Stretch Cooking: a dish of spontaneity

The real fun of cooking is not (necessarily) the fancy stuff and trusted recipes, but instead just knowing principles that empower options.

I was in the supermarket and spied a piece of round steak, between a half and three-quarters of a pound, half an inch thick, and shaped like the lower half of Florida. With my club card, it was $3.74. I never buy "steak" steaks at the supermarket, but, at $3.74, I bonded with this unassuming standard-grade "Rancher's Reserve" bit of round steak. I was going to have it for dinner.

In my head, I had been thinking about one of my favorites, searing a steak in a black skillet, and sautéing some onions, mushrooms and fresh spinach in the same skillet. But this steak wasn't thick enough for that.

I thought about pounding it, breading it, and making a chicken-fried steak sandwich, which in Texas in the old days, we just called a "steak sandwich." In those days, you ordered a steak sandwich in any café, and you got a piece of chicken-fried steak open-faced on thick toast with cream gravy and fries on the side. My, my. In 2009, in many Texas cafes, you order a steak sandwich and you don't know what you'll get.

There would be enough of my $3.74 round steak to make two steak sandwiches, but I decided against it because we're staying mostly away from fried meats and gravy. I could make smothered steak, which involves less fat and healthier gravy, and as I was considering that, I wondered if there was a way I could make a kind of smothered steak in which a combination of meat and onions produced the gravy, without using any fat at all.

Well, I did use a scant tablespoon of olive oil, in a black skillet, to get things going. A black, cast-iron skillet is one of those cooking principles I mentioned above. If you understand a black skillet, you can get it to do some wonderful stuff with heat. A black skillet soaks up heat like a sponge, holds it evenly, and distributes it slowly, like there is a timer built into all the skillet molecules. It probably has something to do with quantum physics, but you don't need to understand the principle, just know it's there. (I was teaching a class once, making chicken-fried steak and gravy, and as I was making the gravy, a guy asked, "Why does it thicken?" "I don't know," I said, and everybody laughed.)

I got my nine-inch black skillet and put it on medium-high (7, on your electric-range dials) to take on a heat load. I splashed salt, pepper and garlic powder on the steak and put it in to sear, immediately turning the heat down to 5. I browned it for two or three minutes, checking underneath, and then flipped it over. After a couple of minutes I added a medium onion, chunked, around the sides of the steak, turned the heat down to 2, and covered the skillet.

Five minutes later I stirred the onions, which were already sweating their own juices and starting to caramelize. This is another principle. I covered it again and turned the heat down to 1. Ten minutes later I checked for dryness and added half a cup of water. Covered it again and left it for an hour. The onions were caramelized, the pan juices – the "gravy" – were dark and rich, and you could cut the steak with a fork. I love that kind of kitchen spontaneity.