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Top Rated Offal Recipes

This recipe, for the traditional Riojana vegetable stew, has been enriched with lamb stock and lamb brains and sweetbreads.
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by
Coasty
I know not everyone likes offal meats, but this is one of my favourite ways to prepare tripe. Posted for ZWT7
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by
Chichi Wang
About the author: Chichi Wang took her degree in philosophy, but decided that writing about food would be much more fun than writing about Plato. She firmly believes in all things offal, the importance of reading great books, and the necessity of three-hour meals. If she were ever to get a tattoo, it would say "Fat is flavor." Visit her blog, The Offal Cook.
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by
DrGaellon
The buttermilk softens the gizzards and makes them more tender, but they still retain some of the chewiness and gaminess one expects from offal meats. Adapted from a recipe by Chichi Wang at Serious Eats. http://tinyurl.com/lsx3vw
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eCuisine.org
Ingredients8.00 each To 10 servingsPreparing: It is a really rustic dish. Usually a whole goat or lamb, although in some places just the offal, is seasoned with a paste of ground spices and chiles and cooked in a pit barbecue. As you wander around ...
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by
Jennifer McLagan
Jennifer McLagan's cookbook, Odd Bits, shares offal recipes for home cooks that taste better than they sound—as in her spicy Indian-style liver.
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Grilling sweetbreads gives them a crispy crust that contrasts beautifully with their creamy, tender interior. In Argentina, sweetbreads are usually grilled whole, but we find people are less intimidated by them when they're prepared this way — separated into pieces. As with all offal, be sure the sweetbreads are very fresh.
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by
eCuisine.org
Ingredients8.00 each To 10 servingsPreparing: It is a really rustic dish. Usually a whole goat or lamb, although in some places just the offal, is seasoned with a paste of ground spices and chiles and cooked in a pit barbecue. As you wander around ...
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by
ImportFood.com
This soup is a popular light meal in Thailand, and often sold by "stop me and buy one" hawkers who pedal tricycles around the streets. The traditional form is made from beef offal, and contains cow's blood. However the dish can be made quite well ...
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by
Chichi Wang
Note: Our intern Chichi Wang loves offal so much, she pitched us this series called The Nasty Bits, where she'll explore recipes involving animal innards on a regular basis. Her goal is to tempt Serious Eaters out of their safety zones and into the wonderful world of offal. Take it away, Chichi! Throughout history, cuisines around the world have championed animals in all their glory, carefully treating the innards, feet, jowls, and tails of beasts and fowl alike. Consuming this organ meat, or offal, arose from economic necessity, yet long before the frontiers of molecular gastronomy were braved, eating offal was a natural way to introduce interesting flavors and textures into dishes. At what point, then, did we forsake these old customs? When did we begin to prefer flesh to the exclusion of offal, condemning the latter to the realm of the nasty and unsavory? For decades, offal devotees have searched far and wide, in butcher shops and restaurants, for any glimmer of hope. In recent years, we have begun to see signs of recognition among our peers, yet more is needed. Nasty Bits Lovers, Unite! To embrace offal is to honor all that is delicious. Why limit one's palate to foods that are deemed "safe," when there is more to be tasted? Cow's tongue, braised and served in salsa verde, possesses the beefiness of cow with a uniquely creamy chew. A cold dish of pig ears, simmered and then thinly sliced, is wonderfully refreshing dressed in nothing more than sesame oil and soy sauce. And liver, perhaps the most maligned of innards, is a revelation when seared in bacon fat, rendering the organ so soft and unctuous in the center with a feral depth all its own. The life of the principled omnivore is not always easy. Embrace offal, not just for its deliciousness, but because ignoring some parts of an animal while focusing on others is wasteful. And arguably, waste is the same as disrespect: a slight to the creature whose life has been lost for our sustenance and pleasure. As a Nasty Bits lover, it took me some time to realize that not everyone grew up eating offal. My mother's kitchen was always filled with the aroma of tendon or gizzards braising in soy sauce and the sounds of chicken feet crackling in oil. When I was three, one of my favorite foods was her homemade chicken feet, which I would nibble with great gusto, taking particular satisfaction in spitting out the little segments of bone as I gnawed along. In Shanghai, one of my favorite dishes is congealed chicken's blood made from a freshly slaughtered bird. In its congealed form, the blood takes on the consistency of the softest tofu, and it will most likely be cut up and served in chunks. Nestled in chicken broth and topped with green onions, the chicken's blood is so silken that it shimmies down the throat with barely a quiver. But enough talk about blood. There will be plenty of time for that later. So as not to lose the faint-hearted in the first of a series, we begin with a fairly innocuous offering: lamb's neck simmered gently with a strong kick of lemon juice, for a stew faintly perfumed with thyme. While lamb's neck is neither an organ nor a strange appendage, it is certainly a lesser-known, underappreciated cut of the animal. The neck muscles get plenty of exercise as the lamb lifts and lowers its head to graze; cooked over a longer period of time, the meat becomes soft and juicy, marbled throughout with just the right amount of fat. Eat the neck with relish right off the bone, nibbling around to retrieve the choicest slivers of meat and the occasional tendon. This stew is actually very easy to make--there's no sweating of onions involved, and no carrots or celery to dice. Simply simmer the meat in stock or even water, and in less than an hour, you'll have achingly tender morsels of lamb swimming in a concentrated and heady broth. Lamb's Neck Stew Adapted from The River Cottage Cookbook by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. About the author: Chichi Wang took her degree in philosophy, but decided that writing about food would be much more fun than writing about Plato. She firmly believes in all things offal, the importance of reading great books, and the necessity of three-hour meals. If she were ever to get a tattoo, it would say "Fat is flavor." Visit her blog, My Chalkboard Fridge.
