December 2007

Meat Your Maker

(Page 7 of 7)

The Meat of the Matter
Photograph by Dan Winters

It’s about location, location, location:

Whether a steak or roast is tender and expensive or tough and cheap depends on what part of the critter it came from and what it did when the animal was alive. Muscles that play a supporting role and don’t get much exercise are supple and soft (think ribeyes and tenderloins). They are situated in the animal’s midsection and back. By contrast, hardworking muscles in the legs, shoulders, and diaphragm are resilient and sturdy, but what they lack in tenderness they make up for in flavor.

Over the years, the large primal cuts shown on the chart above have changed surprisingly little. (The rump, for instance, was once a separate cut but is now part of the round; the rest is largely the same.) By contrast, smaller cuts like roasts and steaks have changed a bit more. Part of the reason is that consumer tastes alter; another is that the meat industry is always looking for better and more lucrative ways to divide up a carcass. That’s how the trendy steak called the flatiron came into being a few years ago.

Who knows what will be on your dinner plate tomorrow?

Tender Offer

Here’s a strange fact: Fresh beef is as tough as a boot. But if you let it sit around for a few days, it self-tenderizes. The meat’s own enzymes do the trick, breaking down the fibrous connective tissue in the muscles.

Today, there are two kinds of aging, called wet and dry. Wet is easy, modern, and economical, and 90 percent of beef sold in this country is wet-aged. Here’s how it is done: A beef carcass is cut into large pieces or individual steaks and vacuum-sealed in heavy plastic. The meat is allowed to sit in its own juices (thus “wet”) under refrigeration for at least a week, and then it’s ready to sell. It can safely be kept four weeks or even more, but after eleven days, tenderizing slows to a halt. Taste is virtually unaffected because moisture loss is minimal and the meat’s flavors are not concentrated. Wet aging can happen in a slaughterhouse, at a wholesaler, or in a supermarket. Even a home refrigerator.

Dry aging, which is how all beef in this country was treated through the sixties and seventies, is a lengthy and expensive process, often spoken of in hushed tones. You’ll see it mainly in fancy-pants steakhouses and epicurean markets. For dry aging, large pieces of unwrapped beef are hung in a meat locker or placed on open shelving and kept cold (around 33 to 38 degrees) and at low humidity (50 to 60 percent) in gently moving air, thus the name “dry.” The meat tenderizes itself and loses moisture, greatly intensifying its flavor (think of reducing a sauce).

Dry aging can be done at a beef supplier’s or a supermarket or even in the privacy of your home refrigerator, but the meat requires extremely careful monitoring. It’s all right if it gets crusty, or even if it grows a little mold, like a cheese; no harm is done because it will be trimmed later. But if bacteria runs amok, that’s something else. So be cautious about doing this at home, kids, or you could end up sickening all the friends you intended to impress with a dry-aged-steak dinner.

There’s no hard-and-fast rule about time for dry aging; it can last two to eight weeks. After ten, you get some serious fermentation and mush, but before that happens, connoisseurs go gaga, using words like “buttery” and “deeply beefy.” They talk of young, green flavors being transformed into rich, nutty ones. Scoffers think dry-aged beef has a bit of a gamy flavor. There’s one thing they can all agree on, though: Don’t slap a sauce on a dry-aged steak. You want to taste the money.

Oldies But Goodies

No article on Texas steaks would be complete without a tribute to the rough-and-ready city steakhouses that ruled the roost before they were supplanted by today’s bastions of wine lists and wedge salads.

The Herman Munster of them all is the Big Texan Steak Ranch, in Amarillo, a cross between Six Flags and a tent revival. Watch in awe as a fearless customer sits on the dais and tries to consume a 72-ounce steak and sides in less than an hour. The prize? The restaurant picks up the tab (7701 E. I-40, 806-372-6000).

In Austin, legions of lawyers and auto mechanics swear by the bare-bones Hoffbrau, renowned for its steak fries, famous green-olive “soggy salad,” and alfresco dining next to the asphalt parking lot (613 W. Sixth, 512-472-0822).

Of all the old-time Texas steakhouses, the one with the lock on atmosphere is Cattlemen’s, smack-dab in the middle of the Stockyards National Historic District, in Fort Worth. The saloon and dining rooms whisk you back to an era long ago, as you watch a grizzled guy fire up your steak (2458 N. Main, 817-624-3945).

