
Chef Thomas
Beef and Ale Stew
Braising steak surrendered to dark ale and slow time, with onions and mushrooms, until the gravy turns thick and malty and the kitchen smells like the kind of evening you want to stay in for.
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A slow pot of rabbit and pearl barley, braised with bacon and thyme until the meat gives and the broth thickens into the kind of supper that makes a cold evening feel like exactly where you want to be.
The wind changed direction last week and the garden knew before I did. The last of the runner beans gave up. The thyme, though, is still going, low and woody and fragrant when you brush past it. This is the weather for a braise. For something that sits on the hob or in a low oven for a couple of hours and fills the house with a smell that says, without any fuss, that someone is paying attention.
Rabbit was ordinary once. Not a restaurant curiosity or a farmers' market novelty, just supper. My grandmother's generation cooked it the way we cook chicken: without ceremony, because it was there and it was good. A rabbit, some bacon, a handful of barley, whatever the garden offered, and a pot with a lid. This is that kind of cooking. No technique to speak of. No performance. Just patience, a few honest ingredients, and the quiet pleasure of a pot that sorts itself out while you get on with your evening.
The pearl barley is the thing I love most here. It swells slowly in the stock, turning the braising liquid from a thin broth into something thick and porridge-like and deeply savoury. By the time the rabbit is tender enough to fall from the bone, the barley has done its work, and what you have is closer to a meal in a bowl than a stew with sides. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract, so use what you've got: a splash of cider if you have it, wine if you don't, and whatever root vegetables look right at the market.
I wrote it down in the notebook last November. Just three words: rabbit, barley, rain. It didn't need more.
Quantity
1 (about 1.2-1.5kg)
jointed into 6-8 pieces
Quantity
150g
cut into thick lardons
Quantity
150g
rinsed
Quantity
2 medium
halved and sliced
Quantity
2
peeled and cut into thick rounds
Quantity
2 sticks
sliced
Quantity
3 cloves
crushed with the flat of a knife
Quantity
a few sprigs
Quantity
2
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
a knob
Quantity
a splash
Quantity
200ml
Quantity
800ml
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
a small handful
roughly chopped
Quantity
to taste
Quantity
to taste
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| whole rabbitjointed into 6-8 pieces | 1 (about 1.2-1.5kg) |
| smoked streaky baconcut into thick lardons | 150g |
| pearl barleyrinsed | 150g |
| onionshalved and sliced | 2 medium |
| carrotspeeled and cut into thick rounds | 2 |
| celerysliced | 2 sticks |
| garliccrushed with the flat of a knife | 3 cloves |
| fresh thyme | a few sprigs |
| bay leaves | 2 |
| plain flour | 1 tablespoon |
| butter | a knob |
| olive oil | a splash |
| dry cider or white wine | 200ml |
| chicken stock | 800ml |
| Dijon mustard | 1 tablespoon |
| flat-leaf parsleyroughly chopped | a small handful |
| fine sea salt | to taste |
| black pepper | to taste |
Season the rabbit pieces with salt and pepper, then dust them lightly with flour. Heat the butter and oil together in a heavy casserole over a decent heat. When the butter foams and starts to calm, lay the rabbit pieces in, skin side down. Don't crowd them. You may need to do this in two batches. Leave them alone for three or four minutes until they've taken on a proper golden colour underneath. Turn them and do the same on the other side. You're not cooking them through, just building a crust and a fond on the bottom of the pan. Lift them out onto a plate.
Drop the bacon lardons into the same pan. Let them sizzle gently until the fat renders and the edges go golden and a little crisp. This takes five minutes or so. Don't rush it. The bacon fat is flavour, and it's going to carry the whole base of the stew.
Add the onions, carrots, celery, and garlic to the pan with the bacon. Stir everything through the fat. Turn the heat down to something gentle and let the vegetables soften for eight to ten minutes, stirring now and then. The onions should go translucent and sweet. The kitchen will start to smell like the beginning of something good. Trust that.
Pour in the cider or wine. Let it bubble and reduce by half, scraping the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon to lift all the sticky, caramelised bits. This is where the flavour lives. Add the stock, the pearl barley, the thyme sprigs, and the bay leaves. Stir in the mustard. Nestle the rabbit pieces back into the pot, pushing them down into the liquid. The stock should come most of the way up the rabbit but needn't cover it entirely.
Bring the pot to a gentle simmer, then put the lid on and slide it into a low oven, around 160C/140C fan. Leave it for two hours. Check it once, halfway through, to make sure it's ticking over at a lazy bubble and the barley isn't sticking to the bottom. Give it a gentle stir if it needs one, then put the lid back on and close the door. The barley will swell and thicken the liquid into something halfway between a broth and a sauce, and the rabbit will go tender enough that the meat starts to pull from the bone when you press it with a spoon.
Take the pot out of the oven. Fish out the thyme stalks and bay leaves. Taste the broth and season it properly. It will almost certainly need more salt than you expect. The pearl barley absorbs seasoning greedily, so be generous. Stir through the chopped parsley. Ladle it into warm bowls, making sure everyone gets a good share of rabbit, barley, and the thick, savoury broth. There are few better feelings than putting this in front of someone on a cold night.
1 serving (about 500g)
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