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Created by Chef Thomas
Beef bones roasted until dark, then coaxed for a long afternoon into a deep amber stock, the foundation of every good gravy, every braise, every bowl of winter soup worth the trouble.
Agood beef stock is made on a day when you're going to be at home anyway. A Sunday with the rain coming sideways at the window. A Saturday after the market when the kitchen is already warm and you've nowhere to be. It isn't difficult, this. It just asks for your company.
It starts with proper bones from a proper butcher. Marrow bones for richness, knuckle or shin for the gelatine that gives the stock its body and makes it wobble when it cools. Roasted hard until they're deeply browned, because pale bones make pale stock and pale stock tastes like apology. Then vegetables, water, time. That's it. No stock cube has ever come close.
The kitchen will smell extraordinary for hours. Roasted beef and onions and something slow and patient underneath. I find myself wandering back in just to stand over it, not doing anything, just looking. There are few better feelings than a pot of stock ticking away on the hob while the weather does its worst outside.
I wrote it down in the notebook years ago and haven't changed a word: bones, fire, water, time. Make a big batch and freeze it in useful portions. Come January, when you reach for a jar to start a soup or a stew or a proper gravy, you'll be grateful to the version of yourself who put in the afternoon. Your kitchen, your rules, but trust me on this one.
Quantity
2kg
a mix of marrow bones and knuckle or shin
Quantity
2 large
halved, skins left on
Quantity
2
roughly chopped
Quantity
2
roughly chopped
Quantity
1 head
halved across the middle
Quantity
1 tablespoon
Quantity
2
Quantity
small bunch
Quantity
1 teaspoon
Quantity
1 sprig
Quantity
about 3 litres
| Ingredient | Quantity |
|---|---|
| beef bonesa mix of marrow bones and knuckle or shin | 2kg |
| onionshalved, skins left on | 2 large |
| carrotsroughly chopped | 2 |
| celery sticksroughly chopped | 2 |
| garlichalved across the middle | 1 head |
| tomato purée | 1 tablespoon |
| bay leaves | 2 |
| parsley stalks | small bunch |
| black peppercorns | 1 teaspoon |
| thyme | 1 sprig |
| cold water | about 3 litres |
Heat the oven to 220C/200C fan. Lay the bones out in a single layer in a heavy roasting tin. No oil, no seasoning. Roast for forty minutes, turning once halfway, until the bones are deeply browned and the marrow has started to soften into the tin. The kitchen will smell of roast beef. That's the whole point. Colour on the bones is colour in the stock, and stock without colour tastes of nothing.
Add the onions, carrots, celery, and garlic to the tin. Spoon the tomato purée over the bones, rough and uneven, don't try to spread it. Return the tin to the oven for another twenty minutes, until the vegetables have taken on some colour at their edges and the tomato purée has gone dark and caught in places. You're not burning anything. You're building a deeper flavour.
Tip everything from the roasting tin into a large stockpot, scraping out any loose bits but leaving the fat behind. Put the empty tin over a low flame on the hob. Add a splash of water and stir with a wooden spoon, working the stuck, dark, sticky residue off the bottom. This is where half your stock's character lives. Pour it all, every last smear, into the stockpot.
Pour enough cold water over everything to cover the bones by about four fingers. Bring it slowly to a bare tremble, not a boil. A proper boil will give you a cloudy stock and you want clarity. When it starts to tremble, grey scum will rise to the surface. Skim it off with a spoon and discard. Do this two or three times in the first half hour, then stop worrying about it.
Add the bay leaves, parsley stalks, peppercorns, and thyme. Leave the lid off, or half on if the stock is reducing too fast. Let it tick over on the lowest heat you can manage for six to eight hours. No fuss. You don't need to watch it. Come back every hour or so, top up with hot water if the bones ever peek above the surface, and skim any fat that pools on top. The stock will slowly turn the colour of strong tea, then of amber, then of something deeper still.
Lift out the big bones with tongs and discard them. Strain the stock through a fine sieve lined with a piece of muslin, or a clean tea towel at a push, into a clean bowl or another pot. Press gently on the solids to get every drop, then throw them out. They've given everything they had. Let the stock sit for twenty minutes, then skim off any fat that has risen to the top with a spoon. If you can, chill it overnight and lift the solid fat off the next morning. Cleaner, easier, kinder to the stock.
Taste it. It should taste of beef, of roast, of time. If it tastes thin, put it back on the hob and reduce it by a third. Don't salt it. Salt goes in at the point of use, not here, because whatever you make from this stock will season itself. Decant into jars or freezer tubs. Label them. You will not remember what is in unlabelled tubs in February, no matter how certain you feel about it in October.
1 serving (about 250g)
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