The Gannon Family Secret: The Tasting

This is part two of this series. For part one, click here.

The buzzer sounded and Noemie removed the hot bread from the oven. As soon as the skillet was placed onto a cooling rack, she ripped open the top of a stick of butter and began to rub it over the crust. As the cold butter met the hot bread, it melted and oozed.

After letting it rest for a bit, Noemie flipped over the heavy load and slid the lot onto a plate and into a large paper bag, where it would steam for a good ten to fifteen minutes.

Her movements were fluid and quick. The friends who had arrived to eat with us let out an uncontained applause. “You’re all lucky I didn’t drop that!” Noemie told us as she wiped her hands off on her jeans.

Unfortunately, I could not try Noemie’s bread with her. I had to do work work—like the kind that pays me, and I had not choice but to be on my way. However, before I left, Noemie packed a hunk of the loaf into a to-go bag for me. So, it was on the subway home that I got to try her creation.

I remember the first time I tried Irish soda bread. My mom had brought some home with her to accompany our traditional St. Patrick’s Day meal of corned beef and cabbage. She told me to be proud of golden dough—after all, it was a product of Ireland! The best country in the world! Forget the mishmash of heritages that comprise my ethnicity—the Polish, the Jewish, the Roma, the Austrian, and the English—all that mattered is that I was Irish. So, I ate up. And boy, was I in love.

That said, my expectations were high. On the walk to the train, I decided that I would not try Noemie’s bread until I reached my apartment. But, on the half-empty G train, the smell and warmth of the just-baked bread got to me, and I could not wait any longer. I broke into the ziplock back and ripped off a huge, tender, and steamy bite. Expectations met.

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The Gannon Family Secret: The Baking

In a less confessional and older world, the key to particularly good dishes often was hoarded. They were the legacy that mothers left to their daughters, and cooks to their apprentices—golden prizes made of salt and flour and secret ingredients. Yes, there were cooking clubs, women's magazines, and recipe exchanges, but when your neighbor gave you the instructions for his babka or her jerk chicken, there was always that possibility that an ingredient or two would be missing. That tablespoon of butter? Whoops! Actually, it should be a teaspoon of vegetable oil. That habañero pepper? Mea culpa! It was really supposed to be an egg white.

And so it went with Margie Slater, John Ardolino's mother, and her sister Nancy's Irish soda bread. Weeks before I headed over to John and Noemi Lemasson's apartment, John told me that yes, there would be bread, but no, I could not have the recipe. There was "no way" that John’s mom, a “stickler” whose sister had perfected the Irish tradition for competitions and school bake sales, would just hand over the family recipe. For a blog. For everyone to read. Absolutely no way.

Well, at least that is what John assumed and had reiterated to me in a series of email conversations. However, when he told his mom about his feature on NYCookery, she happily gave over her treasure, indicating that it could only be printed as long as the loaf was named “The Gannon Family Secret: Aunt Nancy’s Irish Soda Bread.” As you wish, Margie, and a big thank you from my readers and me.

When it came time for Noemie to show me her stuff, she had placed the components that would eventually become soda bread in brightly colored bowls of various sizes. There were raisins plumping in water, flour, salt, baking soda, sugar, and the biggest cast iron skillet I had ever seen, buttered and ready to go. With The Clash as our soundtrack, Noemie, dressed in very feminine apron shirt that showed off her intricate tattoos, began to gracefully assemble the rather simple recipe. She pinched cubes of cold butter between her fingers, cutting it fully into the flour.

Noemie’s French father, also a professionally trained chef, had nurtured that her love of food. Growing up, she told me, meals were central to family life. John chimed in and talked passionately about the culinary pleasures that awaited visitors at the Lemasson household. They seemed meant for each other.

“So, wait, how did you all meet?” I asked. “Well, Noemie used to come in the bar where I worked with her boyfriend. And then I didn’t see her for awhile and then one time she came in by herself, so I asked her out and then we went on a date. And it was was the best date EVER.” Noemie smiled as she added buttermilk, “And now were getting married. And that's the story.” Her heart-shaped ring glinted.

Noemie turned the finish batter into the buttered skillet. "This thing is fucking heavy," as she lifted the enormous pan from the counter. “It’s a skillet bread! I guess. Wait it cooks in the oven, so, uh never mind,” John chimed in as he popped open a Guinness. “My mother halved the recipe and put it into two small cast irons, but the original is to put it into the big one. My aunt would always cook it and cut it in half and give people big halves of Irish bread. I like that style. You’re doing the right thing. Big pans. Better.” Noemie thanked John for the support and closed the oven door.


As the bread baked, we talked about local restaurants and the perfect, but simple macerated prune and mascarpone dessert served at Frankie’s 457. John, unclear on exactly what a macerated prune is, asked me to explain.

