Every Cook Should Have an Iron Skillet (and Some Homemade Biscuits)

thegalavantgirl (52)in #sndbox • 7 years ago (edited)

It All Began in Austin, Texas

At 20, I was newly living on my own in Austin, Texas, working at a restaurant and saving some money to get back to school. It was the 90s, so there were no smart phones, no texting. The restaurant at which I worked had just upgraded to touch screens for putting in orders.

I worked endless hours and would have crazy restaurant dreams at night. I’d dream that people would be flooding in and I’d be alone to serve them. “Weeds dreams," they called them, because when you're “in the weeds” at work, you’re in the busiest part of the service with zero extra room for any thought other than food, tables, kitchens, or customers. If one thing were to go wrong, it would be a fiasco. In my worst “weeds” dream, I was standing inside the restaurant's walk-in refrigerator, chipping away at a giant block of frozen guacamole. The green mass wouldn’t yield to my pick axe, and I was freaking out that I wouldn’t get the food to the table in time.

Mr. Goatee and Mr. Surveillance

On one particularly busy day during a lunch service, two men sat at my table laughing about something between them. Both were middle aged, both white, both with an air of “I work in tech.” If one hadn’t sported a goatee and carried a bag, I wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart. The restaurant was just hitting its high-frequency buzz. The rush was upon us, and I hurried to get customers’ food delivered so I could greet my new table quickly.

The men ordered iced teas and asked for a minute or two to decide what they’d like to eat. I ran around attending to tables: more chips here, more tea there, more dressing here, let-me-clear-your -plates there. I returned with teas and a pen in hand.

“Do you know what you’d like?” I asked.

“Yes, but we have a special request,” said Mr. Goatee.

“Sure,” I said, a little annoyed. I looked over at the next table. The teens were guzzling sodas. The countdown on drink refills had begun.

“We’ll take two hamburgers, cooked medium rare with chilli and cheese. No lettuce.”

“That’s for both of you?” I said, looking over at the silent one.

“Yes,” said Mr. Goatee, “one for each of us.” I scribbled it down.

“Burgers come with fries. Is that okay?” I asked.

“Yes, and with some ranch dressing on the side.”

The Request

“Okay.” I scribbled the last bits down and looked at Mr. Goatee square in the eyes. He obviously was in charge. “What’s the special request?”

“Well, we were wondering if the cook could make our burgers in this.” He bent down under the table and from his bag retrieved a large, black iron skillet. He held it up for me to see. His friend just sat looking at me like a surveillance camera.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Um...I’m not exactly sure about that, but I'll ask...I mean...there are health codes and it’s the lunch rush.” I grabbed the skillet and quickly headed to the kitchen. Mr. Goatee yelled after me.

“If that’s too big, I have two others here of different sizes.” I turned back to see him pull a medium and a baby version of the same thing out of his bag. I looked at the three pans. What was this? A southern cooking Goldilocks special?

Don't Mess with the Kitchen

I took the giant pan back to the kitchen, placed it up on the pass-through, and hollered at José.

“Hey, José. I gotta crazy man out here who wants his burger cooked in this.” I pushed the pan further in the pass-through for José to see. He made his way over and took a quick look. His eyes met mine. Sweat was running down his face, unhinged by an already soaked-through bandana. I shrunk a bit. He had that almost rabid look cooks get when service is at full speed.

“You serious, mami?!”

“I wish I wasn’t.”

“Esta loco. Pendejo. No. Tell him, no. Pinche cabròn….” I left José with his cursing and made my way back to the table with the pan.

“I’m sorry, but the cooks are too busy” and reasonable, I said under my breath, “to accommodate your request today.”

“Would it be possible for you to do it yourself? So that you’re cooking the food in the pan?” Mr. Surveillance actually smiled at Mr. Goatee’s question. I was losing my cool. I grabbed a nearby water pitcher and filled their water glasses and a few other water glasses nearby. Do not be rude. Do NOT be rude, I said to myself. I turned back to the men and with my best southern smile said:

“Unfortunately, I’m not cooking today fellas, but I’m sure you can do some cookin’ for yourself some time now that you got those pans.” The two men busted into a roar of laughter. I stared at them with the empty pitcher in my hand as if they truly had lost their minds.

