Meating Donald Russell

My Father-in-law, a tall and stout man, often likes to dispense pearls of curious wisdom. Pearls that draw you in. Make you listen and concentrate with your head down. Usually over a pint, cupping your ear against the background din of a Friday night. And when he's said what he's had to say, Pete will often just lean back with a satisfied grin, full of sage ambivalence, finish his bitter and go and get another round in. Leaving you standing there, bemused and perplexed, wondering, "Did he just say what I think he just said?"

One pearl that Pete often likes to trot out, is this gem.

"Never trust a chippy with a full set of fingers. Same goes for butchers too."

It's a twisted logic but the train of thought goes along the lines that any craftsman, in this case, a carpenter or a butcher, who loses a digit whilst plying their trade is actually going to be more skillful and thorough. Because having paid the ultimate sacrifice, you can be sure that the care and attention that they put into their work, is going to be of a far higher standard. Far higher than your average Joe, who would probably prefer to keep their phalanges intact in the first place. Which does makes sense. Albeit in a very macabre, perverse way.

And having visited Donald Russell, master butchers and purveyors of fine foods, up in Aberbeenshire recently with May from Slow Food Kitchen, it was Pete's mantra that kept coming back to me, time and time again.

The fairly full-on day started calmly enough with tea and biscuits and a historical overview of a family business which rose from the ashes of the BSE crisis in 1996. In a nutshell, prior to this cataclysmic event for British beef farming, Donald Russell supplied to trade only, providing gourmet meats to hotels and restaurants throughout the UK and worldwide. But once the news hit, the shutters came smashing down and a lot of jobs were lost. Fortunately, for Donald Russell, a small ray of light came in the form of an idea, to sell to the public and to "send samples out, not price lists." This, in turn, bolstered consumer confidence back into beef and the business entered a whole new era, providing steak by mail. Now little success stories like that do fill me with joy but having had a peek at their website (which reveals a lot about the ambition and drive of the company, they now sell a hell of lot of products), I did have some reservations.

Personally, the Amazon led culture of buying online, especially food doesn't really appeal. Call me a caveman if you like (and my wife often does) but if possible, I would always prefer to see, smell, prod and if allowed, taste food when I am buying it. Clicking a mouse button seems too anonymous, too automated and after donning my Beastie Boy attire in readiness for our tour of Donald Russell's butchery departments and production lines, I wasn't too sure what to expect. But once I got used to the cold, I was pleasantly surprised.

The first thing I noticed was the sheer number of bodies, not cadavers of cows, though there were plenty of those. No, the amount of people employed there was pretty startling. Butchers french trimming lamb racks, blades slashing back and forth. Steaks and cheeks were sliced with speed and efficiency, portioned and weighed, all by hand. Rows of pastry were lined with seasoned sausage meat, rolled and egged and cut, again by hand. I feel naive saying this but I had half-expected a whizzing, conveyor belt system attended by a dozen Johnny Number 5's. And the butchery that was on display was dazzling.

Leaning in for a closer look at one guy who in a manner of seconds, was making deft work at reducing a joint of ribeye into 5 or 6 equal steaks, I couldn't resist the urge for a quick count up. "One, two, three, four.....hmm, he's still got all his fingers," I thought to myself. Perhaps a bit too loudly because 'Piotr' suddenly paused to stop and stare back whilst clenching his scimitar, reminding me in an instant that some butchers still have the capacity to scare the hell out of me. But gratefully, he just tipped me a wink and a smile before carrying on with his business.


After that the rest of the tour went by fairly uneventfully although our foray into the maturation room did cause some brief alarm. Eyeing rows and rows of aging beef, darkened, encrusted and smelling faintly of cheese sparked off some serious tummy rumblings.


I have already alluded to the Neanderthal inside me but the ongoing display of meat was beginning to fray and feverishly, I started to wonder if taking a little nibble, just a little bite, would be out of the question. Luckily Liz, one of our guides, then announced that it was time for lunch so off we sped to their development kitchen with yours truly, dragging his knuckles behind.

Lunch was to consist largely of steak (naturally) but chef, Eddie McDonald had a couple of tricks up his sleeve to show us first, demonstrating that not all steaks are the same. Now I come from the school of thought where you should simply "wipe it's arse and stick it on a plate" and have gladly issued such instructions forth to yawning waiters in the past but Eddie had other ideas. The first curious suggestion was, that to cook a rump steak rare, you should allow 4 minutes for each side with a further 8 minutes or so for resting. Now I am all for the resting time but surely frying a steak for 8 minutes is sacrilege? But when Eddie brought out the pave rump steaks, which were as thick a er......a butcher's neck, I saw his point and with our help, we cooked three beauties to rare, medium and well done.