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by
Chichi Wang
More Bits Tacos de Buche (Pork Stomach) » All Nasty Bits recipes » Greenmarket farmers' markets in New York City are my favorite new place to hunt for offal. You may not think of your farmers' market as a source for nose-to-tail cuts, yet these days the meat vendors are showing up in full force. Best of all, you never know what you might find in one of their coolers. Over the past year, I've come across cuts of offal at farmers' markets that I haven't even found at sustainable or ethnic butcher shops. Why I was surprised to see cartons of livers and hearts in the coolers at the farmers' markets, I don't know. By the time animals arrive at a butcher shop, they'll have passed through plants where some percentage of the offal is discarded in an effort to expedite the process and keep the facilities clean. The farmers who slaughter as well as butcher, on the other hand, often take the time to save the offal from their animals. Though not all farmers possess the facilities and legal certification, some do have their own abattoirs on site. Even those who do not own their own abattoirs will send their animals to be slaughtered at places where the offal can be reserved. On a Saturday morning at the Borough Hall Greenmarket in Brooklyn, I chatted with a turkey farmer who carried bags of turkey necks. In the adjacent stand, a pastured poultry farmer sold some of the most pristine livers I'd ever seen: plump and dry, with a matte gloss on the surface. Livers that you find in your grocery store often have a slickness to their surface and a slightly rank odor. These livers, on the other hand, smelled distinctly sweet. Pairing Duck Liver with Produce If you've only experienced the creaminess of chicken liver, try to imagine the indulgence of duck liver. Its texture, though a far cry from foie gras, approaches the richness of something that tastes too good to be a humble cut of offal sold for a pittance. But cheap and delicious it is, and if you're strolling by the farmers' market, then you may as well pick up seasonal produce to pair with your livers. Rhubarb, with its tart flavor, cuts through the fattiness of duck liver. Cherries, which vary from tart to sweet, add more juice and sweetness to the sauce. All livers pair well with acidic sauces, many of which are made with reductions of vinegar. Using fruit instead of vinegar adds more body and texture to the dish. Rhubarb is showing up more and more on restaurant menus as a complement to savory dishes, but given the ease of its preparation, it's also an ideal vegetable with which to experiment at home. For an impromptu sauce to go along with my sautéed duck livers, I cut up the rhubarb and cherries and placed them into a small saucepan along with a few spoonfuls of sugar. In twenty minutes the rhubarb and cherries had broken down into a beautiful sanguine mass, akin to compote, with a flavor that puckered, then mellowed in my mouth. If you happen to have a fig or well-aged balsamic at home, you can finish the sauce with a splash of the vinegar. Cook in Plenty of Fat Finally, though I probably say this at least once a month, sautéing your livers on a very hot cast iron skillet is an ideal way to achieve a crispy surface while retaining a creamy interior that's barely cooked through. For duck liver, which is more delicate than calf's, I like to roughly chop the livers into 1-inch segments so that the surface of the livers do not have a chance to toughen. The livers should be cooked in plenty of butter for ultimate richness and flavor, though if you happen to have duck fat on hand, then cooking the livers in the fat will intensify the ducky flavor of the organs. Treading in a sea of red, the duck livers exude their own, fatty juices onto the plate. Liver and compote mingle; their union is thrilling and luscious. About the author: Chichi Wang took her degree in philosophy, but decided that writing about food would be much more fun than writing about Plato. She firmly believes in all things offal, the importance of reading great books, and the necessity of three-hour meals. If she were ever to get a tattoo, it would say "Fat is flavor." Visit her blog, The Offal Cook. Sautéed Duck Livers with Rhubarb and Cherry Sauce About the author: Chichi Wang took her degree in philosophy, but decided that writing about food would be much more fun than writing about Plato. She firmly believes in all things offal, the importance of reading great books, and the necessity of three-hour meals. If she were ever to get a tattoo, it would say "Fat is flavor." Visit her blog, The Offal Cook.
