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The Perfect Osso Buco

The Perfect Osso Buco


Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

In a heavy pot over moderately high heat, warm the olive oil.

Generously sprinkle the osso buco with salt and pepper, then dredge completely in the flour.

Add the onions, leeks, carrots, celery, and mushrooms to the oil in the skillet and sauté, stirring frequently, until softened, about 4 minutes. Push the vegetables to the outside of the pan and add the osso buco. Sear each side of the osso buco until deep golden brown, about 8 minutes total.

Add the wine, sage, rosemary, bay leaf, 2 tablespoons of the parsley, the tomatoes, and stock, and bring to a boil. Cover the pot with a tight-fitting lid and transfer it to the oven. Braise until the meat is very tender, about 2 hours.

Remove the osso buco from the pot and pass the sauce through a strainer. Reduce the sauce on the stovetop. Prepare a gremolata by stirring together the lemon zest and the remaining 1 tablespoon chopped parsley. Serve the osso buco garnished with the sauce and the gremolata.

Serve the osso buco over to a bed of risotto Milanese (with saffron) and enjoy the dish.


How to cook the perfect osso buco

Osso buco, as Elizabeth David tartly observes, means "bones with holes, or hollow bones" – which is probably why it is never translated on menus. Slow-braised veal would sound both more appetising and accurate, yet those bones (not in fact hollow at all, but full of rich, delicious marrow) are the dish's crowning glory – anyone who sends the plate back to the kitchen without investigating their interior has missed out on the best bit.

The best-known version hails from Milan, where it is generally served with a vivid yellow saffron risotto, also made with bone marrow. Most of the recipes I try claim to be for ossibuchi alla milanese, yet they vary wildly – Anna Del Conte prefaces her take with the somewhat prickly claim that "as a loyal Milanese who strives to defend our highly sophisticated cuisine from the intrusion of foreign flavour, I can do no better than quote from the great 19th-century writer, Artusi: 'This is a dish that should be left to the Milanese.'" Well, here goes.

Angela Hartnett's osso buco.

There is no debate here: osso buco must be made from veal shin and, preferably, as Marcella Hazan observes, that "from a calf's hind shank … the ring of meat that circles it is the sweetest and most tender on the entire animal". It is also vital to leave the skin on, or the shanks will fall apart during cooking – Hazan reckons "its creamy consistency makes a delectable contribution to the final flavour of the dish".

As you're likely to have to order this from the butcher, it shouldn't be too hard to make sure you get what you want. Ask for the pieces to be cut 4-5cm thick: any larger, and they won't cook down to the requisite melting tenderness in time any thinner, and you risk them drying out. (Although beef shin is considerably easier to get hold of in this country, the pieces will be too large, and the flavour too strong, to substitute really satisfactorily – I'd strongly suggest hunting down British rose veal).

It is essential to start by browning it well in flour though this should be a delicately meaty dish, a little caramelisation is rarely unwelcome, and Angela Hartnett's mere "light colouring" seems a wasted opportunity. Why Hazan does this in a separate pan is unclear not only does it multiply the washing up, but you risk losing some of that flavour when you transfer the meat.


How to cook the perfect osso buco

Osso buco, as Elizabeth David tartly observes, means "bones with holes, or hollow bones" – which is probably why it is never translated on menus. Slow-braised veal would sound both more appetising and accurate, yet those bones (not in fact hollow at all, but full of rich, delicious marrow) are the dish's crowning glory – anyone who sends the plate back to the kitchen without investigating their interior has missed out on the best bit.

The best-known version hails from Milan, where it is generally served with a vivid yellow saffron risotto, also made with bone marrow. Most of the recipes I try claim to be for ossibuchi alla milanese, yet they vary wildly – Anna Del Conte prefaces her take with the somewhat prickly claim that "as a loyal Milanese who strives to defend our highly sophisticated cuisine from the intrusion of foreign flavour, I can do no better than quote from the great 19th-century writer, Artusi: 'This is a dish that should be left to the Milanese.'" Well, here goes.

Angela Hartnett's osso buco.

There is no debate here: osso buco must be made from veal shin and, preferably, as Marcella Hazan observes, that "from a calf's hind shank … the ring of meat that circles it is the sweetest and most tender on the entire animal". It is also vital to leave the skin on, or the shanks will fall apart during cooking – Hazan reckons "its creamy consistency makes a delectable contribution to the final flavour of the dish".

