Lamb Shoulder

This North African stew is named for the traditional dish it is cooked in. A tagine is a clay pot that consists of a shallow round base and a cone-shaped lid designed to allow all the moisture to flow back down into the base during cooking. The stews known as tagines are often thickened (and flavored) with dried fruits; the recipe here contains dried apricots, but prunes, raisins, and dates are also common. In France, tagines are often accompanied by couscous; while flatbread is more typical in Morocco. This is a nonbrowned stew, similar to the veal stew on page 205, though far simpler to prepare.

Wild boar, called cinghiale, is hunted and sold all over Umbria, so as a born-again Umbrian I would feel as if I were betraying my experience of Italy if I didn’t include this ragù at my restaurant. Cutting the boar is the hardest part of this recipe, and it isn’t hard at all. The ideal is to buy frozen wild boar and cut it while it’s only partially defrosted, when it’s easier to cut.

Paula Wolfert and I revised this fabulous dish of hers for cooking in my wood-fired oven. The key is to cook it until the lamb is falling-apart tender. The recipe is adapted from Paula’s book, The Slow Mediterranean Kitchen. It comes from the southern Italian region of Apulia, where it is baked in a shallow terra-cotta dish called a tiella. You can make it entirely in the wood-fired oven, or cook the onions and brown the lamb on the stove top, then move it all to the oven to finish cooking.

Lamb, pomegranate, and apricots is a classic Mediterranean combination. Pomegranate molasses, which is sometimes called pomegranate concentrate, is a pantry staple in parts of the Mediterranean. It serves as a meat tenderizer as well as a flavor enhancer. Look for it in specialty foods stores, or online (see Resources). Serve this dish with a rice pilaf or couscous. Note: You will need 16 wooden skewers for this recipe.

During the sovereignty of Byzantium over southern Italy in the tenth century, it was in the workshops of Catanzaro that the silks that emblazoned the courts of Costantinopoli were loomed and crafted and tinged. Thus it was that from these handiworks, humble Catanzaro, its cheek brushing close upon the Ionian, lived its few lustrous moments after the glory days of Magna Graecia. But save the lacy Oriental architecture raised up by the Byzantines, nothing of the comforts of that epoch endured. And so Catanzaro, as did all of Calabria, pressed on in the severest of lives. And when, late in the 1700s, an earthquake felled the city, its fierceness left but dust. Reborn then, Catanzaro is now all of eighteenth-century alleyways, the parishes of the people insinuating upon the palaces of the nobles, the whole formed of a crooked, good-natured charm. And everywhere—round each curve and set into the arms of every angle wait the beloved putiche—the taverns—of the workingmen. Small, dark-wooded dens are they, wrapped in sharp, grapy vapors breathed up from the fat, brown barrels of gaglioppo (a local red wine) over these past hundreds of years. Traditionally le putiche were the dispensaries of only three balms—honest red wine, compassion, and a hellaciously spiced mash made from the viscera of pork, veal, lamb, or goat, sometimes from baccalà, the flesh braised in tomatoes and wine with peperoncini then cradled in a leaf of soft, flat, chewy bread, folded and devoured out of hand. And these morzeddu—dialectically, morsels—made the breakfast, the later morning’s merendina—snack—a consolingly juicy partner throughout the day and evening with stout doses of purply wine. Sadly, there seems of late a flurry of gentrification among the putiche, the work of those who would sophisticate them into whitewashed osterie with wine lists and menus translated into English and German. The cooks, too occupied with carpaccio and tiramisù, no longer make morzeddu. Even the compassion has perished. Enough of the old and crusty taverns endure, though, their comforts unfaded, at least for a bit longer. Here follows a version of morzeddu made with lamb—its shoulder rather than its spleen or its lungs—and a fine terra-cotta pot of the mash and a basket of warm breads are the rustic stuff with which to open an outdoor feast while some other meat or fish might be roasting on the fire.

This dish was inspired by a trip to Tunisia a few years ago. I fell in love with the Tunisian cooks’ use of spices and the bowls of harissa served with every meal. What surprised me most was the use of caraway, which I had always thought of as an Eastern European spice. For this Tunisian-flavored stew, I season the lamb shoulder overnight with caraway, coriander, chiles, cayenne, and paprika, and then braise it in an aromatic broth with cinnamon and allspice. For a traditional braise I usually deglaze with wine, but in keeping with Muslim prohibitions common in Tunisia, I refrain and substitute lemon juice, which also adds a bright, acidic note to the stew.

Mint is a classic accompaniment for lamb. And it wasn’t until Jennifer May shot this classic braised lamb recipe with its mint condiment that we really appreciated its beauty. It’s something we imagine on the Sunday table of Mayor Drapeau, who brought Expo 67 and the ’76 Olympics to Montreal (and chased away the hookers and the gangsters—albeit temporarily).

