February 2004

I am (Cast) Iron Man!
The Kitchen Samurai

I have a penchant for old things. I like old books, old houses, old furniture, old music, and old movies. It is perhaps not surprising, then, that I like old-fashioned kitchen gadgets. Though I own a mixer, a couple food processors, and a blender or two, I find myself using my hands, wooden spoons, knives, et cetera, at least as much as the high-tech monsters. The older, simpler tools allow me more control, I feel, or, at least, a closer connection with the food I'm preparing. Dough prepared in a Kitchen-Aid is fine, but sort of soul-less, you know? Bread, to really live for me, needs to be kneaded by hand.

Similarly, some gadgets, though lo-tech, just seem wrong for certain tasks. Take my stainless steel skillets, f'rinstance: I love them, I cherish them, I could never part with them, but some days they're not enough. Some days, and for some applications, they just won't do. For some things, you need cast iron. Fortunately, between my girlfriend and I, we have enough cast iron to built a (very heavy) battleship.

Cast iron is one of those things that people either loathe or revere. My mother hates it, as did a chef with whom I once interviewed; they claim iron is too heavy, too impractical for a good pan. For others, cast iron is hateful because it's scary: a mysterious process called seasoning is either too complicated or too much effort for these poor souls. Cast iron must be taken care of, so they continue to use their $20 pans from Target, which, paradoxically, are almost always non-stick and therefore require more care and special handling that cast iron ever could.

My theory is that the real reason people are loath to use cast iron is that it's ugly. It's big, it's black, it's ungainly, and its innards (when seasoned) gleam dully with oil. Furthermore, it's prone to rust, which is simply over the top -- we do, after all, live in an age of stain-free materials, and cast iron, like carbon steel, oxidizes and discolors in a manner we find downright unsettling. Cast iron, I think, loses out simply because its looks are at odds with today's ideal of the kitchen as spotless, stainless laboratory.

I must admit, at least some of cast iron's detractors have a point: cast iron is heavy. It's so heavy that you really can't use it as a saute pan --making your food jump around in cast iron would require wrist strength Olympic javelin-throwers would envy. Cast iron is also too dense to be quickly responsive: any attempt to get cast iron to go from blazing hot to lukewarm in the span of a few moments is doomed to failure. But these things aren't cast iron's strengths. Cast iron, instead, shines at giving meat or fish a good, hard sear. Its weight and bulk will take and retain heat wonderfully, and they will pass that heat on to whatever it is you're cooking. If you want to put a tasty, crunchy, brown, caramelized crust on a steak, a chop, a piece of tuna, or, for that matter, a leek or an onion, cast iron's your pan.

"But what about the seasoning?" What about it? Caring for a cast iron pan is easier than people make it seem, if only because there's almost no way to ruin such a pan. The classic way to deal with cast iron is to buy it new and season it yourself by rubbing it with oil (canola, peanut, or another neutral oil -- avoid olive oil or other flavorsome oils) and letting it sit in a hot (350 degrees) oven for an hour or so. This allows the pores in the iron to open, absorbing the oil and creating a surface that is (more or less) impervious to oil and (more or less) non-stick. If you follow this procedure, those in the know claim you should never, ever, ever let soap near your pan as it will eat your precious seasoning. Just rinse your seasoned pan with water and wipe it with a towel or soft-bristled brush. If, at any point, your seasoning seems to fade, just re-season the pan. Bear in mind that, if you go out to buy a pan tomorrow, there's a new breed of cast iron made by the Lodge company called Lodge Logic(tm). These pans are pre-seasoned, so you only need to season them to touch them up, not to get them going. I'm not sure why this is worth the extra $0.50 or so per pan, but what the hell.

As good as this classic method of caring for cast iron is, I tend to take a still more laid back approach. Many of my pans have been reclaimed from the ravages of time and rust through the forceful application of sandpaper, steel wool, salt, and oil. My favorite pan, for instance, was my grandmother's. It came from a house on the coast of South Carolina, where the air and humidity can eat (and nearly had eaten) cast iron for breakfast. In order to use the pan, I first had to scour away larger flakes and chunks of rust with sandpaper, then smooth the inside with steel wool, then polish the pan with a mixture of oil and salt over low heat (this last is a great way to clean cast iron if yours starts to rust). When I finally had a smooth, rust-free, usable pan, I coated it with oil and carefully wiped out the excess. Flying in the face of conventional wisdom, I did not re-season it.