As this was the first time I tried pave rump (think rump really pared down and trimmed of any fat) my first impressions was that the texture was nice but the flavour was missing somewhat. And of course, the well done steak was a pointless exercise because who in hell likes well done steak, done to shoe leather. The protein overload didn't end there though because in the oven Eddie had secreted three other types of steak for us to try. Actually secreted is the wrong word because the joints of ribeye, sirloin and fillet were enormous and the electric temperature probes that were inserted into each one kept beeping off at inopportune moments. Moving even further away from the wham, bam, thank you ma'am style of cooking steak, Eddie had kept these joints in the oven for over 90 minutes at a constant temperature of 60c.


They had been seared off first but the method employed here ensured the most tender, succulent steaks possible with the least amount of effort, which I imagine is very popular with the likes of Mrs Fortesque-Smythe of Royal Tunbridge Wells. And the steaks, which were quite rare, once carved and distributed, certainly did melt in the mouth. My favourite was the ribeye with an oozing, rich vein of fat running through.

As lunch came to a close and somewhat stupified by a rush of amino acids, I clasped Eddie's hand and thanked him warmly for a fantastic lunch, noting that all his fingers were in place. Although perhaps I could have been a bit more casual about it as he did look a bit perplexed when I held his hand up to the light. And then it was then time to venture back into the tundra for our butchery Masterclass, the part of our visit that I was looking forward to most of all.

Bequeathed with warmer gear ie a very trendy body warmer, we entered the demo room where upon the slab lay a rather alien looking object and given the temperature, we could have been forgiven for thinking that we had just wondered into a John Carpenter film. But what lay before us was known as a 'roasting', essentially a side of cow and for the remainder of the afternoon, the mission of Andy Grant, butcher and production manager, was to show us how to take it apart.

As someone who professes a love for meat, I still get, somewhat embarrassingly, flumoxed at times when it comes to recognising what cuts come from where (I blame being brought up at the supermarket). So to have Andy break everything down simply and slowly was much appreciated.

The obvious clues of course do come from the names of the cuts. I know that rib roasts and ribeye comes from, well from the rib area and rump from the backside end of the cow but given that butcher's terminology can run a whole gamut from Porterhouse to hanger to flat iron to skirt to Jiminy Cricket Splitback Corner Short Rib, I was worried about keeping up. Thankfully, Andy kept everything simple and I picked up some good tips, particularly with sirloin. If you ever spot an oyster of meat just under the line of fat on a sirloin steak, it's come from the rump end and doesn't really constitute as true sirloin. I'll remember that one. Although at one point we did venture into Tafelspitz territory where I wanted to say "Oh come on Andy, you are making this up." And as he surgically broke the roasting down, it was surprising to see just how much waste is produced. For instance this piece of fillet, worthy of a sci-fi cameo.....

....was trimmed down to this.

And all that work for the most flavourless, in my opinion, piece of steak. No wonder it's so expensive.

The fun part then came as we took turns to cut steaks dressed as Sir Galahad, complete with chain mail. The butchers at Donald Russell take great pride so it seems in cutting the exact weight, all the time, everytime so the competitive element went into overdrive as May, Andy and I took it turns to slice steaks to the optimum 220 grams. The first couple of attempts I made were a bit shonky.....
......but then I hit gold.

And it was like scoring a try at Twickenham. Although Andy did disparage my celebration of running high fives whilst holding a razor sharp knife because "That's how accidents happen Danny." And told me in no uncertain terms to put the blade down. But still, it was fun.

So then the day came to a close and after a bit of a debrief, we retired quietly to our hotel (alright, there was a bit more steak tasting in the evening) and I do have to say that I thoroughly enjoyed my trip to Donald Russell. It was certainly an eye opener in some respects. Going back to my initial provisos about buying meat online, I would glady order from them in future. There are a couple of buts though. I think firstly, it would be encouraging to see Donald Russell embrace the artisan behind their trade and push it to the forefront because it was certainly evident. One of the many things we talked about on the trip was the fact that butchery is slowly becoming a dying trade in this country and Mark Farquhar, Head Butcher at Donald Russell, spoke of initiatives to support the industry such as apprenticeships, training schemes etc. If I could go to the website and see more of that happening then personally, it would be more of a draw to use them.

