For the love of lamb

I have this memory from a good 16 years ago. I was in Rome with my parents and we had driven about an hour outside the city in search of what someone had declared was the best leg of lamb in the world. I don’t remember where it was but I do remember entering a somewhat dark place with thick, adobe-type walls. On a wooden table was laid out a feast of antipasti. The soft light from the small windows cast a glow, a holy aura on the spread. There were large strips of grilled eggplant and zucchini glistening in olive oil, the bits of rock salt twinkling. Giant white balls of mozzarella, so fresh and pure bobbing up and down in a bowl of whey. Slices of enormous, bright-red tomatoes, almost difficult to look at. The sunshiny tomatoes reminded me of a glowing red stoplight. “Stop,” it said. “Eat me.” A little further down were wooden planks piled high with prosciutto. Not just any Parma ham, fine wisps of prosciutto San Daniele, delicate in flavor, the smokiness an accent and not overpowering.

A whole lamb slow-roasted on an open spit Bukidnon style. Injected with pineapple juice for sweet mouthwatering meat

The table seemed to go on and on. It led your eyes slowly towards the fire in the back, as your mouth salivated, you knew what was coming. I can no longer remember if it was cooked in the fire, or the fire was just there for decorative purposes. Alas, years later, I cannot say if it was truly — by my standards today — the best lamb in the world, or a sad little tourist trap.  What I can say with absolute certainty was that from my memories, the meat was exquisite and tender. Pink as it should be and ever so slightly charred outside. They had made holes in which the garlic was inserted like studs on a Harley biker’s jacket, burnt bits of rosemary stuck to the outer layers. Sweet, not the least bit gamey, the flavor of lamb was gentle as it should be with the ever-slow, slight metallic aftertaste. It was a happy moment. A food memory shared with my family.

You see, lamb is probably one of my father’s favorite foods. I’ll never forget going to L’Avenue on Avenue Montaigne in Paris with my father, a chic Costes joint, where most people go to see and be seen. Food is simple but they do pride themselves on good ingredients. My father ordered lamb chops and, in typical French fashion, they only brought him three pieces. When he had realized how perfectly cooked they were, charred outside, rosé inside, to the waiter’s surprise he decidedly ordered another plate.

Lamb for me is the most symbolic meat there is. It’s biblical and perhaps apart from vegetarian Buddhists and Hindus, the one meat that will cross cultures and religions. It is the meat of the kings and queens of Babylon, of Greek conquerors and Roman emperors. It is the animal of sacrifice and the symbol of devotion. In the culinary world it is also one of the trickiest ingredients to prepare. Old lamb meat can be pungent and when not properly cooked, extremely difficult to ingest. However, placed in the hands of the right people, lamb is true manna from heaven.

Hutong in Hong Kong: Crispy de-boned lamb ribs, a true party in your mouth!

Last week Robby Goco decided to roast two whole Aussie lambs in the middle of Greenbelt. Was it his birthday? Cyma’s anniversary? No. Just because he wanted to. All the foodies came to feast in its glory. Marinating for two days, this was a nilambingan lamb. The meat was loved, nurtured into its full glory. The skin was salty and freshly crisped in the open coals in front of Cyma in Greenbelt 2. Onlookers were aghast and yet jealous. A bunch of diehard hungry people who make a living out of eating licked the juices from their fingers as they let all inhibitions loose, tearing the tender meat apart. I personally cleaned off six ribs until nothing was left and they looked like oversized toothpicks. Sappy, live romantic music played as I fell in love with my lamb.

At our ranch in Bukidnon, an Australian friend of my father’s gave him a few heads of lamb some time ago. Multiplying fast, apart from their cute silhouettes dotting the hills, they have served us well, their glory immortalized in one of the best roast lamb dishes I’ve ever had. Injected with pineapple juice, it is cooked slowly with constant turning over hot embers. The meat is so juicy and flavorful that no sauce is required. A pescatarian friend of mine was so moved by our gastronomic delirium that she decided to try some for herself, and proceeded to eat a whole plate of it. Each time I share about our lamb specialty, I wonder if I’m just building up the magnificent dream in my head but in fact, each time I go back, I’m happily proven wrong and it surpasses my expectations.

Hutong in Hong Kong also has one of the best lamb dishes I’ve encountered. Usually I stay clear of fashionable restos, but if only for that dish (and their salted fish with ginger fried rice), I would go back. De-boned lamb ribs slow-cooked to gentle perfection, then fried to a crisp. The layer of skin on top is crackled almost like a lamb chicharon. It’s a millefeuille of goodness: tender, flaky meat, rich, juicy pockets of fat and crispy skin doused in a ginger, chili and black vinegar dressing. Balance and perfection.

Lamb can come in many forms — in stews, in shanks, a baked leg. Perhaps one of my true favorites is the little chops. Jonathan and I were in Macau some time ago and we tried this insanely overpriced Italian restaurant, full of Baccarat crystal and empty of flavor. I was looking for something authentic, so I had booked us in some hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant over at Taipa. After getting lost in the small dark streets, arguments building up over hungry stomachs, we came upon a tiny place. Wooden paneling on the walls and checkered tablecloths. It was a Portuguese restaurant. The octopus was excellent, so was the peri-peri shrimp, and even my grilled bacalao. But boy, did I have food envy when I saw those lamb chops.

The most succulent of them all: Milk-fed baby lamb chops from L’Atelier of Joel Robuchon

It seems to be a recurring food-envy episode because on my last trip to Paris, we ate once more at Joel Robuchon’s L’Atelier. I had happily ordered my favorite ris de veau or sweetbreads, and he ordered the baby lamb chops. It must have been love; really true love for him to give a piece of what was already so few. These tiny, heavenly morsels like little savory lollipops of lust, so tender, so small, so wonderful. I sat in silence and stared at my food. He looked at me and asked, “What’s wrong? Your food isn’t good?” And all I could think of was that my food was like being on a date with someone who has all the best qualities, who is essentially perfect and you can’t fall in love, because the one you love is right next to him. That lamb chop. The one lonely lamb chop kept haunting me for weeks after my trip. It was so soft it made me emotional. Even as I write, I have tears in my eyes as I beat myself with frustration for not ordering that other plate.

Some people may scrunch their noses as lamb is an acquired taste. I’ve had my fair share of rancid meats but boy, oh, boy, get the right morsels and your life will change forever. Romantic music will suddenly play as pink pieces of perfectly roasted leg of lamb will remind you of the color of your lover’s lips … and the animalic thrill of biting a crisp chop off the bone … the head rush and crunchy fat explode in your mouth with flavor. If love is a lamb, then I’m a wolf — head over heels.