kidneys

another one from Pomiane. And more proof, were it needed, that I’m really not very good at being vegan.

I’d gone to the organic meat-stall at the market at Lausitzer Platz to pick up a joint of lamb to roast for the Lion-Tamer and the Ethnologe, who’d said that he wanted to try mint sauce (the lamb doesn’t really merit a post in its own right: I marinated it overnight, roasted it till was nicely cooked on the outside but still very pink in the middle, then let it rest for 20 minutes while I crisped up the potatoes and parsnips (in some goose-fat that was leftover from the Lion-Tamer’s dinner party a couple of nights before), and served with steamed courgettes and leeks, mint sauce and gravy made by adding flour and then the liquid from the vegetables to the roasting dish, over a gentle heat). While at the market, I noticed that they had beef kidneys available, at the entirely tolerable price of €6 a kilo. I bought half a kilo, and put them in the freezer for a rainy day.

That evening, Josef Swoboda came over for a drink. At some point over a beer we pondered whether we were going to cook anything. I mentioned the kidneys, and my intention to do them roughly according to a Pomiane-recipe to which my maternal grandfather had introduced me, involving butter, brandy, mushrooms and cream. We didn’t have any mushrooms in the house, but that was rectifiable as Josef had some at home. But our brandy-supply had been exhausted the previous day, so that put paid to that idea, for that evening, at least, and we feasted on toast and Leberwurst instead.

But Josef was keen to try the recipe. So a couple of days later, after I’d bought mushrooms and replenished the brandy-supply, he came over. I’d boiled some potatoes, intending to prurée them with a bit of milk and some butter, made a salad, and sliced the mushrooms thinly. We were all ready to start, so I went to get the butter from the fridge, to discover we’d run out. Fortunately, the shop round the corner was still open, so that was rectifiable.

Josef suggested that what would really improve the potatoes would be some Speck and onions. So we chopped them finely, rendered the fat from the former, then crisped them together, before stirring them into the potatoes with a little milk and a lot of butter.

So we set to work preparing the kidneys. Pomiane’s recipe begins

Get the butcher, if he is amiable, to cut the kidney into pieces the size of a walnut.

This didn’t seem a particularly reasonable thing to request of the organic meat-vendor at the market, particularly since the kidneys were already packaged. So we set about cutting them up ourselves, removing the white parts, of which I know neither the culinary nor the biological name. Neither of us being experts in this task, it took a fair while. Josef said he hoped that the smell of piss would disappear in the cooking. I didn’t quite feel able to reassure him, but did promise that the combination of brandy, cream and mustard would change it beyond recognition.

In a frying pan, we brought the butter to smoking-point, then added the kidney-pieces, cooked until they had all turned beige. Then turned the heat up and added the mushrooms, which promptly – and as promised by Pomiane – exuded a lot of liquid, which took about five minutes to evaporate. In went a generous glass of the cheapest brandy I’d been able to find at the discount supermarket. At this point I quote the master:

Add the cognac, stir, and taste. The raw flavour of the cognac spoils the sauce. Let it cook for another minute. Now it is better. Two more minutes, and it is delicious.

He wasn’t wrong. We stirred in about 100ml of cream, mixed with a teaspoon of dijon mustard, cooked for a few more seconds, and served, with the potatoes and salad. And a bottle of red wine.

Josef was pleased with the result. The obnoxious smell of piss had given way to what might be termed a fine tang of faintly-scented urine, which when combined with the brandy, the cream and the mustard was sumptuous. The texture of the mushrooms complemented the kidney-pieces perfectly, and there was just enough to go round. The Lion-Tamer and the Ethnologe were equally well-pleased; the Lion sat on a chair, apparently none too pleased that he was deprived of attention for the time it took us to eat. Which wasn’t long at all.