As you're likely to have to order this from the butcher, it shouldn't be too hard to make sure you get what you want. Ask for the pieces to be cut 4-5cm thick: any larger, and they won't cook down to the requisite melting tenderness in time any thinner, and you risk them drying out. (Although beef shin is considerably easier to get hold of in this country, the pieces will be too large, and the flavour too strong, to substitute really satisfactorily – I'd strongly suggest hunting down British rose veal).

It is essential to start by browning it well in flour though this should be a delicately meaty dish, a little caramelisation is rarely unwelcome, and Angela Hartnett's mere "light colouring" seems a wasted opportunity. Why Hazan does this in a separate pan is unclear not only does it multiply the washing up, but you risk losing some of that flavour when you transfer the meat.


How to cook the perfect osso buco

Osso buco, as Elizabeth David tartly observes, means "bones with holes, or hollow bones" – which is probably why it is never translated on menus. Slow-braised veal would sound both more appetising and accurate, yet those bones (not in fact hollow at all, but full of rich, delicious marrow) are the dish's crowning glory – anyone who sends the plate back to the kitchen without investigating their interior has missed out on the best bit.

The best-known version hails from Milan, where it is generally served with a vivid yellow saffron risotto, also made with bone marrow. Most of the recipes I try claim to be for ossibuchi alla milanese, yet they vary wildly – Anna Del Conte prefaces her take with the somewhat prickly claim that "as a loyal Milanese who strives to defend our highly sophisticated cuisine from the intrusion of foreign flavour, I can do no better than quote from the great 19th-century writer, Artusi: 'This is a dish that should be left to the Milanese.'" Well, here goes.

Angela Hartnett's osso buco.

There is no debate here: osso buco must be made from veal shin and, preferably, as Marcella Hazan observes, that "from a calf's hind shank … the ring of meat that circles it is the sweetest and most tender on the entire animal". It is also vital to leave the skin on, or the shanks will fall apart during cooking – Hazan reckons "its creamy consistency makes a delectable contribution to the final flavour of the dish".

As you're likely to have to order this from the butcher, it shouldn't be too hard to make sure you get what you want. Ask for the pieces to be cut 4-5cm thick: any larger, and they won't cook down to the requisite melting tenderness in time any thinner, and you risk them drying out. (Although beef shin is considerably easier to get hold of in this country, the pieces will be too large, and the flavour too strong, to substitute really satisfactorily – I'd strongly suggest hunting down British rose veal).

It is essential to start by browning it well in flour though this should be a delicately meaty dish, a little caramelisation is rarely unwelcome, and Angela Hartnett's mere "light colouring" seems a wasted opportunity. Why Hazan does this in a separate pan is unclear not only does it multiply the washing up, but you risk losing some of that flavour when you transfer the meat.


How to cook the perfect osso buco

Osso buco, as Elizabeth David tartly observes, means "bones with holes, or hollow bones" – which is probably why it is never translated on menus. Slow-braised veal would sound both more appetising and accurate, yet those bones (not in fact hollow at all, but full of rich, delicious marrow) are the dish's crowning glory – anyone who sends the plate back to the kitchen without investigating their interior has missed out on the best bit.

The best-known version hails from Milan, where it is generally served with a vivid yellow saffron risotto, also made with bone marrow. Most of the recipes I try claim to be for ossibuchi alla milanese, yet they vary wildly – Anna Del Conte prefaces her take with the somewhat prickly claim that "as a loyal Milanese who strives to defend our highly sophisticated cuisine from the intrusion of foreign flavour, I can do no better than quote from the great 19th-century writer, Artusi: 'This is a dish that should be left to the Milanese.'" Well, here goes.

Angela Hartnett's osso buco.

There is no debate here: osso buco must be made from veal shin and, preferably, as Marcella Hazan observes, that "from a calf's hind shank … the ring of meat that circles it is the sweetest and most tender on the entire animal". It is also vital to leave the skin on, or the shanks will fall apart during cooking – Hazan reckons "its creamy consistency makes a delectable contribution to the final flavour of the dish".