San Antonio has three locally beloved steak emporiums: Check out the Barn Door for gen-u-wine retro doodads, red-checked tablecloths, and three wooden Indians in the lobby (8400 N. New Braunfels Ave., 210-824-0116).

The South Side Little Red Barn (no relation) is packed to its hokey rafters every day, and a waitress in a cowgirl outfit (complete with a Colt .45 replica) will take your order (1836 S. Hackberry, 210-532-4235).

Up north, folks like Josephine Street for its roadhouse atmosphere, peppered filet, and raspberry-pecan pie (400 E. Josephine, 210-224-6169).

The Grill of it All

Mansour Gorji is the owner and chef of the Canary Cafe, in Dallas, and a two-time winner of Hico’s annual Texas Steak Cookoff.

What should I look for when I’m buying a top-quality steak?

Marbling—streaks of fat throughout. USDA Prime has the most marbling, but high-grade Choice is very close. You can ask your butcher, “What is the highest grade of Choice that you have?”

How quickly should I cook it after I buy it?

If you don’t want to cook it that day, use the vacuum-sealed food savers, and that will keep it four or five days. If you see the color on the surface turning a little beige, that doesn’t mean it’s bad, but it is saying, “Hello! Get me on the grill.” It talks to you, you know?

What about the grill? How do I get it ready?

Gas is convenient. Just turn it on. If you are using charcoal, you have to let it heat for at least 30 to 45 minutes. Once you have that red glow and the coals are covered with gray ash, then you are ready. Also, I never close the lid on my grill. First, I want those gases from the charcoal to go away. Second, I want to see what I’m cooking. I’m not leaving it to faith.

What’s the biggest mistake people make cooking at home?

They just pull the steak out of the refrigerator and throw it right on the grill. You have to leave it out for at least fifteen minutes so the meat relaxes itself. That’s when I brush on the olive oil and other seasonings. If you’re marinating a less-tender steak, the maximum that I would do is fifteen minutes.

Is it wrong to put a steak back on the grill if I undercook it?

It’s no problem to put it back on the grill for another 30 or 45 seconds. Better that than overcooking it, because then you have to either throw it away or eat it yourself. Never waste it on the dog!
Interview by Brian D. Sweany

How Now Brown Cow

A little over a year ago I started receiving annoying press releases on some kind of unpronounceable Texas-raised cattle called Akaushi. Say what? The stuff was ex-pen-sive, and you had to order it days in advance, even in restaurants. It sounded like a bunch of hype. I thought of the old joke about the difference between ignorance and apathy: I didn’t know and I didn’t care.

Fast-forward to September of this year. Two friends and I walked into Bohanan’s Prime Steaks & Seafood, in San Antonio, and the head waiter started raving about Akaushi beef. Damn. The cheapest cut was $95, for a twelve-ounce filet. Deciding to take one for the team, I ordered it. It arrived. I took a bite. Ohmigod. It was so delicious I almost fainted. My friends noticed and tried to sneak pieces off my plate while I was semiconscious. We were fork-fighting and groaning and carrying on like spotted hyenas. It was that good.

If Akaushi (“Ah-ka-oo-shee”) sounds like what’s called Wagyu, source of notably succulent Japanese beef, it’s because they’re kissing cousins. Actually, “Wagyu” is a general term meaning “Japanese beef.” The correct name for those famous fatties is Kuroushi—“kuro” meaning “black” and “ushi” meaning “cattle.” (In case you’re wondering, Kobe beef is Kuroushi raised near Kobe, Japan.) Akaushi means “red cattle,” though they’re really reddish-brown. In 1994 eleven lone Akaushi were imported by HeartBrand Beef to its South Texas ranch outside Yoakum. From that small pool, they’ve increased to five thousand and are the only breeding herd outside Japan.

If you were to compare Kuroushi with Akaushi, you’d detect little difference. They’re both fabulous. But some Kuroushi in Texas have been crossed with Black Angus, and that meat is generally of a lesser quality. By contrast, all Akaushi are purebred, so they always produce splendidly tender meat with loads of near–microscopically fine fat marbling. On top of this, beef from both Kuroushi and Akaushi is better for you than regular old American beef, because the meat has lots of monounsaturated (good) fatty acids.

But don’t take my word. Try some yourself if you can spare about a hundred bucks. That’s not much for a memory you’ll never forget.

See Beefing Up for restaurants and stores carrying Akaushi products.