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Wolfe scowled at her. I could see he was torn with conflicting emotions. A female in his kitchen was an outrage. A woman criticizing his or Fritz's cooking was an insult. But corned beef hash was one of life's toughest problems, never yet solved by anyone. To tone down the corned flavor, and yet preserve its unique quality, to remove the curse of its dryness without making it greasy -- the theories and experiments had gone on for years. He scowled at her, but he didn't order her out.
Rex Stout, Cordially Invited To Meet Death
I had pretty much given up on making corned beef hash at home. I'd order it out, occasionally, but always with the same result: a frustrating sense that there was a great dish to be had, but that no one was actually making it, including me.
As in the quote from that story, collected in Black Orchids, the hash was always dry, or greasy, or boring. It never gelled into its promise. Oh, even weak corned beef hash has appeal. But the tragedy of what could be...
In the story, the hash was made great by the addition of chitlins shallow-fried in olive oil with onion juice. I'm all for intestines, and I will probably try this someday, but intuitively, it does not quite seem to get at the central issues, promising though it may be. Somewhere on the internet, there is the story of a Nero Wolfe fan trying chitlins in corned beef hash, and approving.
None of this got me back into the kitchen. What did was a sort of inspiration. It started with solving the problem of the corned beef itself. You simmer it in water until tender, and then it has shed most of its flavor into the water, and the action of the water has turned it stringy on the outside, and fragile on the inside. No. I rarely drag out my sous vide apparatus, preferring more visceral and hands-on forms of cooking, but darned if 48 hours at 153 degrees Fahrenheit isn't the key to cooking corned beef just the way I think it should be.
Next is the hash itself. One day I woke up and said to myself: the pieces are way too small. Armed with that, I shopped, then went into the kitchen and concocted corned beef hash roughly like this:
Take a bunch of those little potatoes, and quarter them. In a big cast iron pan, cover with water and add beef tallow, about 1/4 cup per pound of potatoes. This is how Chinese "pot sticker" dumplings are cooked, then, when the water boils off, crisped.
So the water boils off, the potatoes get brown, helped by some alternating "leave them alone for 5 minutes" and "stir them and scrape the crust off the pan" cycles. Once they are brown enough, add diced onion, about 1/2 onion per lb of potatoes. Once those are nearly black, after some of those 5 minute cycles, add the corned beef -- in large, 1/2" cubes, about twice the volume of the potatoes. Continue the 5 minute cycles until the corned beef gets its own kind of browning. Salt and pepper to taste, and serve, preferably under eggs with runny yolks.
Finally made a corned beef hash I would call really good. It has been a long time coming.
What's your approach to solving the corned beef hash conundrum?
Rex Stout, Cordially Invited To Meet Death
I had pretty much given up on making corned beef hash at home. I'd order it out, occasionally, but always with the same result: a frustrating sense that there was a great dish to be had, but that no one was actually making it, including me.
As in the quote from that story, collected in Black Orchids, the hash was always dry, or greasy, or boring. It never gelled into its promise. Oh, even weak corned beef hash has appeal. But the tragedy of what could be...
In the story, the hash was made great by the addition of chitlins shallow-fried in olive oil with onion juice. I'm all for intestines, and I will probably try this someday, but intuitively, it does not quite seem to get at the central issues, promising though it may be. Somewhere on the internet, there is the story of a Nero Wolfe fan trying chitlins in corned beef hash, and approving.
None of this got me back into the kitchen. What did was a sort of inspiration. It started with solving the problem of the corned beef itself. You simmer it in water until tender, and then it has shed most of its flavor into the water, and the action of the water has turned it stringy on the outside, and fragile on the inside. No. I rarely drag out my sous vide apparatus, preferring more visceral and hands-on forms of cooking, but darned if 48 hours at 153 degrees Fahrenheit isn't the key to cooking corned beef just the way I think it should be.
Next is the hash itself. One day I woke up and said to myself: the pieces are way too small. Armed with that, I shopped, then went into the kitchen and concocted corned beef hash roughly like this:
Take a bunch of those little potatoes, and quarter them. In a big cast iron pan, cover with water and add beef tallow, about 1/4 cup per pound of potatoes. This is how Chinese "pot sticker" dumplings are cooked, then, when the water boils off, crisped.
So the water boils off, the potatoes get brown, helped by some alternating "leave them alone for 5 minutes" and "stir them and scrape the crust off the pan" cycles. Once they are brown enough, add diced onion, about 1/2 onion per lb of potatoes. Once those are nearly black, after some of those 5 minute cycles, add the corned beef -- in large, 1/2" cubes, about twice the volume of the potatoes. Continue the 5 minute cycles until the corned beef gets its own kind of browning. Salt and pepper to taste, and serve, preferably under eggs with runny yolks.
Finally made a corned beef hash I would call really good. It has been a long time coming.
What's your approach to solving the corned beef hash conundrum?