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by
Chichi Wang
Raw whole pork stomach. For a crowd-pleasing meal of offal, there's no better way to serve organ meats than smothered in salsa and enveloped between tortillas. Though I prefer to eat offal dishes that do not disguise the nature of the innards, I sympathize with the common sentiment that organ meats are easier to take when they're cut up and served with distractions on the plate. Tortillas are an ideal vehicle for a beginner's enjoyment of offal, because what doesn't taste good when it's served with salsa, crema, and tomatillo sauce? Tacos with head meat, tongue, and brains are all delicious, but if I had to live with just one taco filling, it'd be pork stomach. Pork stomach is less spongy in texture than beef tripe, which, even well-stewed, takes a while to masticate. Pork stomach, on the other hand, breaks down during cooking so that it's tender and only slightly chewy. Both beef tripe and pork stomach share the distinctive taste of digestive organs; the former, which comes prepped at the store, has already been cleaned and parboiled. I've only ever seen pork stomach sold at Chinese and Mexican markets, where the organs are usually piled in a bin and sold in whole form. Chopped pork stomach after cooking. Even a stomach from a fresh pig will be feral in taste and smell. To tame the odor, launder the whole and raw stomach in a mixture of water and distilled white vinegar. Use a back-and-forth scrubbing motion, as you would for an old shirt. Do this twice; then parboil the stomach for a few minutes in boiling water. This preliminary preparation is essential when cooking pork stomach, which would otherwise be too pungent. My First Taste of Pork Stomach Tacos I ate my first tacos de buche at a Mexican restaurant, not far from where I lived in southern California. (Buche is the term used for pork stomach; tripa is beef tripe.) The restaurant was a common lunch joint but on the weeknights and weekends, it was never more than a third full. Though the restaurant was often empty, there was never a sense of desolation about the place. Sometimes struggling mom-and-pop shops betray desperation; the air is heavy with it, so that by walking through the door you commit to eating at the establishment. Even as you're standing and reading the menu, you already know that you'll be eating there. To turn around and walk out the door would be to commit a slight that transcends the norms for dining out and touches something that's more akin to common decency. This was not one of those places. Going into the empty shop was always like returning to an old friend's house. You'd order right when you walked into the restaurant. The counter would be manned by either one of the proprietor's two children, who couldn't have been more different from one another. Though the boy was already in high school, he never seemed comfortable working the cash register. He struggled with taking down orders, yet was always friendly and eager to help. His sister, a small and slight thing who couldn't have been older than twelve, punched our orders into the register as if it were second nature. She kept by the register an assortment of textbooks from which she'd study when the shop was empty. She could always be counted on for a solid recommendation for what was good to eat, and possessed an intuitive sense of whether or not a customer was looking for a safe choice like carnitas or quesadillas, or a more adventurous option from the menu. The kitchen was directly behind the counter. It was narrow and completely open to the customer's view. The father, cheerful and welcoming, was the cook for the entire restaurant. It was rare to find another person behind the stove. He'd have his pre-prepped items, like chiles rellenos and tamales, tucked away to be warmed and charred at a moment's notice. Taco fillings were stewed beforehand, then browned on the griddle before serving. A reserved and demure woman, the mother was the only waitress we ever saw at the restaurant. Immediately after we were seated, she would arrive at the table laden with tortilla chips and fresh salsa. Minutes later, the tacos would arrive, served with a double layer of thin, pliable, and perfectly warmed corn tortillas. The first time I tasted a taco de buche at the establishment, I was won over by the taste of the stomach: a little spicy with just the right hint of offal flavor, and something else laden with umami flavor—perhaps a touch of Worcestershire or soy sauce. After I finished my stomach taco I walked to the counter to order another one, and then another. It's often said that great cooking is a marriage of impeccable ingredients and careful technique but at most ethnic ventures, cooks only possess mastery over the latter. It was this sense in which the restaurant was quietly extraordinary. The seafood soup was made with tilapia and catfish, yet the pieces of fish were simmered until just cooked through. The tomatoes were sometimes watery but they were always fresh so that the salsa, carefully salted and chopped to just the right consistency, was a pleasure to eat. This was the type of eating that I did in Los Angeles, in Mexican, Korean, and Chinese joints where a term like "artisanal" would never be used to describe the cooking. Food without frills or garnishes, served on chipped plates and formica tables under flickering florescent lights. It was this kind of eating that made me the most homesick when I moved across the country last year, far away from the carefully chosen, frequently visited ethnic joints that shaped my palate in California. Only offal helped with the longing for familiar foods. Cooking for friends each week made all the difference. Last week, I served to my Serious Eats family the offal dishes that I'd developed during my time writing this column: beef and pork neck, braised in a New Mexican adobo sauce; lamb's tongue and head meat, simmered in stock; grilled pork trotters, chopped up and recrisped in the pan; and finally, my beloved pork stomach. We gathered around the table and composed our own tacos, taking a bit of mole, tomatillo sauce, and salsa as it suited our wants. It was right and fitting to serve all the offal to my editors, who've made New York City, so far from California, home to my pots, pans, and my heart. About the author: Chichi Wang took her degree in philosophy, but decided that writing about food would be much more fun than writing about Plato. She firmly believes in all things offal, the importance of reading great books, and the necessity of three-hour meals. If she were ever to get a tattoo, it would say "Fat is flavor." Visit her blog, The Offal Cook.
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