But what eeeeiiiissss marrow bone?

Once upon a time the extent of my knowledge of marrow bone was to invert it to ‘bone marrow’ and start quoting ‘complex’ script extracts from mid-seasons of Grey’s Anatomy.

While recently researching cooking tips for marrow bone, not to be confused with web-browsing Patrick Dempsey, I came across this informative site: http://wayofthesun.com/marrowbone/index.htm. I immediately sent my crushed velvet dirdel to the dry cleaners and brushed up on my early-century forest poetry.

This site has tempted me to digress deep into the dark woods and explore recreation by way of recreation, or niche poetry readings in the forest, but will save this concept for an inevitable later post about game season and Bambi…and my love for Buck Hunter…or Tofu Hunter (http://games.adultswim.com/tofu-hunter-action-online-game.html) to which I was recently introduced by a vegetarian friend of mine.

Digression aside, bone marrow is the flexible tissue stored in the interior of bones. Usually, the bone marrow we eat comes from calves, their femur (thigh) bones to be more precise.

My renewed interest in marrow bone arose last week in class. We poached marrow bone in stock with a mirepoix and melted the fatty goodness (along with parsley butter) under a grill and into our Flintstone-esque 800g grilled beef prime ribs. I knew at this moment that never at home would I ever be able to prepare such a delicious and mammoth contribution to the world of meat consumption. Neither my heart nor my cholesterol would ever continue to believe the little white lie I’ve been telling them for years: “Don’t worry guys, marrow bone is good fat…just like avocados.

I don’t like to entertain this debate often, it makes me sad to debate the fat content, rather than the deliciousness, of food…I just go out for bone marrow.

I know it’s predictable, but the roasted bone marrow salad at St John’s in London is delicious (http://www.stjohnrestaurant.co.uk/) .  The night I devoured this dish I was also the proud consumer (amongst company) of a whole roasted suckling pig, a log of froi gras and litres of wine, all part of their summer feasting menu. It wasn’t pretty. It was some what Roman in a chic gourmand nose-to-tail kind of way. I tell myself that whilst eating the good fats in avocado.

Here is the recipe (narrated and annotated to my preference) in case you do want to attack bone marrow in your own kitchen:

Salad Envy – On Saladism

I have been waiting for what seems like the entire five minutes I have been waiting. I only notice because The Suit in front of me is speaking fluent Suit with another Suit and I find the talk of Suits reminds me that I used to be a Suit too. In a default Suit reaction I make a list in my head. I’m hungry. That’s the list.

I should have paid more attention. By the time I meet my challenger I wish I had made a better list. Fifty odd salad ingredients. One set of tongs. One Salad Master (or a demi-teen dressed as a Salad Master) and me. Calm.

I instantly regret my lettuce choice (always crispy mixed, always crispy mixed) as I fumble between chicken and tuna (chicken), parmesan and feta (feta), always baby tomatoes, cucumber? Here is where it starts to go wrong. Breathe, just breathe. The lady behind me is tapping her manicured nails on the glass counter impatiently at the hold up my decisional impasse is causing to the execution of her salad list. I should have made a list. I freeze and then point and nod at every ingredient that was never meant to meet the rest of my salad. Focus. Crème fraiche dressing (no, before you ask, it’s not good, it means nothing to nobody). Pay. Seat. Breathe.

As my pulse slows I peer into the deep silver bowl, the product of my friends Salad Master battle and his scars are far fewer than mine. He’s done well, stuck to the classics. Avoided the comingling of sweet and savoury. Balanced cured and fresh, dairy and legume. Damn him. Avocado. I don’t have avocado. I wish I had avocado. I think perhaps my cucumber could be as tasty as avocado. It’s not. I have an impotent salad. Salad Envy.

If it looks like it's cool...

As the dictum goes, if it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck, the chances are...well, it’s unlikely to be a seared rib eye steak, medium rare, isn’t it? Mama Shelter (109 Rue de Bangnolet, Paris 75020, 01 43 48 45 45, Reservations Necessary, http://www.mamashelter.com/) felt like this to me...the dictum, not the steak. The restaurant at Mama Shelter, which forms part of a boutique design hotel complex in the 20eme, looks cool and is filled with loudly fashionable people wearing all the ‘right’ clothes, dining in all the ‘right’ urban-warehouse-meets-space-mountain-neon interior design. But you never hear Johnny Depp telling people how cool he is...Mama Shelter tells everyone just how cool it is.

The Island Bar at Mama Shelter where patron banter about
suitably 'cool' topics like how 'cool' they are