As you're likely to have to order this from the butcher, it shouldn't be too hard to make sure you get what you want. Ask for the pieces to be cut 4-5cm thick: any larger, and they won't cook down to the requisite melting tenderness in time any thinner, and you risk them drying out. (Although beef shin is considerably easier to get hold of in this country, the pieces will be too large, and the flavour too strong, to substitute really satisfactorily – I'd strongly suggest hunting down British rose veal).

It is essential to start by browning it well in flour though this should be a delicately meaty dish, a little caramelisation is rarely unwelcome, and Angela Hartnett's mere "light colouring" seems a wasted opportunity. Why Hazan does this in a separate pan is unclear not only does it multiply the washing up, but you risk losing some of that flavour when you transfer the meat.


How to cook the perfect osso buco

Osso buco, as Elizabeth David tartly observes, means "bones with holes, or hollow bones" – which is probably why it is never translated on menus. Slow-braised veal would sound both more appetising and accurate, yet those bones (not in fact hollow at all, but full of rich, delicious marrow) are the dish's crowning glory – anyone who sends the plate back to the kitchen without investigating their interior has missed out on the best bit.

The best-known version hails from Milan, where it is generally served with a vivid yellow saffron risotto, also made with bone marrow. Most of the recipes I try claim to be for ossibuchi alla milanese, yet they vary wildly – Anna Del Conte prefaces her take with the somewhat prickly claim that "as a loyal Milanese who strives to defend our highly sophisticated cuisine from the intrusion of foreign flavour, I can do no better than quote from the great 19th-century writer, Artusi: 'This is a dish that should be left to the Milanese.'" Well, here goes.

Angela Hartnett's osso buco.

There is no debate here: osso buco must be made from veal shin and, preferably, as Marcella Hazan observes, that "from a calf's hind shank … the ring of meat that circles it is the sweetest and most tender on the entire animal". It is also vital to leave the skin on, or the shanks will fall apart during cooking – Hazan reckons "its creamy consistency makes a delectable contribution to the final flavour of the dish".

As you're likely to have to order this from the butcher, it shouldn't be too hard to make sure you get what you want. Ask for the pieces to be cut 4-5cm thick: any larger, and they won't cook down to the requisite melting tenderness in time any thinner, and you risk them drying out. (Although beef shin is considerably easier to get hold of in this country, the pieces will be too large, and the flavour too strong, to substitute really satisfactorily – I'd strongly suggest hunting down British rose veal).

It is essential to start by browning it well in flour though this should be a delicately meaty dish, a little caramelisation is rarely unwelcome, and Angela Hartnett's mere "light colouring" seems a wasted opportunity. Why Hazan does this in a separate pan is unclear not only does it multiply the washing up, but you risk losing some of that flavour when you transfer the meat.


How to cook the perfect osso buco

Osso buco, as Elizabeth David tartly observes, means "bones with holes, or hollow bones" – which is probably why it is never translated on menus. Slow-braised veal would sound both more appetising and accurate, yet those bones (not in fact hollow at all, but full of rich, delicious marrow) are the dish's crowning glory – anyone who sends the plate back to the kitchen without investigating their interior has missed out on the best bit.

The best-known version hails from Milan, where it is generally served with a vivid yellow saffron risotto, also made with bone marrow. Most of the recipes I try claim to be for ossibuchi alla milanese, yet they vary wildly – Anna Del Conte prefaces her take with the somewhat prickly claim that "as a loyal Milanese who strives to defend our highly sophisticated cuisine from the intrusion of foreign flavour, I can do no better than quote from the great 19th-century writer, Artusi: 'This is a dish that should be left to the Milanese.'" Well, here goes.

Angela Hartnett's osso buco.

There is no debate here: osso buco must be made from veal shin and, preferably, as Marcella Hazan observes, that "from a calf's hind shank … the ring of meat that circles it is the sweetest and most tender on the entire animal". It is also vital to leave the skin on, or the shanks will fall apart during cooking – Hazan reckons "its creamy consistency makes a delectable contribution to the final flavour of the dish".

As you're likely to have to order this from the butcher, it shouldn't be too hard to make sure you get what you want. Ask for the pieces to be cut 4-5cm thick: any larger, and they won't cook down to the requisite melting tenderness in time any thinner, and you risk them drying out. (Although beef shin is considerably easier to get hold of in this country, the pieces will be too large, and the flavour too strong, to substitute really satisfactorily – I'd strongly suggest hunting down British rose veal).

