The Good, the Bad, and the Demi-Glace

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Hello, friend.

When was the last time you learned a new thing that had a real, lasting impact on your life?
Last week? Last month? Last year?

Welcome to the New Year’s issue of Cooking with Anthony’s Ghost!

Ha.

Just kidding.

I’m not here to tell you how eating a more Bourdain-influenced diet will magically help you hit your protein goals. Or which of his recipes you should batch-cook so healthy nutrition becomes effortless and smug.

Also—let’s be honest—I’m not convinced most of his recipes qualify as healthy in the way January wellness culture defines the word.

They are made from scratch, using fresh, whole ingredients—not highly processed food-like products. Even the harshest of “health experts” have to give them that.

But anyway.
This isn’t about that.

Today, I’m telling you about my cooking adventures with the ghost this week—the good, the bad, and the ugly.

(Cue Ennio Morricone’s theme music.)

The Holiday Itch to Do Something Hard

One thing I love about a long holiday break is the chance to do something I’ve never done before. Something interesting. Something that requires effort and attention.

During Christmas break, unburdened by a specific recipe deadline, I started noodling on what might work for the New Year issue.

New year, new me. Right?

The ghost and I riffed for a while about his resolutions. He announced he wanted to drink less alcohol.

We laughed.
And laughed.
And laughed.

Then I told him he actually needed to drink more, since he’s now drinking for both of us.

Thank the booze gods I don’t have to pay his bar tab.

The Lamb, the Market, and the Moment of Fate

There I was, pondering the eternal question—what’s for dinner?—when I watched a YouTube video of a chef making Bourdain’s Daube Provençale (Les Halles, p. 162). It looked incredible. And thanks to a recent discovery of a local lamb honey hole, it was suddenly very doable.

The honey hole?
An Asian market just a couple miles from my house.

I nearly gasped when I spotted a pillow-sized, five-pound package of frozen lamb neck bones while picking up Korean rice cakes. (I constantly crave Budae Jjigae after Issue #16, so I keep those ingredients stocked at all times.)

Once the lamb was secured, I reread the recipe to see what else I’d need.

And there it was. Again.
That line.
The one that appears in nearly every Bourdain recipe.

And suddenly, I knew what I had to do.

Three Days. One Ice Cube Tray.

First stop: the butcher counter. I asked for enough bones to make the effort worthwhile. I was not about to spend days making two teaspoons of demi-glace.

I struck gold. The butcher emerged from the back room pushing a cart stacked with beef femurs.

Friends. These were Fred Flintstone bones.
Five pounds each.

I figured my largest stock pot could handle two femurs—if cut down—and the butcher happily obliged.

Before anyone clutches their pearls: yes, the ghost prefers veal bones. No, they were not an option here and now. Beef bones are common in demi-glace recipes, and I made my peace with it.

Day 1:
Bones went into roasting pans, smeared with tomato paste and lightly dusted with flour. Another pan held roughly chopped onions, carrots, and celery.

The recipe measures ingredients by percentages, not cups. Beef bone volume ÷ 3 = vegetable volume. Then more math: 50% onions, 25% carrots, 25% celery.

Once everything was roasting, I made dinner, ate dinner, watched TV…then checked the oven.

Horror.

Wherever there was tomato paste, the bones were charred. And Bourdain is very clear: no black on the bones.

Well. Shit.

After cooling, I took a paring knife and scraped off every bit of black I could. Salvageable—but lesson learned.

(Tip: My nose usually tells me when something’s done—cakes, casseroles, you name it. But there were zero aroma warnings here. None. These bones went from “fine” to “dark side” without so much as a whiff.)

Day 2:
Scraped bones into the stock pot with the roasted vegetables, peppercorns, and assorted aromatics I can no longer remember. This simmered for about eight hours.

After removing the bones and straining the liquid three times, I had roughly five quarts of stock.

One quart would be reserved for the daube as it calls for a dark stock. The rest would be reduced. And then reduced again.

Day 3:
I skimmed off the inch-thick fat cap that formed overnight. (I used quart jars to cool the stock quickly—because putting a vat of molten liquid into your fridge is a terrible idea.)

I reduced the wine—again calculated by percentage—then added the stock. This simmered for hours. Timers were set every 20–30 minutes so I wouldn’t forget it and accidentally create beef-flavored candy.

The goal: thick and glossy, but still a liquid.

Final yield?

One ice cube tray.
Almost full.

That’s it.
That’s the demi-glace.

Precious, indeed.

The Daube (a.k.a. I do what I want)

The next day: Daube Provençale.

It sounds fancy, but it’s peasant food. Comfort food. Long-simmering, but mercifully low-maintenance—especially after three days of constant vigilance.

The recipe, in brief:

Brown lamb.
Remove.
Cook bacon lardons.
Remove.
Sauté onion, celery, garlic.
Add white wine.
Simmer.
Add bacon, lamb, one carrot, a bouquet garni, one cup of stock, one teaspoon demi-glace, and two potatoes.

I stared at the ghost.

“One carrot?”
“One cup of stock?”
“There are nine pieces of lamb.”

That’s, what—an inch of carrot and two tablespoons of stock per piece?

He said exactly nothing.

Fine.

So I added five small carrots, about three cups of stock, and six small potatoes—one per serving—cut into vaguely football-like shapes.

Perfect. No notes.

And then—one crucial ingredient I almost forgot: orange zest. From one orange.

That was the magic. The thing that kicked the whole dish into the oh damn category. Citrus is traditional here, sure—but I’m happy to give the ghost credit anyway.

Good luck with your resolutions.
May they last until the next issue.

In reverence and rebellion,
Michelle Davis
Your kitchen medium

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