“Uh, you know, they’re macerated in wine. Liked soaked in the shit. I think that’s what macerated means. Now I’m doubting myself. It’s when you soak it in an acidic substance, right? Actually, now I’m not sure. I just use the word. Apparently everything I say is bullshit.”

“Yea, I macerate things, too,” John teased as he verified the term in Joy of Baking, “this is my meatloaf, I macerated it. I’m going to say it all the time. At work I say, ‘macerate that document, see how it comes out.’” We verified my assumption (I was right, of course) and moved to the couple’s kitschy dining room, where we drank coffee and talked about Paula Dean’s affinity for fats (I swear I saw that women drink melted butter once) while batter and oven bonded...

Click here for part two.

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St. Paddy's Beef: How To

John Ardolino, though he received inspiration from the Internet for his brining solution, added some personal touches to the process. I can't speak enough about how good this homemade corned beef is. Try it at home, and, like John said, let it marinate for the full seven days. You won't be disappointed!

Do you have a favorite brining recipe? Let me know about it by leaving a comment!

(Thanks to John for all of the pictures of this process!)

John Ardolino's Home Brine for Corned Beef

Ingredients
1 (8-10 lb) beef brisket
4 garlic cloves, peeled and cut in thirds


The Brine
2 quarts water
1 cup kosher salt
1/2 cup white vinegar
4 tablespoons sugar
3 bay leaves
1 teaspoon peppercorn
1/2 teaspoon mustard seeds
1 pinch ground cloves

The Simmering Liquid
Water
1 teaspoon peppercorn
1/2 teaspoon mustard seeds
1/2 teaspoon whole allspice
1/4 teaspoon whole cloves
4 garlic cloves, sliced
1 bottle Harp or lager of your choice

The Vegetables
10-12 large carrots, scrubbed and cut into thirds
10-12 medium-sized russet potatoes, peeled and halved
2 large cabbages, quartered

Combine the brining ingredients in a large pot. Bring to a boil, then cool completely.

Place the beef brisket, the cooled brine, and 4 garlic cloves in a huge plastic roasting bag. Do not use a garbage bag. Plastic roasting bags can be purchased from your local grocer or butcher.

Ensure that all of the meat is covered completely by the brine (cutting the brisket in pieces if you need to), tie off the bag tightly, and then bag it a again OR place in a pot large enough to hold it. Refrigerate for 7 days, turning occasionally.

After 7 days, remove brisket from the brine. Discard the brine.

Rinse the meat thoroughly, then place in a Dutch oven or large pot. Add enough water to come up cover the meat 2/3 or 3/4 the way. Add the simmering liquid ingredients, and bring to a boil. Remove any scum that rises to the surface. Add bottle of Harp or lager of your choice.

Reduce heat to a low simmer and cook, covered, for at least 3 - 4 hours. One hour before the meat is done cooking, add the carrots, potatoes, and cabbage.

Remove meat from simmering liquid and let rest for 10-15 minutes. Serve sliced into 1-1.5" pieces and with vegetables. Great for sandwiches, too.

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St Paddy's Beef: Part II

This is Part II of this series. For Part I, click here.

Because the meat was going to take so long to cook, I had come prepared to do some work at a coffee shop during that time. Of course, as soon as I went searching for a place to perch, I ended up shopping instead. The recession has it's bonuses, most markedly the vast amount of sales that dot the retail landscape. However, except for some horseradish mustard and Grey Poupon, I went back to Noemie and John's empty handed. Just cuz stuff's cheap don't mean it's pretty.

While I was out stimulating the economy, the future husband and wife were doing the same. Apparently, after I left, they had a real "urge" to play Sorry. So they trekked in light rain to several neighborhood stores before finding a board at a local Rite Aid. Something about a pair of adults walking the streets of Brooklyn to track down a game meant for seven-year-olds warmed my heart.

When I returned, wafts of allspice, cloves, and peppercorns permeated the house. It smelled heavenly. But it wasn't time to eat yet; first, Noemi was going to make me some Irish soda bread (the subject of my next post). So we did what came naturally - we talked and drank enough coffee to give me the shakes for days. Several times in the middle of our conversation, John added a staccato "I'm hungry" and "I want that corned beef!" Noemie responded by looking longingly at the boiling pot.

It was just about 6:30pm, a good four hours after we had begun, when John started looking at his watch. Three friends of theirs had been invited to partake in the corned beef experiment. They were late, and the minutes passed painfully.


Unable to wait, John put a small potato on a cutting board and cut it into bits. The tuber was saltly from the brine, and juicy and oily from that meat. My mouth watered. Noemie gave John a high five, "Good job, baby! I think that beer really added good flavor." John tipped his glass of Guinness at her in reply, then removed all of the meat from the pot and laid it out on a cutting board. He let it rest for a good 15 minutes; in that time the couple's friends arrived with bread and brews to share.