I didn't season my new pan because I reasoned thusly: I already had pots and pans to cook eggs, sauces, and the like, and I wasn't sure that cast iron really lent itself to making those sorts of things anyway. As I mentioned before, in my world, cast iron for is searing and pan-roasting. I figured, if I was going to use my cast iron pan to sear meats over high heat (or even medium-high heat) anyway, I was going to burn away the seasoning anytime I used the thing, so why not leave it unseasoned, and just rub it with a thin film of oil after each use to prevent oxidation? In the end, this is what I did. And, because I'm not afraid of washing away the pan's seasoning every time I wash it, I'm also a lot less paranoid about whether or not soap touches my pan.

Searing, for those playing at home, is a grand technique, as is pan-roasting. To sear is to quickly put a tasty brown crust on the outside of a food, usually meat, fowl, or fish. The second term -pan-roasting- literally refers to roasting something in a pan. While searing is usually done over high heat, in a flash, and is often followed by roasting inside an oven, pan-roasting is often done more slowly, often on the stove-top all the while. Both techniques create that flavorful brown crust, often referred to as caramelization or the Maillard Effect.

As an example, imagine you have a chicken breast. Let's make it boneless but skin-on for the purposes of this thought experiment. To sear the breast, first remove it from the fridge, salt it on both sides (even if you're salt-phobic, a little salt before cooking accentuates flavor), pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees, and pre-heat your pan. For a good, hard sear, pre-heat the pan over medium-high heat for at least 5 minutes, maybe 10. You want the pan smoking hot (and you want to give the chicken time to warm up a bit after his stay in the refrigerator). Place the chicken, skin-side down in the pan, and stand back. The breast will jump, shudder, and splatter as the fat beneath the skin comes in contact with the hot surface. (In this experiment, that fat under the skin is our cooking fat and there is more than enough to make it unnecessary to use oil or butter; use a neutral oil such as grapeseed or canola if you try this with a boneless boob.) Once your chicken is in the pan, your task gets difficult: you must wait. Wait longer than you think you should. Walk away if you have to. The bird will not burn, no matter your fears, and the only way to get that yummy brown is to let the chicken sit awhile. Note that the chicken will lift once it's browned. If the bird sticks when you try to lift it, wait. Turn up the heat beneath the pan if you need to speed things up, but do not force the bird. When the breast lifts easily, flip it, and sear the other side. When the breast can be moved about easily and is seared to your liking, finish it in the oven, about 5 - 10 minutes more.

Pan-roasting the breast is similar, but it requires a tad more patience and observation. As before, remove your chicken breast from the fridge, salt it on both sides, and pre-heat your pan, but over low to medium heat this time. After the pan is heated through, add the breast skin-side down. Instead of fireworks this time, you should hear little more than a steady sizzle. No or little noise means your pan isn't hot enough, too much popping and spitting means it's too hot: adjust accordingly. You want an even, constant level of sound from the pan. When you judge the breast is halfway-done, or thereabouts, flip the breast over, and cook it through. (When the edges of the breast turn from pink and translucent to an opaque, milky white, it's time to flip, or close to it.) Check the breast by pressing it, with a thermometer, or by cutting into it, howsoever you choose.

Both these breasts might benefit from a simple sauce, which you can make right in the pan. When you seared or pan-roasted your chicken, some of the brown goodness you worked so hard to impart to your breasts necessarily remains in the pan, a sauce is the way to reclaim it To start your pan-sauce, remove the pieces of chicken from the pan, and keep them warm. Place the pan back over low heat, and add minced shallots or onions to it, scraping them around with a wooden spoon. To the onions and the now stirred-up brown bits (properly called the fond), add a splash of brandy from a measuring cup (not the bottle -- don't blow yourself up). Stir the brandy, onion, and fond mixture so that it blends and thickens. When the brandy has evaporated so that the pan is nearly dry (reduced), add the juice of half an orange, and reduce it too almost to the point of dryness. Throw in a glass of white wine, stir, and cook the mixture down until it covers the bottom of the pan and is almost, but not quite, as thick as syrup. This mixture is your sauce, and you can spoon it over your chicken as is, or strain it for a more refined effect.

When you're done, clean your pan under warm water with a wet cloth or brush. Dry your pan over low heat on a burner, and wipe it with a drop or two of oil.