It is essential to start by browning it well in flour though this should be a delicately meaty dish, a little caramelisation is rarely unwelcome, and Angela Hartnett's mere "light colouring" seems a wasted opportunity. Why Hazan does this in a separate pan is unclear not only does it multiply the washing up, but you risk losing some of that flavour when you transfer the meat.


How to cook the perfect osso buco

Osso buco, as Elizabeth David tartly observes, means "bones with holes, or hollow bones" – which is probably why it is never translated on menus. Slow-braised veal would sound both more appetising and accurate, yet those bones (not in fact hollow at all, but full of rich, delicious marrow) are the dish's crowning glory – anyone who sends the plate back to the kitchen without investigating their interior has missed out on the best bit.

The best-known version hails from Milan, where it is generally served with a vivid yellow saffron risotto, also made with bone marrow. Most of the recipes I try claim to be for ossibuchi alla milanese, yet they vary wildly – Anna Del Conte prefaces her take with the somewhat prickly claim that "as a loyal Milanese who strives to defend our highly sophisticated cuisine from the intrusion of foreign flavour, I can do no better than quote from the great 19th-century writer, Artusi: 'This is a dish that should be left to the Milanese.'" Well, here goes.

Angela Hartnett's osso buco.

There is no debate here: osso buco must be made from veal shin and, preferably, as Marcella Hazan observes, that "from a calf's hind shank … the ring of meat that circles it is the sweetest and most tender on the entire animal". It is also vital to leave the skin on, or the shanks will fall apart during cooking – Hazan reckons "its creamy consistency makes a delectable contribution to the final flavour of the dish".

As you're likely to have to order this from the butcher, it shouldn't be too hard to make sure you get what you want. Ask for the pieces to be cut 4-5cm thick: any larger, and they won't cook down to the requisite melting tenderness in time any thinner, and you risk them drying out. (Although beef shin is considerably easier to get hold of in this country, the pieces will be too large, and the flavour too strong, to substitute really satisfactorily – I'd strongly suggest hunting down British rose veal).

It is essential to start by browning it well in flour though this should be a delicately meaty dish, a little caramelisation is rarely unwelcome, and Angela Hartnett's mere "light colouring" seems a wasted opportunity. Why Hazan does this in a separate pan is unclear not only does it multiply the washing up, but you risk losing some of that flavour when you transfer the meat.


How to cook the perfect osso buco

Osso buco, as Elizabeth David tartly observes, means "bones with holes, or hollow bones" – which is probably why it is never translated on menus. Slow-braised veal would sound both more appetising and accurate, yet those bones (not in fact hollow at all, but full of rich, delicious marrow) are the dish's crowning glory – anyone who sends the plate back to the kitchen without investigating their interior has missed out on the best bit.

The best-known version hails from Milan, where it is generally served with a vivid yellow saffron risotto, also made with bone marrow. Most of the recipes I try claim to be for ossibuchi alla milanese, yet they vary wildly – Anna Del Conte prefaces her take with the somewhat prickly claim that "as a loyal Milanese who strives to defend our highly sophisticated cuisine from the intrusion of foreign flavour, I can do no better than quote from the great 19th-century writer, Artusi: 'This is a dish that should be left to the Milanese.'" Well, here goes.

Angela Hartnett's osso buco.

There is no debate here: osso buco must be made from veal shin and, preferably, as Marcella Hazan observes, that "from a calf's hind shank … the ring of meat that circles it is the sweetest and most tender on the entire animal". It is also vital to leave the skin on, or the shanks will fall apart during cooking – Hazan reckons "its creamy consistency makes a delectable contribution to the final flavour of the dish".

As you're likely to have to order this from the butcher, it shouldn't be too hard to make sure you get what you want. Ask for the pieces to be cut 4-5cm thick: any larger, and they won't cook down to the requisite melting tenderness in time any thinner, and you risk them drying out. (Although beef shin is considerably easier to get hold of in this country, the pieces will be too large, and the flavour too strong, to substitute really satisfactorily – I'd strongly suggest hunting down British rose veal).

