Lamb

Abbacchio, a long-ago Roman term for a newborn lamb, is the prescripted dish of Easter. And older than history is the innocent, rousing scent of it roasting with branches of wild rosemary, curling out from the kitchen doors of the trattorie in the Trastevere on Sundays in the spring, beckoning one to table together.

This lamb dish is saturated with the bold flavors of Provence—rosemary, thyme, garlic, olives, and capers. First the lamb is seared with broken sprigs of rosemary and thyme to infuse the meat with smoky, eucalyptus notes. Then it’s buried under plenty of garlic and herbs, roasted in the oven until medium-rare, and served with a sweet and creamy flageolet gratin, roasted radicchio, and black olive tapenade.

This dish was inspired by a trip to Tunisia a few years ago. I fell in love with the Tunisian cooks’ use of spices and the bowls of harissa served with every meal. What surprised me most was the use of caraway, which I had always thought of as an Eastern European spice. For this Tunisian-flavored stew, I season the lamb shoulder overnight with caraway, coriander, chiles, cayenne, and paprika, and then braise it in an aromatic broth with cinnamon and allspice. For a traditional braise I usually deglaze with wine, but in keeping with Muslim prohibitions common in Tunisia, I refrain and substitute lemon juice, which also adds a bright, acidic note to the stew.

This was one of our first Sunday suppers at Lucques. It’s a variation on the classic osso buco, which is traditionally made with veal shanks. I use the same technique, but for this lighter summer version I braise the lamb shanks in white wine and a combination of veal and chicken stock (as opposed to straight veal stock). The tender shanks are a rich counterpoint to the freshness of the shell beans and crunch of the haricots verts. Ask your butcher for lamb osso buco, but if you can’t find it you can use lamb shanks.

This gutsy lamb dish pays homage to two camps of Latin cooking: Mexico and Spain. The lamb is stuffed with a mixture of toasted breadcrumbs and a fresh, spicy Mexican sausage called chorizo. Traditionally stirred into scrambled eggs or used as a filling for gorditas, the chorizo infuses the stuffing with its piquant character. The Spanish accents come from the olives and the romesco, a classic Catalan sauce of puréed chiles, garlic, tomatoes, nuts, and fried bread. Just as the lamb absorbs the spiciness of the chorizo stuffing while it roasts in the oven, the robust romesco saturates the potatoes as they sauté.

I thought I was tired of braised lamb shanks, having cooked them for so many years. But then I added a step that utterly transforms them. Reducing the braising liquid and then basting the lamb with it makes this dish wonderfully rich. Serve this with Green Apple and Jalapeño Duo (page 177); the green apple puree and salad balance the richness with a bright, refreshing acidity.

True, Fava beans are a pain. First, you have to shell the beans, then peel off their tissue-thin skins. To be honest, though, I actually enjoy prepping these beans—especially if it means getting to eat them. Simply cooked, they’re the perfect accompaniment to juicy lamb chops.

Travel the globe and you’ll discover that every culture has a meatball. These balls highlight the exotic flavors and all the goodness from the great tandoor ovens of India. At the Shop we serve these with our simple Cilantro Yogurt Sauce (page 69), which is cool and refreshing and the perfect complement to the spice-rich tandoori flavor. This recipe also works really well with ground chicken or beef.

When we opened the Shop, these Mediterranean balls were our first daily special. We were so busy that we didn’t get a chance to change it for three weeks, but nobody really complained because they were so delicious. People still get excited when we bring them back for a day or two. The raisins and walnuts give this ball a subtly sweet and earthy quality that complements the lamb. Make these into mini balls and pass them around at your next party. Just add toothpicks and Spinach-Basil Pesto (page 58) for dip. No sauce required. Or serve them over a bed of Braised Kale with Anchovies and Garlic (page 93) or Creamed Spinach (page 100).

When we think of sun-drenched Greece, we think of olives, feta cheese, preserved lemons, and oregano. These salty, tangy, and fragrant ingredients instantly transport us to the Mediterranean islands. These meatballs capture the essence of Greek flavors and roll it all up into a meatball. You can buy preserved lemons, but our quickie recipe below is a no-brainer. Serve with a big ladleful of Classic Tomato Sauce (page 56).

I adore pearl barley, yet seldom remember to cook it. But at least once a year, in late spring leaning toward summer, when the weather is still chilly, I suddenly have a notion to make Scotch broth. It is essentially a homespun celebration of root vegetables bolstered by and enriched with lamb. The usual vegetable selection includes leeks, carrots, turnips, rutabagas, kohlrabies, and parsnips. Hamburg parsley, which is grown for its root rather than its leaves and is popular in northern European cooking, is also a good addition, adding herbal appeal. Unfortunately, it is so far not widely available in U.S. markets, but a garnish of fresh parsley nicely fills the herbal niche. Lamb neck and bone-in shoulder chops, the customary cuts for Scotch broth, create a meat broth as the soup cooks. Here, I turn the lamb into sausage and use a quick and convenient-to-make vegetable broth. That way the meat is thriftily stretched while still providing its depth of flavor to the soup. I add a tablespoon of tomato paste for color and a hint of acid: perhaps a shocking sidestep to staunch traditionalists, but I think the soup appreciates it.