"Ok, so I'm putting a curfew on our hanging out. 10pm. That's it. This daylight savings time is messing me up." John announced as he sliced the meat into generous portions, plattered the cabbage, and spooned up the spuds. I wondered if we could actually eat our way through the glistening and steaming piles of food in such a short amount of time (we would eat all of it goddamit!). "You guys hungry?" We responded with a slow, Homer Simpson-eque "mmmmm." Kevin, one of the friends there to dine, watched John closely. "So, this is like a one pot meal, huh? Do you brine it? Like, in salt water?" he asked. John explained the process. Later, Kevin told us that despite being a first-generation American from a family of Irishmen, his mother pooh poohed traditional Irish fare, so, despite his heritage, he was unfamiliar with the meat's preparation.

Hoping to prompt everyone to sit and eat, I anxiously took a seat in the dining room ahead of the rest of the group. The sooner we were at the table, the sooner my stomach would be satisfied. I could barely contain my excitement. Finally, John began bringing in the dishes from the kitchen and, after he set his iPod to play some traditional Irish fiddlin' tunes, we dug in.

The corned beef was brown on the outside and only slightly pink in the middle, not the traditional deep rose color due to the lack of sodium nitrates. It was tender, fatty, and deeply flavorful. The exact way the meat should be. The vegetables - carrots, cabbage, and potatoes - had absorbed the tastes of the pungent allspice, bay, and clove. I helped myself to three plates of the stuff. It rarely gets better than this.

The group of us laughed and ate and laughed and ate until our cheeks and stomachs hurt. When it came time to leave, John and Noemie presented me with an amazing gift - a doggy bag filled generously with the night's treats. While I rode the subway home in a food-induced coma, I congratulated John with a mental high five.

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St Paddy's Beef: Part I

Where I'm from, St. Patrick's Day is like Christmas. In Chicago, ole Paddy is revered by many Irish and non-Irish who, on his day, venture to the South Side by the droves wearing their pleated khaki pants, kelly green collared polos, and shamrock headbands to celebrate the bastard. They pound beer after dyed-green-beer and shoot Irish car bombs, until they can no longer remember the words to "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling." Not that they ever really knew them.

I hated the holiday.

But here in the Big Apple St. Paddy is more Eugene Mirman than George Carlin - an appreciated, but subdued figure in the minds of New Yorkers - and so when John Ardolino - a terrific actor and puppeteer that I met through the fantastic company, Drama of Works - asked me over to taste his home-brined corned beef (one of my favorite foods), I realized that maybe his day could be enjoyed. I decided to drop my grudge and to get into the spirit.

As I walked up the stairs to John Ardolino and Noemie (no-ee-mee) Lemasson’s large Carroll Gardens brownstone apartment, I was greeted by cardboard cutouts of leprechauns that adorned the walls outside their door.

Inside, the two had decorated their apartment with green crepe paper, though the abode seemed rather perma-festy: one wall was lined with a collection of snow globes, a plastic skeleton from some unknown high school class sat in a chair in their dining room, a well-loved but not-functional-looking 1950s radio stood in a corner, and knickknacks abounded.

The cooking had begun much before I stepped out of a gypsy cab on that drizzly day. Five nights earlier, John had begun brining brisket – coaxing it to metamorphose into corned beef by means of a salty and spicy bath. He had debated on and off whether or not to make the Irish culinary tradition from scratch, and finally had decided for it. I was happy about the decision. For the purposes of this blog, boiling already cured corned beef with a packet of packaged spices seemed like cheating.

We started soon after I arrived. John removed the meat from the turkey roasting bags it was stored in, and rinsed it under cold water. Because John had decided not to use the preservative saltpeter in the brining process, it had turned a dull gray from oxidation. The color of, you know, rot.


After debating for quite sometime the opaque recipe directions to fill the pot with water "three-quarters to the meat," John put the giant metal vessel on the stove and wiped his hands together. "All right, well, see ya later! I've got some plans."

He was kidding of course, but there was not much to see - this first part really was just an opportunity for me to snap photos. Noemie and I sipped strong coffee and John drank a Guinness while we chatted and chopped up the cabbage, potatoes, and carrots that would be added once the scum was scraped from the water.

"Shit," John said, interrupting conversation guided by random thoughts that ranged from subjects such as Brooklyn blogs, the couple's courtship and recent engagement, and our native lands (John and Noemie are from Connecticut and New Jersey respectively), "I wanted to add some beer to this." Noemie assured him that it wasn't too late, so he poured in the contents of a bottle of Harp.

After all, it would be three hours, at minimum, before we ate.

Click here for Part II.

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