“Your grandfather, Doc, sends his regards. Wanted to tell you that ‘no southern woman should be without iron skillets.’ You just moved down here from Dallas, right?”

I blinked at them.

“These are gifts for you. Housewarming gifts. Three iron skillets from your grandfather.” Mr. Surveillance helped Mr. Goatee pack the three pans in the bag and zip it up. They held it out for me to take.

“That ornery…” and I burst out laughing louder than anyone else in the entire restaurant. I reached for the bag. “Holy cow. Thank you.” My other tables looked on with smiles. A young couple gave a faint clap. “Let me put these away and put in your order. You still want the burgers? Or are you secretly salad guys?”

“No, no! Burgers. Chilli burgers, all the way.”

Ornery Old Men...We All Can Love

The men stayed at the restaurant for a good hour eating and chatting with me and others. They worked for 3M with my grandfather. One was in sales, Mr. Goatee, and the other was in development, Mr. Surveillance. Geeks indeed.

The bag was seriously heavy. When I got the pans home that evening, I washed them, but only with hot water just like I’d been taught. I rubbed them down with oil and put them in a low oven to season. Only then did I call my grandfather.

“Hello!” my grandfather said, as if he’d been by the phone waiting all day.

“Hi, granddaddy.”

“What’s happening, girlie?”

“Don’t you know? I am the proud owner of three iron skillets,” I said with a smile. A very proud and fiendish giggle came from the other end of the line.”

“Did my friends do good? He asked. “They better have done good.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “Ornery like you to the core, both of them.”

“And, where are your skillets now?” I smiled. He was testing me.

“I have them seasoning in my oven.”

“Whatcha gonna make in them?”

“Biscuits,” I said, "or cornbread." I loved that crazy old man more than I could ever tell him. “After all, I’m a true southern woman.”

Traveling Pans

That day in the weeds with two men and three iron skillets is a long, long time ago. Now in Manhattan, far from the 90s or from Austin, Texas, I still have those three iron skillets. I’ve already put them to heavy use in my newest kitchen in Hudson Heights. Biscuits and cornbread are still my favorites to make in the medium-size pan. I figure, my skillets will go with me no matter where I am in the world. After all, I am a "southern" cook and should never be without an iron skillet. At least, that’s what my granddaddy always said.

Quick and Easy Southern Biscuits

Recipe by Elise McMullen-Ciotti (TheGalavantGirl)
Time: 25 minutes

Ingredients

2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour, plus enough to flour work surface
3 teaspoons baking powder
½ teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons cold unsalted butter
1 cup and 2 tablespoons real buttermilk (with no thickeners like carrageenan), milk, or yogurt

Tools

1 large mixing bowl
Assorted measuring cups and spoons
Sifter
Pastry cutter
Large spoon
Biscuit cutters (or a drinking glass)
Cast-iron skillet or 9” x 13” baking pan
Small bowl
Pastry Brush

Method

Preheat your oven to 450 degrees Fahrenheit.
Sift together and then mix in a large bowl the flour, salt, baking powder, and baking soda.
Cut cold butter into squares and add to the flour mixture. Use your pastry cutter to cut the butter in the flour into smaller and smaller pieces. When the butter pieces are the size of peas, stop.
Add 1 cup buttermilk (or yogurt, or milk) and stir with a spoon until it comes together in the bowl. Use your hand to lightly knead the dough into a ball (15 seconds). Do not overwork the dough!
Dust a glass or biscuit cutter with flour and cut the dough into rounds, leaving no space (or as little as possible) between rounds.
Place each round into your cast-iron skillet or baking pan. For fluffy, soft biscuits, make sure the biscuits are touching. For biscuits with crispier edges, leave a ½” space between them.
Add 2 tablespoons buttermilk (or milk) to a small bowl and, using a pastry brush, brush a thin layer on top of each biscuit. Place pan on the middle rack in the oven and bake for 12 minutes. Serve biscuits warm with whatever your heart desires. Enjoy!

All images by Elise McMullen-Ciotti