Shepherd’s pie is a signature dish in the pubs of England and Ireland, sometimes made with lamb, as here, and sometimes with beef, in which case it is called cottage pie. The idea is the same: a simple meat pie made with a mirepoix—onion, carrot, celery—under a top crust of mashed potatoes. There’s no cheese in the mashed potatoes, but when the pie is baked, the crust is somehow enriched through the alchemy of cooking and tastes as though there were. Shepherd’s pie is usually made with leftover cooked lamb. Swapping that for quick and easy homemade lamb sausage is my revisionism, to give the humble pie a fresh and lively taste. Also, to gussy it up, I use tiny pearl onions so the onion element has a more defined presence in the pie. The horseradish is also my whim, to give the dish an acrid lilt that helps lift it above what might otherwise be humdrum fare. Fresh horseradish root is often available in produce stores and supermarkets around Passover for Jewish customers; wasabi root, though not exactly the same botanically, is similar and it is available around the New Year for Japanese customers. Like fresh ginger, horseradish root can be stored in the refrigerator almost indefinitely, as long as it is kept dry.

The highland sheep of Scotland and Ireland graze in rugged terrain with sparse vegetation. Fittingly, the seasoning for a lamb sausage one might find in those northern isles is somewhat understated. A few well-chosen aromatics, along with salt and pepper, suffice to make a tasty sausage that evokes that landscape and its restrained fare.

When chorizo crossed the Straits of Gibraltar from Spain to North Africa, the meat of it, pork, was swapped for lamb. The mostly Muslim North Africans don’t eat pork. The feisty essence of chorizo was not lost in the translation, however: the seasonings remained pretty much the same, with regional and personal variations, as always. A touch of cinnamon here, dried whole red chiles instead of milder ground paprika, maybe some cumin, maybe not, and always garlic. On either side of the straits, it’s a vivacious sausage to use in dishes that want definite sausage input. Here is the lamb version called merguez; for the pork version, see page 24.

The Vendy Awards began in 2004 as a benefit to raise funds for New York street food vendors who were struggling to establish their right to operate in the city. The issue in dispute was that the city wanted to tax the street vendors even though they didn’t operate from brick-and-mortar venues. (The issue of who has to pay tax to whom is, of course, age-old.) Fortunately, it was finally settled, and the awards became an annual New York City celebration of street food, with an informal competition for best stand decided by popular vote. On a given day in early autumn, vendors from all around the city assemble in a park (a different one each year) and proffer their take-away delights to an ever-growing number of fans. The flavors and aromas of Pakistani and Indian cooking aced the show three out of four times, sort of: In 2006, Sammy the Halal Man won the prize for his Pakistani chicken and rice biriyani. In 2007, the Dosa Man won for his vegan dosa. In 2008, though the Calexico burrito and taco vendor won the juried prize, the popular vote went to Biriyani Cart’s Meru Sikder for his Bangladeshi lamb and rice dish. In other words, the populist Vendys confirm the wide appeal of foods from countries along the ancient spice route. Note: You can also serve the meatballs and topping and garnish elements as a biriyani dish, over steamed basmati rice rather than folded into a flatbread.

Although I’ve never been to Singapore, preparing this dish leads me there in fantasy. Heady with the fragrance and the flavors of India and Malaysia—cumin, fennel seeds, curry powder—and punctuated with coconut milk and almond, it parlays into a perfect balance of hot, sweet, salty, and sour. The touch of fresh lime juice for the sour element points toward the Southeast Asian contribution in a crossroads cuisine that translates smoothly to American kitchens.

Lamb sausage spiked with pine nuts and raisins, masterful fare from Turkey found around the Mediterranean, is exactly right for a summer grill party. The figs and fennel practically insist on being combined into a marmalade to accompany the lusty sausage. It can also be used as a compote for pork or chicken dishes or as a topping for toast or scones. If you happen to have a fig tree, or know someone who does, use its leaves to wrap the sausage. They impart an aroma and flavor of cinnamon that greatly enhances the lamb and evokes the Garden of Eden, after the Fall.

This lamb, green bean, and tomato soup-stew, known as fasoulia in the home of my childhood, was the by-product of a regular event: my father dissecting a leg of lamb into its parts, from the most highly treasured, neatly cubed pieces for shish kebab to the fattier but still tender parts for grinding into sausage. A sidebar of the ritual was putting the bone and all the gristly bits into a pot, covering them with water, and gently simmering them into a broth for fasoulia. Even though the dish was a by-product of making shish kebab, it enjoyed a humble stature on our dinner table. These days when I desire a taste of lamb home cooking and am not deconstructing a leg of lamb, I use a bit of purchased ground lamb for meatballs. The green beans are key here, and though I usually turn up my nose at frozen vegetables, I make an exception for fasoulia, so that it can be enjoyed throughout the year. I find this soup-stew doesn’t need anything in the way of a side dish. A slice of bread, a spoon, and family company suffice, but Armenians would include pilaf on the side.

A constant—an icon—of my Armenian American childhood were grape leaves, cabbage leaves, bell peppers, zucchini, and tomatoes wrapped around or stuffed with lamb and rice sausage. My mother, a native of the American Southwest, married my father, an Armenian who enjoyed the honor of being the first of his direct family line to be born in the United States. So, in our family it was he who carried forward the Armenian tradition of lamb at table. That was not difficult for my mother to accommodate: her father was a rancher who raised sheep from time to time. In other words, lamb was a food that my parents easily shared through their more than half century of marriage. Interestingly, though the sausage stuffing was the same whether it was tucked into grape leaves, cabbage leaves, or vegetables, there was a name distinction: wrapped in leaves, the dish was called sarma, but stuffed into vegetables, it was dolma. Dolmas and sarma made with cabbage leaves were considered family fare, and they were a dinner staple in our household. Stuffed grape leaves, which require more time and earnest effort, were festive fare, so they were saved for family get-togethers or special birthday requests (mine in particular). For how to blanch and separate the leaves for making stuffed cabbage leaves, see page 151.