Secondly, throughout the trip, the elephant in the room (rather than cow) was the issue of provenance. You might have noticed that I haven't mentioned the words 'Aberdeen Angus' once or any other breed. This is simply because it didn't really come up. I am sure that they do source Aberdeen Angus from local farms for meat but it wasn't really pushed. In fact, one curious statement went along the lines that it "wasn't about breeds but about quality." Which for a company such as Donald Russell, complete with royal appointment, sounded strange to me. Something almost that my Father-in-law would come out with. Surely customers want to know where their meat is coming from? No? I know I do. It may well be an obtuse and contrary thing to focus on, right at the end, after all I have no understanding of the company's operational level but if Donald Russell were to unravel this last cloak of anonymity, then I for one would be caught, hook, line and sinker.

And by the mouth please, not by my fingers.


Many thanks goes to Donald Russell and Wild Card for their hospitality and for organising the trip.

Blokes Eat Beef

Like a good responsible citizen, I am registered with the NHS as an organ donor so that in the event of my timely or untimely demise, I may just be able to help out my fellow man. Whether or not my organs are worth giving away remains to be seen. A decent surgeon probably wouldn't give my liver a second glance but I reckon my heart and lungs are good for a second outing. This is all of course rather speculative and lets face it, I won't really have a say in the matter. So it is quite possible that I'll end up as a cadaver to be carved up on the slab in front of some medical students. I can just imagine it now as the lecturer goes over my digestive system in front of a crowd of eager eyes.

"Ah yes, now here we have the typical traits of a male intestine, fetid and scarred after years of abuse, largely down to a carnivorous diet and.....what do we have here? Is....is that steak?...... Why it's totally undigested with no signs of mastication or anything!...... There's got to be over a kilo of meat in here. Good grief!"

And after Blokes Eat Beef on Monday night, this is how it could have all quite possibly ended. I don't ever think that I have eaten so much cow in one sitting before and I don't think I will again.

Blokes Eat Beef was organised by a Mr Simon Majumdar in response to the formation of a "girls only" steak club over the twittersphere. You see, it's alright for you ladies to have your coffee mornings with cupcakes and doilies whilst watching Loose Women but profess the love of a good steak and well you shake the foundations of the male ego to it's absolute core. And so his Maj in response sent out the rallying cry on Twitter "right who's up for some boy's only meat action then?!" Well not quite like that but I signed up straight away, especially when I heard the word "Goodman" getting thrown in the mix. By all accounts there are only really two good steak restaurants in London, the first being the aforementioned Goodman. And secondly Hawksmoor, which is where the ladies were headed to the following night. Why no-one thought of going to an Angus Steak House is beyond me but I decided to keep that to myself and go with the flow.

Pre-dinner drinks were taken in the basement bar of Hix in Soho. Cocktails were the order of the day although after spending 10 mins frantically walking backwards and forwards past the establishment (yes it was my first visit) I could have really done with a beer to quench the thirst. But as all the decent chaps lining the bar were supping Martinis and the like, I opted for a Negroni which soon enveloped the back of my skull like a steaming hot towel. Aha now I see, sod the beer, real men drink cocktails, very strong cocktails. Thankfully though I had just the one and was soon trotting off with my fellow compadres to our destination. Details had emerged earlier in the day highlighting that we had 36kgs of prime quality beef set by so I was fairly buzzing with the prospect of a meatathon as I walked down Regent's Street. (I hasten to add that 25 blokes were in attendance for this evening, that works out to an allocated allowance of 1.44kgs of meat each!)

On arrival, as I surveyed the interior of the restaurant with it's shades of brown throughout the woodwork and leather upholstery, it did strike me as a fairly masculine environment but there was also a simplicity to the decor that sort of said "we only care about the meat". Which was very encouraging and so off I sauntered into the back room where we were to have our frenzy. Drinks to kick off with came in the form of Chapel Down Sparkling Rose and Argentinean Chardonnay. I plumped for the latter, lovely, there was no smack in the face of oak from this drop of plonk. Although I did start to think that the whole blokish aspect of the proceedings may have been a bit of a misnomer. Perhaps it should have been more Sophisticated Gentlemen Who Eat Beef but maybe I was still hankering after that beer. Still all elements of doubt soon evaporated when 4 huge sides of beef were brought into the room to roars of approval. Things it seemed were going to get rowdy after all.

