Recipes

Lamb, potato, onion and patience — the stew that proves restraint is a skill

The original Irish stew had three ingredients and a fierce loyalty to all of them: bone-in forequarter or neck chops, potatoes, and onions, layered in a pot and left entirely alone. No browning, no wine, no clever additions — the courage of this dish is in what it leaves out. The bones make the broth, the bottom layer of potatoes melts into it as a thickener, and the top layer steams whole. Two hours later you ladle out something so much greater than its parts that you'll understand why the Irish never let anyone improve it.

The taverna's favourite cheap chop, done the taverna way

Walk into a family-run taverna anywhere in Greece and the lamb on the grill is rarely the fancy cut — it's the big, flavour-rich shoulder chop, rubbed with oregano and lemon and cooked over real heat until the edges char. That's exactly what the forequarter chops in your share were made for. Twenty minutes in a quick marinade while you build a proper village salad — tomatoes, cucumber, olives and a slab of feta, not a lettuce leaf in sight — then a hot grill pan does the rest. Summer dinner, no matter the month.

French farmhouse cooking: lamb, beans, and nothing wasted

In the farmhouses of southern France, lamb and white beans have shared a pot for centuries, and the arrangement suits both parties. The forequarter chops give up their fat and gelatine to the braise; the cannellini beans drink every drop of it and turn creamy in a way plain beans never manage. There's wine and rosemary in there, a little tomato, and a finish of parsley and lemon zest to wake the whole thing up. It's a two-hour pot that asks for twenty minutes of actual work — the rest is the quiet confidence of a lid left alone.

Lamb, tomato and olives — the Mediterranean had this figured out centuries ago

All around the Mediterranean, the cheap bone-in cuts of lamb end up in pots like this one, and there's a reason the tradition never died. As the forequarter chops braise, their fat melts into the tomato and turns an ordinary tin into a sauce with real depth — rich, glossy, and salted through with Kalamata olives. It's an unhurried sort of cooking: fifteen minutes of honest work at the stove, then the pot minds itself while you don't. Serve it over soft polenta or just hand around bread and let everyone mop.