail Fiasco of 2008, when I told my friends I'd be making this dish, nearly everyone giggled or snerked when I said the words "beef cheeks." No, not because they thought I was talking about butt cheeks (what are you, 12? Pot, meet kettle.), but because the words "beef cheeks" are inherently fun to say. C'mon, try it. Beef cheeks. There, now don't you feel better? After the giggling subsided, my friends then suggested that we try and find someone we can nickname Beef Cheeks, or perhaps make it a more generic call-out. Like instead of "Duuuuude!" it'd be "Beeeeef Cheeeeks!" Yeah, I don't think it works, either. Or, we thought perhaps replacing "Shawty" with "Beef Cheeks" in hip-hop/rap lyrics might be fun. To wit:

Apple Bottom Jeans [Jeans]
Boots with the fur [With the fur]
The whole club was lookin at her
She hit the flo [She hit the flo]
Next thing you know
Beef Cheeks got low low low low low low low low

Yeah, it didn't work there, either. Oh well, guess I won't be the tipping point in getting Beef Cheeks into our everyday vernacular. Damn. Now what will I do with all my free time?

According to The French Laundry Cookbook, this dish originated from the concept of doing a beef, horseradish and tomato confit salad, which, to me, sounds like a very lovely idea. Then, according to the narrative about this dish on page 112, Stephen Durfee suggested modifying the original idea for the dish to add tongue -- thus "Tongue in Cheek." See, apparently The Durfster, smart and clairvoyant as he is, knew one day I'd be making this, so he pulled Thomas Keller aside and said, "Yo, T. You know how we're all logically playful with words like 'Oysters and Pearls,' 'Coffee and Donuts,' and stuff like that? Well, how about we take our perfectly tasty beef, tomato and horseradish combo and really muck it up with something that will make some young, lovely, coquettish gal want to throw up when she cooks this dish?"

And, sadly, Chef Keller fell for Durfee's mesmerizing, dreamy gaze and said, "Sure, Durf. That sounds like a great idea. I think it would be fantastic for some young, lovely, coquettish gal to get the dry heaves and try desperately not to cry while peeling the tastebuds from some calf's tongue. That is, if we didn't already popozão said young, lovely, coquettish gal with our softshell crab dish."

Okay, now that I've veered waaayyy off course with my pathetic French Laundry fanfic (oooo, now there's an idea for a new blog), let's actually talk about the dish. And where better to start than with beef cheeks:


I'd trimmed these suckers a bit, removing the top flap of meat as well as the silverskin from the bottom, and put them in this dish. I then covered them with The French Laundry's red wine marinade, wrapped it tight with foil and plastic wrap, and put it in the fridge overnight. I started this dish two days before I knew I was going to serve it, because there are multiple overnight marinating processes as well as multiple braisings, so when you see the background light in the photos change from nighttime to daytime with little to no explanation, that's why.


Also that night, I faced what I now know was my biggest fear in this cookbook -- calf's tongue. Just look at these and tell me you aren't skeeved:


Bleh. I have bad memories of tongue -- get your minds out of the gutter, people. What are you, 12? Pot, meet kettle. Wow. Dejá vu. Aaaaanyway, my grandfather used to eat slices of pickled pig's tongue sandwiched between two slices of white bread, which grossed me out to no end; and, when I was a little kid, my cousins and I used to sneak down into my aunt's basement after dinner to watch some silent, black and white horror movie in which some dude used a dirty wrench to pull out some other dude's tongue. And, you already know I have texture issues when it comes to certain foods, so the idea of having to peel off the layer of tastebuds, as well as chew on something that I already have permanently attached in my own mouth (AAAAAUUUGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!) was not something I was necessarily looking forward to. But I persevered nonetheless, because I will not let Stephen Durfee's prophetic vengeance toward me get in the way of my doing this dish.

I put the tongues into my brand-spankin' new Le Creuset pot (courtesy of Le Creuset and the good folks at the Well-Fed Network's Food Blog Awards) and added onions, carrots, leeks, garlic, thyme, salt, chicken stock, and some white wine vinegar:

I brought it to a simmer on the stovetop, covered it with a parchment lid, and braised the tongues in a 300-degree oven for four hours:



I removed the tongues from the braising liquid, and strained the liquid into another pot, discarding the vegetables. Now, here comes the fun part. I had to peel the tongues while they were still hot. And, I couldn't really wear thick oven mitts to do so, which meant I had to TOUCH the TONGUES:



If I'd been drinking Brawndo while doing this step, I could WIN at HEAVING. It's just so gross. Before the braise, the tongues were a little rough in spots, but I figured that would go away after they'd braised for four hours. Alas, that was not the case. I could still feel the tastebuds as I held those tongues to peel off the outer layer. Ew, ew, ew.... Meanwhile, on a related note, who knew when I peeled veal tongue that Gene Simmons' sex tape would get "leaked" on the Internet? Coincidence? I think not.

I put the peeled tongues back into the braising liquid, covered it, and put the pot in the refrigerator overnight:



I did a shot of Ketel One and went to bed. Mama was plumb worn out.

The next day, I removed the beef cheek meat from the marinade and strained the liquid into a pot, reserving the vegetables:



Grimace Vomit, Part Deux, non?