It is essential to start by browning it well in flour though this should be a delicately meaty dish, a little caramelisation is rarely unwelcome, and Angela Hartnett's mere "light colouring" seems a wasted opportunity. Why Hazan does this in a separate pan is unclear not only does it multiply the washing up, but you risk losing some of that flavour when you transfer the meat.


How to cook the perfect osso buco

Osso buco, as Elizabeth David tartly observes, means "bones with holes, or hollow bones" – which is probably why it is never translated on menus. Slow-braised veal would sound both more appetising and accurate, yet those bones (not in fact hollow at all, but full of rich, delicious marrow) are the dish's crowning glory – anyone who sends the plate back to the kitchen without investigating their interior has missed out on the best bit.

The best-known version hails from Milan, where it is generally served with a vivid yellow saffron risotto, also made with bone marrow. Most of the recipes I try claim to be for ossibuchi alla milanese, yet they vary wildly – Anna Del Conte prefaces her take with the somewhat prickly claim that "as a loyal Milanese who strives to defend our highly sophisticated cuisine from the intrusion of foreign flavour, I can do no better than quote from the great 19th-century writer, Artusi: 'This is a dish that should be left to the Milanese.'" Well, here goes.

Angela Hartnett's osso buco.

There is no debate here: osso buco must be made from veal shin and, preferably, as Marcella Hazan observes, that "from a calf's hind shank … the ring of meat that circles it is the sweetest and most tender on the entire animal". It is also vital to leave the skin on, or the shanks will fall apart during cooking – Hazan reckons "its creamy consistency makes a delectable contribution to the final flavour of the dish".

As you're likely to have to order this from the butcher, it shouldn't be too hard to make sure you get what you want. Ask for the pieces to be cut 4-5cm thick: any larger, and they won't cook down to the requisite melting tenderness in time any thinner, and you risk them drying out. (Although beef shin is considerably easier to get hold of in this country, the pieces will be too large, and the flavour too strong, to substitute really satisfactorily – I'd strongly suggest hunting down British rose veal).

It is essential to start by browning it well in flour though this should be a delicately meaty dish, a little caramelisation is rarely unwelcome, and Angela Hartnett's mere "light colouring" seems a wasted opportunity. Why Hazan does this in a separate pan is unclear not only does it multiply the washing up, but you risk losing some of that flavour when you transfer the meat.


How to cook the perfect osso buco

Osso buco, as Elizabeth David tartly observes, means "bones with holes, or hollow bones" – which is probably why it is never translated on menus. Slow-braised veal would sound both more appetising and accurate, yet those bones (not in fact hollow at all, but full of rich, delicious marrow) are the dish's crowning glory – anyone who sends the plate back to the kitchen without investigating their interior has missed out on the best bit.

The best-known version hails from Milan, where it is generally served with a vivid yellow saffron risotto, also made with bone marrow. Most of the recipes I try claim to be for ossibuchi alla milanese, yet they vary wildly – Anna Del Conte prefaces her take with the somewhat prickly claim that "as a loyal Milanese who strives to defend our highly sophisticated cuisine from the intrusion of foreign flavour, I can do no better than quote from the great 19th-century writer, Artusi: 'This is a dish that should be left to the Milanese.'" Well, here goes.

Angela Hartnett's osso buco.

There is no debate here: osso buco must be made from veal shin and, preferably, as Marcella Hazan observes, that "from a calf's hind shank … the ring of meat that circles it is the sweetest and most tender on the entire animal". It is also vital to leave the skin on, or the shanks will fall apart during cooking – Hazan reckons "its creamy consistency makes a delectable contribution to the final flavour of the dish".

As you're likely to have to order this from the butcher, it shouldn't be too hard to make sure you get what you want. Ask for the pieces to be cut 4-5cm thick: any larger, and they won't cook down to the requisite melting tenderness in time any thinner, and you risk them drying out. (Although beef shin is considerably easier to get hold of in this country, the pieces will be too large, and the flavour too strong, to substitute really satisfactorily – I'd strongly suggest hunting down British rose veal).

It is essential to start by browning it well in flour though this should be a delicately meaty dish, a little caramelisation is rarely unwelcome, and Angela Hartnett's mere "light colouring" seems a wasted opportunity. Why Hazan does this in a separate pan is unclear not only does it multiply the washing up, but you risk losing some of that flavour when you transfer the meat.