Real Food Has Curves

Relationships are odd, no? We shack up, sure, individual space becoming suddenly (and oddly) collective. And we make certain promises (sometimes explicit, sometimes implicit). But then there's the rest, the stuff we don't really know about until it happens--or even know about until after it already has happened. Like the ways we change each other over time.

One of the first meals I ever made for Bruce was rabbit. He, Mr. Trained Chef, had never prepared it himself, had only had it once at a restaurant. But he was game. (A good thing because, as I recall, I didn't even ask.) And he relished the meal. So began the complicated dance in which each of our rather set food tastes--me, the food writer who'd been all over on assignment and he, the Johnson and Wales boy--began to morph, adapt, and meld.

These days, he's the king of the rabbit braise. And he may have come up with a winner off the cuff the other night.

One note: our rabbit was already cut-up in the package. If you want to make this dish, you'll also need one cut up into about 9 pieces. Listen, the anatomy can be tricky for the uninitiated. There's a whole discussion of how to cut one up in COOKING KNOW-HOW, complete with step-by-step pictures. But if you're squeamish, ask the butcher at your market to do it for you.

OK, so the day before, Bruce put the rabbit in a bowl, added about 10 rosemary sprigs, 4 minced garlic cloves, the zest of one lemon (he used a vegetable peeler to pull it off in small strips), and 1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper. He stirred all this together, poured in 2 cups dry vermouth (you could use dry white wine), covered the bowl, and refrigerated it overnight.

The next evening, he preheated the oven to 325F. Then he heated 2 tablespoons olive oil in a large oven casserole (you could also use a Dutch oven), poured some flour into a shallow bowl, and patted dry the rabbit pieces. He dropped them in the flour one by one, gave them a light coating on all sides, and put them into the pot in batches, just a few at a time.

It's important not to crowd the pot. The rabbit needs to brown, not stew. Too many pieces at once and the juices won't boil away fast enough, leaving the meat to stew rather than to brown. You'll miss the best part: the caramelization of the external sugars.

No, he didn't brown the pieces too deeply. A nice golden crust for sure, but nothing dark. Still, it's important to get that crust gorgeous on each piece--and on each side. This is the step you just can't cheat.

After browning, each piece went into a bowl to the side of the stove. And one more thing: he did add a little additional olive oil as he went along. Rabbit is pretty low-fat; the floury coating can soak up whatever moisture is in the pot. So a little more olive oil now and then, no more than a tablespoon at a time, kept things frying nicely.

Next, he strained the marinade over a second bowl, thereby keeping back both the vermouth and the solids. He stemmed about half the rosemary sprigs and chopped the leaves. He added these to the pot along with one chopped medium yellow onion, and the rest of the solids from the marinade (the minced garlic and lemon zest, mostly).

He stirred that around until the onion softened a bit (although the pot was pretty dry at this point), then stirred in 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce and 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard. He gave it a few quick stirs, then poured in the reserved marinade.

He brought the whole thing to a simmer, scraping up any browned bits on the pot's bottom. Then he added about 1 cup grape tomatoes (those tiny little tomatoes) and about 3/4 cup green olives. Ours had the pits; uncut, they stay firmer and juicier during the long braise.

He boiled the vermouth marinade down to a thick glaze, then nestled all the browned rabbit pieces into the pot. He poured in any accumulated juices in the bowl where the rabbit had been, then poured in about 2 cups reduced-sodium, fat-free chicken broth. In all honestly, the amount of broth will depend on the size of the pot. Basically, you want the liquid to come about three-quarters of the way up the rabbit pieces.

Once the mixture was simmering, he put the lid on the pot and put the thing in the preheated oven. And that was that. He let it go for about 2 hours, checking it occasionally to make sure it wasn't drying out. (If so, add a little more broth.) But he didn't really stir it to keep the meat on the bones and the tomatoes intact.

He dished it up over some polenta (his contribution to my tastes--I used to hate the stuff--and my contribution to this meal--stirred and stirred until creamy, then with about 1/2 cup finely grated Parmigiano-Reggiano added for richness). A nice bottle of Riesling and it was a wonderful dinner, a little bit of summer in our still-gray world of New England.