I brought the marinade to a boil and skimmed the impurities as they rose to the top. Once it had reduced to about a cup of liquid, I removed it from the heat. I coated the bottom of a pot with some canola oil, patted dry the beef cheeks, seasoned them with salt and pepper, lightly floured them, and browned those cheeks for a few minutes on each side:


I took the meat out of the pot, drained off the fat, and put the cheeks in a separate Le Creuset pot (which you'll see in the photos to follow). I added the vegetables to the first pot, sautéing them for a few minutes, then plonked them in the pot with the meat, and added the reserved marinade and some veal stock to the second pot. I covered it with a parchment lid, brought it up to a simmer, and braised it in a 300-degree oven for four hours:




I let the beef cheeks stand in the liquid for about a half-hour, then removed them to a cutting board, after which I wrapped them tight and put them in the refrigerator for a few hours so that they could firm up a bit:


I strained the beef cheek braising liquid (discarding the vegetables) into a smaller pot and allowed the fat to rise to the top so I could remove it. Then, I strained it three times and set a little bit aside to use later. I reduced the rest until there was about a cup and a half left:


I grated some fresh horseradish:


I added some of it to the liquid, and reduced it further until there was just under a cup of it in the pot. I then strained the liquid again to remove the horseradish solids, setting aside this meaty, horseradishy sauce for later.

I added the rest of the fresh grated horseradish to the crème fraîche I'd whipped:


Can we pause for a moment here so I can extoll the virtues of fresh horseradish? I love it so. Growing up, I didn't like it very much; it's only been in recent years that I have come to appreciate the beloved horseradish. I'm allergic to peppers in most forms (sucks to be me), and because this allergy presented itself in the last year, I have an even deeper love for something that can add heat to a dish without putting me in anaphylactic shock. Not that I substitute horseradish where I'd originally eaten jalepenos, but you get my drift. I love me some heat every now and then, so instead of something peppertastic, I'll make a roast beef horseradish sandwich to fit the bill. Okay, back to our regularly scheduled programming...

I'd already made the tomato confit (the process of which you can see in this previous post), so I needed to get the baby leeks ready. Except that I couldn't find baby leeks, so I used green onions instead:


I cut the root ends off, trimmed the tops, and tied them together in a bunch so I could blanch them in salt water, which I followed with an ice-water bath. I took them out, dried them off, and set them aside for plating.

The last step was to get the meat ready. I took the beef cheeks and tongue out of the refrigerator. I sliced them as the book described and assembled them so that the tongue was in between two layers of beef cheek:


Slicing the beef cheek was easy-peasy, but slicing the tongue (even though it had been peeled) was still kind of gross. It's kind of stringy and shreddy looking, and I just couldn't shake the image of what it had looked like before. Bleargh.

I put each of those meat stacks (snerk) into a pan with the reserved braising liquid and heated them, turning them over and splashing the tongue layer with the liquid to get it warm:


I reheated the onions, and tossed some mâche with a bit of olive oil, salt and pepper, and began plating. First, I put a spoonful of the horseradish-beef cheek sauce. Next, I placed one of the meat portions atop the sauce. I topped that with two green onions and a piece of tomato confit. Then, a dollop of horseradish crème fraîche. And finally, some of the dressed mâche. Have a look:


I do have to say, that the final plating looked gorgeous and smelled incredible. And, it didn't taste all that bad, either. Actually, it was pretty darn good. When I served it, I told my friends we were eating beef cheeks, and they dove right in. About halfway through, someone asked, "What's this tan meat in the middle? Is that also part of the beef cheek?" Of course I lied and said it was. Then, when we were finished, I told them they'd eaten tongue. Sadly, I was the only one who wanted to vomit. They were all fine with it and though it tasted good. Then, we got out my camera and I started showing the kids the pictures of the tongue in its various states of undress, which they thought was so disgustingly awesome. Oh to be eleven again, when gross stuff is actually cool.

Beef cheeks can be really fatty, and these definitely had their fair share of fat, but I think it made it incredibly succulent in the final tasting. Truth be told, texture issues aside, I really liked this dish. It was hearty and carried some heft, but wasn't overly filling or rich. It had just the right amount of horseradish throughout, and was the perfect dish with which to say goodbye to winter and welcome spring (it's 65 degrees here today). Would I make it again? Probably not. But I'd eat it at Per Se or The French Laundry if it was on the menu. Or, if Stephen Durfee put the hexing mojo on me and I unwillingly submitted to his hypnotizing gaze... you know how I roll.

Up Next: Pear Strudel with Chestnut Cream and Pear Chips

Resources:
Beef cheeks from Smith Meadows Farms
Veal tongue from Union Meat
Clos du Bois Cabernet Sauvignon
Produce and aromatics from Whole Foods
Vermont Butter and Cheese Company crème fraîche

Music to Cook By: The Decemberists; The Crane Wife. I love this music, but I'm sad to say I don't know much about the band, other than they're from Portland, OR and that they once toured with a full orchestra. They're one of those bands that I heard one or two songs from, so I downloaded a few of their albums, and when their songs pop up on my iPod, I'm always happy. It's rare that I listen to an album start-to-finish, but when one of these tunes recently made an appearance in Shuffle mode, I had to listen to the whole album as a set. I feel like their songs are great storytellers -- and that each song could be the most fantastic, allegorical bedtime story, if only they weren't so damn awesome that you want to stay awake to hear every last note.

Read my previous post: "Surf and Turf"