
Chef Thomas
Beef and Barley Broth
Beef shin and pearl barley simmered low and slow with root vegetables until the meat gives way and the broth thickens into something between a soup and a stew, the kind of bowl that steadies you on a cold night.
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Sunday's roast chicken, simmered slowly on Monday with carrots, celery, leeks, and thyme into a bowl of clear, golden broth that smells like the kitchen is paying attention.
Monday evening. The house still smells faintly of yesterday's roast. The carcass is sitting in the fridge on a plate, stripped of most of its meat but still holding onto the good stuff: the bones, the jelly, the bits of skin that crisped and stuck to the tin. This is the real reason to roast a whole chicken. Not just the Sunday meal, but the one that follows it.
A proper chicken broth is not a recipe in the usual sense. It's an act of patience. You put the bones in a pot with some vegetables and cold water, and you leave it alone for a couple of hours while the heat does the slow, quiet work of drawing flavour out of things that might otherwise be thrown away. The kitchen fills with a smell that is difficult to describe and impossible to fake: savoury, herbal, warm in a way that has nothing to do with temperature.
I wrote it down in the notebook years ago. "Carcass, carrots, celery, leek, thyme, bay. Two hours. Gold." I haven't changed a word since. The broth doesn't need improving. It needs making. That's all. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract, and this one barely needs to say anything.
If someone in the house is tired, or unwell, or just cold from the walk home, this is what I make. Not because broth fixes things. But because a warm bowl carried to someone who didn't ask for it says something that words are often too clumsy to manage.
Quantity
1
broken into pieces
Quantity
1 large
halved, skin left on
Quantity
2
scrubbed and roughly chopped
Quantity
2 sticks
roughly chopped
Quantity
1
split lengthways, washed and roughly chopped
Quantity
a few sprigs
Quantity
2
Quantity
a small handful
Quantity
8-10 whole
Quantity
about 1.5 litres
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
1 small
peeled and finely diced
Quantity
1 small stick
finely diced
Quantity
a small handful
roughly chopped
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| roast chicken carcassbroken into pieces | 1 |
| onionhalved, skin left on | 1 large |
| carrots (for stock)scrubbed and roughly chopped | 2 |
| celery (for stock)roughly chopped | 2 sticks |
| leeksplit lengthways, washed and roughly chopped | 1 |
| thyme | a few sprigs |
| bay leaves | 2 |
| parsley stalks | a small handful |
| black peppercorns | 8-10 whole |
| cold water | about 1.5 litres |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| carrot (for serving)peeled and finely diced | 1 small |
| celery (for serving)finely diced | 1 small stick |
| flat-leaf parsleyroughly chopped | a small handful |
Put the broken carcass into your largest saucepan or stockpot. Add the halved onion (skin on, it gives the broth its colour), the roughly chopped carrots, celery, and leek, the thyme, bay leaves, parsley stalks, and peppercorns. Pour in enough cold water to cover everything by a couple of centimetres. Cold water is important. Hot water seals the bones and you lose all the good things you're trying to coax out.
Set the pan over a medium heat and bring it to the gentlest simmer you can manage. This takes fifteen minutes or so. Don't rush it. You'll see a scummy foam rise to the surface as it heats. Skim it off with a spoon. It won't hurt you if you leave it, but the broth will be clearer and cleaner without it. Once it's barely bubbling, turn the heat down low.
Let the broth simmer very gently for two hours, maybe two and a half. The surface should barely tremble. A rolling boil makes cloudy, greasy stock. A gentle simmer makes something golden and clear. You'll know it's working when the kitchen starts to smell warm and savoury and faintly herbal, the smell of something that's taking care of itself. Walk away. Read something. Come back and check on it now and then, but mostly leave it alone.
Set a fine sieve or a colander lined with muslin over a large clean pan or bowl. Ladle the broth through, pressing lightly on the vegetables to extract their flavour, but not so hard that you push through the cloudy bits. Discard everything in the sieve. Its work is done. What you should have is a clear, golden liquid that smells deeply of chicken and thyme. Taste it. Season it with salt, carefully, a little at a time. Good broth needs enough salt to taste like itself, but not so much that you notice the salt.
Return the strained broth to a clean pan and bring it back to a simmer. Add the finely diced carrot and celery and cook for six or seven minutes, until they're tender but still have a little bite. You want them to hold their shape in the bowl. Ladle the broth into warm bowls, scatter the chopped parsley over the top, and carry it to the table. There are few better feelings than putting a warm bowl of broth in front of someone who needs it.
1 serving (about 350g)
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