This recipe had far less humble beginnings. I came across it first from Nigella Lawson, of course, and immediately recreated it, but in a brasher fashion than the recipe ever was intended. I called it ale braised pork shoulder and seasoned it with what I described as 'European spirit' which involved heady amounts of juniper, which I'm afraid I struggle with since an event at New Year's which involved a bottle of cheap gin and no glasses... What the recipe really derives from is something eaten so often in Germany, but so tragically underrated and it starts with the humble pork knuckle, or hock.
The best way I can describe pork knuckles (or shanks, a similar cut which I've used here) is actually with the language from where the dish hails. The word for wrist in German is roughly 'Kneckle' and the wrist of the pig is essentially what a pork knuckle is, slightly prior the actual joint. Of course nowadays the main, or indeed sole, translation of wrist is 'Handgelenk', literally meaning hand joint. When the hock is cured (and you must make sure that they aren't when you make this) it sometimes is called 'Eisbein' for its' bone's use in history to make ice skates to go parading over frozen rivers. This is how gratifying the German language is: not only its reliance on guttural consonants such as Z or K (say 'ziemlich' aloud, it will make your day) but their literal method of constructing words make for simple poetry.
The dish itself is actually incredibly simple, and is what home cooking is all about- the bronze shanks glazed in ale and surrounded by angular pieces of potato, which soak up some of the beer and end up looking inexplicably like burnished mango cubes. The best part is all effort for the roast ceases once it's in the oven, so for all it takes hours, you needn't do a thing save for a little basting. To serve with go for some steamed green vegetables- something mustardy and sulphurous like leeks or cabbage or go further into the land of rye and veal and open a jar of sauerkraut.
2 pork shanks, or knuckles with the rind scored
3 tsp coarse salt
3 tsp peppercorns
3 tsp caraway seeds
3 cloves garlic, peeled
250ml dark ale but not stout
4 red potatoes, peeled and cut into roastie-sized cubes
Before you begin you must make sure you are in the best position for crunchy crackling. That means the rind must be scored well and it is free of clingfilm and had a few hours for the rind to air dry, and the oven is preheated to a blisteringly hot 220 degrees Celsius. If the rind is still moist then take a hair drier to it- no joke.
In a pestle and mortar grind the salt, pepper and seeds to a coarse powder then grind or mince in the garlic and mix to a gluey rub. Rub it all over the shanks until you can see the score marks in black- that's the easiest way to tell. Place them in a roasting tin and put them in the oven for their first blast for 20 minutes.
Once they've had their blistering first cooking time, turn the oven down to 150 and slow roast it for 2 hours. By then the rind should have begun to bubble and erupt as though it's got the bubonic plague, in the most appetising way.
After the 2 hours, add the potatoes under and around the shanks and then pour in the beer, making sure to hit the pork with the stream of ale.
Roast for another 1 1/2 hours, basting every half hour or so with beer then blast it again at 200 for another 20 minutes.
Remove from the oven and place the shanks and potatoes on a board to rest. Don't panic, if the crackling feels a bit too soft at this stage, the rest will give time to solidify any leaking fat and the crackling will be as solid as a rock. Cover the board with foil or scrunched up parchment paper and rest for a good 20 minutes- I always like to give meat a generous resting period.
To serve, break apart the crackling into amber shards and shred the butter-soft meat with a couple of forks. Instead of a gravy, I just add a dabble of water into the tin to deglaze all the sticky bits- you end up with a runny syrup rather than a gravy but that's how I like it.
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