Lamb shoulder makes luscious meatballs because the ground meat has sufficient fat. It stays moist, even when reheated, so you can make the dish hours ahead. Brian sometimes makes miniature lamb meatballs to serve to visitors who participate in the winery’s Wine and Food Pairing Experience. In this larger size, the meatballs look and taste as if they were made by an Italian grandmother. Pair with pasta or white beans.

Lamb shoulder, because it is a cut of meat with lots of connective tissue, cooks to a very succulent, tender roast. You might have to ask your butcher for a whole, bone-in roast.

Lamb shoulder is a bony cut of meat that easily can be turned into a boneless roast by any butcher, including those who work in supermarkets. The result is a round, tied piece of meat with lovely crevices into which you can stick a simple seasoning mixture like garlic and parsley. This is a traditional combination for lamb, and rightly so, because the flavors marry so well. If you have them on hand, add two tablespoons of crushed coriander seeds (put them in a plastic bag and pound gently with a rolling pin, rubber mallet, or like object) to the parsley: they add a distinctive and alluring floral note to the dish.

Asparagus may Introduce spring, but mint screams it. The perennial herb is among the first edible greens out of the ground, and it’s rampant enough to be considered a weed for those who aren’t fond of it. Team it with lamb and you have a model spring dish.

You might think of this Turkish dish as a kind of lamb shish kebab with a couple of twists. First of all, it can be executed indoors (though in good weather the initial browning could certainly be done on a grill). Second, it contains its own built-in sauce, a combination of yogurt and the juices exuded by lamb and roasted vegetables.

A logical combination and glorious once you taste it, with the sweet juice of the peaches deftly cutting through the richness of the lamb without being piercing. A hint of cinnamon (or an even smaller one of allspice—maybe an eighth of a teaspoon) gives the dish a great aroma as it cooks and a slightly mysterious flavor at the table. A pinch of cayenne or other red pepper makes a nice addition. Whereas most braises begin with browning, this one ends with it, like the Braised and Grilled Lamb Shanks on page 188. This method reduces both spattering and time—since the lamb’s liquid is mostly gone by the end of cooking, it doesn’t go flying from the hot fat, and the meat browns faster. And the peaches, browning lightly in the same cooking liquid, contribute some of their juices to the pan while becoming meltingly tender.

Meat to be grilled for shish kebab, usually lamb, is ideally marinated in a paste of yogurt, minced onion, and spices, even if it’s only for a few minutes. If you prefer to eliminate the yogurt, use a couple of tablespoons of olive oil instead. And if you have dried ground sumac—a sour spice found at all Middle Eastern stores—sprinkle a little of it on the meat just before serving (you won’t need the lemon). If you choose to grill other vegetables—tomatoes, peppers, mushrooms, more onions, whatever— skewer them separately. Simply brush them with a little olive oil and sprinkle them with salt and pepper. These skewers, of course, are ideal with Pilaf (page 513). Other cuts of meat you can use here: beef tenderloin (filet mignon) or boneless chicken thighs (which will require a little longer cooking time).

Kofte are at home in a dozen or more countries, under a variety of names. The most basic combine ground lamb and onion in a fairly smooth paste—not chopped, like the best hamburgers are, but quite dense—and are grilled on skewers (you can, if you prefer, shape them into burgers or meatballs and grill that way). Beyond the basic, there are infinite varieties; I get into some of them, but this is a subject on which one could write a book . . . Serve, if you like, with Parsley-Onion Condiment (page 596).

You might think of this as a kind of indoor shish kebab, one that contains its own built-in sauce, a combination of yogurt and the juices exuded by the lamb and roasted vegetables. Serve with rice or pita bread. Other cuts of meat you can use here: beef tenderloin (filet mignon) or boneless chicken thighs (which will require a little longer cooking time).

When I was served this dish, of alternating bay leaves and chunks of lamb, the bay leaves were fresh (I was told that the world’s best bay leaves are grown around Smyrna, in Turkey). I couldn’t imagine that dried bay leaves would be much less delicious, and indeed they’re not. Either a rice dish or ordinary crusty bread is fine here, along with a salad like Spicy Carrot Salad (page 191), any of the eggplant salads on pages 191–193, or simply some plain roasted peppers or grilled vegetables. Other cuts of meat you can use here: chunks of boneless pork shoulder (which will need somewhat longer cooking) or beef tenderloin (filet mignon).

Bitter melon is a cucurbit; so is cucumber, and they resemble one another. (But so is a cantaloupe, so the melon reference isn’t far off.) Its flavor, though, is akin to that of green peppers, which are much easier to find. Serve this over white rice. If you have access to bitter melons, by all means use them; cut them in half the long way, then scoop out the seeds and fluffy insides, which are like those found in overripe zucchini, before chopping and proceeding as directed. Fermented black beans are available at most Asian markets and many supermarkets (see page 207). The lamb will be easier to slice if you freeze it for 30 minutes or so.