Head Chef, John Cadieux, took to the stand and immediately proved his credentials by giving us a thorough overview of the four different breeds that were to be served up. USDA from Nebraska, Belted Gallway from the Lake District, Charalais/Limosin from Scotland and Black Angus from Ireland. Like wine, it seems that the terroir is very important when developing beef of this quality, not to mention the physical and emotional well being of the animal, it all counts for delivering the best steak possible. A sad cow that has led a life of hardship with a poor diet will just not taste good. Quite obviously really and worth remembering the next time you sniff at your £5 steak (with a pint) at Wetherspoons. John also went into detail about the different aging processes, prodding, caressing and sniffing each hulk of meat. Which was quite unsettling really. Yes, John seemed like a smashing bloke but I couldn't help but wonder what kind of cellar he had at home. It was all his talk of corpses and buzz saws wot done it I think.

We were also treated to a quick series of talks from David Strauss, Goodman's general manager, a lovely young lady from Catena who supplied the wine (and who's name I didn't catch - sorry) and also Frank Hederman, Irish salmon smoker extraordinaire who personally flew over some salmon for our starter. Frank is quite a character and very passionate about his fish. It was joy to listen to him extol the virtues and techniques of smoking salmon but also slightly sobering when he touched upon the subject of sustainability (wow far too much alliteration there, oops).

But enough of the chitter chatter, it was soon time to get down to hard task of eating and drinking and being a bloke. Frank's salmon was brought out two ways, for the first dish it was simply sliced and presented with red onion, capers, mayonaise and soda bread. For the second, the salmon was finely diced and formed into a quinelle with cucumber and crème fraiche. Both plates were stunning, delivering a deft combination of juicy beechwood flavours with wonderfully light textures. Really good.

And then came the beef. The BEEEEEEEF! All four varieties were served up at once on large platters numbered 1-4, the idea being that we were to tuck in as part of a blind taste test and come up with our favourite steak. And we're not talking about receiving tiny slivers to sample here, we're talking about great big fat wedges of meat. Initially on my table, there was a collective widening of eyes and hushed awe but then some imaginary starter pistol went off somewhere. And so we just piled in taking 4 chunks apiece. It didn't stop there either. Side dishes piled with creamed spinach, fries, onion rings, and jugs of bearnaise and peppercorn sauce were crambed into every available space. As our glasses were charged with some fine Malbec, the whole scene in the back room turned decidedly Dionysian as grown men simultaniously started to bawdly growl, chomp, laugh and gulp their way through the meal. A token bowl of salad was also placed on each table but that was just met with howls of derision. There was a slight calm as plates were cleaned but the furor soon started up again as a second round of steak was brought in. I thought that this would separate the men from the boys but from my observations, everyone got stuck in again with glee. We were behaving like greedy pigs. In other words we were behaving like blokes.

Eventually plates were cleared and it was soon time to make a show of hands for our preference of steak. In my mind they all tasted fantastic but I opted for number 3 as to me it was the most tender, the knife through butter adage definitely applied. So it turned out that I picked the Scottish Charalais as my favourite. What was interesting was the fact that the show of hands for each steak showed a distinct clumping pattern around the room. Some of the ladies reading this, could point out that this is a stick in the eye for independent thinking in men but I just like to think that we all became really good mates on each of our tables.

There were still two more courses to go and at this point I have to admit that my own personal alarm bell started ringing in my head to slow down but I was caught up in the moment and starting to feel pretty pissed so ploughed on regardless. A crème brûlée was dealt with in the most severe fashion (thank you very much Catherine Phipps) and when the cheese plate of Stinking Bishop, Keen's Cheddar and Stichelton arrived, I had resorted to using my fingers to scoop lumps into my mouth. The night from there does desend into a haze somewhat and I point the finger of blame at a bottle of sickly sweet American Port. Yes the yanks are getting in on the act. I vaguely recall going down to the kitchen and into the aging room with some others to meet John again to stare at more big lumps of flesh but his lyrical waxing on funky smelling meats started to give me the heebie jeebies, so I ran back upstairs. I also remember Mr Tim Hayward taking on the role of debt collector and it did go through my drunken mind to challenge him to an arm wrestle instead of payment but he's a big fella so I just handed over the cash. Overall I am just glad that I didn't end up fast asleep with my head in my plate (and that's happened before)

And therein lies the problem, etiqutte and social graces go flying out of the window when groups of men get together, things do go on the slide somewhat. Or maybe that's just my own personal experience. So ladies, next time you want to go out on a jolly, take us blokes with you, we need looking after.

That aside, big thanks to Simon, John and David at Goodman and the waitresses who were fantastic for organising and putting on a magnificent spread, it was a really enjoyable evening.

Blokes Eat Beef Menu

The BEEEEEEF!

Frank Hederman Smoked Salmon

Four Steaks

John and the Aging Room

Charcoal Oven (I would love one of these in my kitchen)

One greedy bloke