The Food That Tastes You Back

Gene Simmons has nothing on a cow. When I was a wee aspiring rocker, rumor had it that KISS's bass player had a cow tongue surgically implanted. As an adult aware of physiology, I no longer believe a cow tongue could fit and operate properly in a human mouth.

The cow tongue is a huge organ. The one I bought from Bob's Meats in Columbia City weighed about 4 and a half pounds. It sat in my freezer for several months before I thawed it. Even that took the better part of an afternoon. Like a man losing his enthusiasm, the heavy club of flesh gradually softened up. And, as a man often does, I accomplished this in a cold water bath.

After thawing, it lay in the fridge until I had an evening free. In the mean time, I consulted the Larousse Gastronomique. In typical form, it suggested 12 hours of soaking, a careful peeling, and another 24 hours of resting. All this is to prepare it for four-and-a-half hours of braising. My mom's hip surgery didn't take this long.

Since this was a work night, I needed to try something creative and brief. Grilling was out. I don't have a microwave. I had read somewhere about engine block cuisine; wrapping meat in foil, wedging it against your engine, and driving around until it's done. But I didn't have anywhere to go.

Luckily, this still left my favorite piece of cookware. The 5 quart Duromatic Saucepan Pressure Cooker by Kuhn Rikon has proven invaluable time and again. Dry beans soak and cook in less than a half an hour. Beets and artichokes are ready in no time. Huge cuts of meat bow before me in tender supplication. And what is a cow tongue but just a tongue-shaped beef roast?

I rinsed the bloody beast in the sink, unfurled it into the pressure cooker, and bathed it in salt water, 3 bay leaves, green onions, and a dozen or so peppercorns. The salt water, I reasoned, would keep the meat tender while boiling. I brought the water to a boil and slid the lid into place. The tongue would be ready in less than an hour.

As I waited, the warm smell of well-seasoned beef spread through my apartment. I salivated with anticipation. My only concern was the strong scent of bay leaves. I didn't want beef tasting like a floral hedge. However, I concluded that strong flavors would only reside in the skin, which I'm intending to peel off anyways.

After 55 minutes has elapsed, I remove the saucepan from the burner and scan my brain, trying to remember the French word for "hunt". My parents recommended French hunter's sauce as a suitable accompaniment to beef tongue. Just as the pressure valve on the cooker hissed shut, I stumbled upon Chasseur in the LG.

Much like the Cacciatore, Chasseur developed as a sauce in connection with the mighty pursuits of the hunter. On his way home, after bagging some wild grouse or some such thing, he would pick some wild mushrooms on the way. Maybe he also gleaned a few tomatoes from some rich baron's acres, some white wine from the local vineyard, and a few other choice delectables. We can only hope he's as skilled at identifying wild mushrooms as he is at picking off the local wildlife. Chasseur is not intended to induce liver failure.

Back to the tongue. With great anticipation, I removed the lid and peered within. I'll be damned if it hadn't swollen even bigger. The tongue was coiled in repose like a fetus. As I cautiously removed it from the pot, as a surgeon might, a large section of skin sloughed off.

I was quite impressed at how easily tongue surrendered its skin, without losing much meat in the process. I could have rubbed it off with a butter knife. The tongue now resembled an odd-shaped roast. I sliced off the tip and delicately laid it on my own tongue. Its fragile lattice of flesh and fat melted like a beefy snowflake. It was one of the most tender and flavorful piece of beef I've ever eaten. Irony abound. I suppose it was the high fat content.

The Chasseur sauce was a fitting compliment. I sautéed some thin sliced mushrooms and shallots in butter, added some white wine and reduced. After a few minutes, I added chicken stock and tomato sauce and reduced further. Beurre manie, which is flour and butter globbed together, thickened the sauce for a few minutes. This creamed out the texture and painted it a lovely shade of pale red. Finished with another dot of butter and some parsley.

The slippery infusion of fat upon fat, when the butter met the ox tongue, which met mine, was like a warm blanket and a snuggle bear for the palate. I cleaned up the sauce with French bread and, for a few minutes, no other food in the world mattered.

I had overcome my fear of preparing tongue. For all its girth and swagger, the tongue sung a tender ballad. Maybe under all that makeup, Gene's not so tough either.