Flash in the pan: Simple carrot cookery

If given the choice, most omnivores would choose meat over carrots. We humans have been evolutionarily programmed to seek out the captivatingly savory flavor of flesh, as well as the protein content it offers. The carrot, meanwhile, though sweet and mildly fragrant, delivers a less seductive dose of fiber and tastes vaguely of dirt. 

Given this reality, I’ve been surprised to notice a proliferation of carrot dishes on the menus of some decidedly meat-focused restaurants. These dishes usually come in the form of simple sides that, despite the competition, can sometimes steal the show.

My first encounter with this phenomenon happened at a steakhouse in Missoula, Montana, called 1889. The dish, called The Carrots, consisted of poached new carrots, about five inches in length and plated in parallel fashion alongside a well-marbled chunk of wagyu. The Carrots were tender, simply seasoned and so rich that the steak got a little cold as my kids and I devoured them, all of us eating defensively to ensure we each got our fair share of this scarce resource. 

Soon after, I found myself at a similarly meaty establishment, Jesse Pepper’s Smokehouse in White Sulphur Springs, where a similar dish went by the name “Mom’s Carrots.” It was a rainbow assortment, rather than a plate of straight orange spears, but the motif was similar: a plate of new carrots, cooked simply. And, once again, the carrots outshone the meat — brisket, in this case.

I never inquired as to how either dish was created. But I did some research and repaired to my lab, where I set about trying to reverse engineer these carrot-based dishes. 

For my first attempt, I slow-poached baby carrots from the farmers market in a blend of butter, olive oil and wagyu tallow. I added some neon cloves of fresh garlic, slices of onion, fresh rosemary and thyme, slices of lemon peel, salt and pepper.   

My son, who is as close to the polar opposite of an herbivore as humanly possible, declared my carrots the most delicious thing he’d ever consumed. Hyperbole? Sure, but the sentiment hit the mark nonetheless. And that meal was just the beginning. It seems I had stumbled upon more than just a carrot recipe, but a way of life. Because while the carrots themselves only existed undigested for a brief moment, the poaching liquid went on to lead a glamorous afterlife. 

The next day, I used some of the leftover poaching oil to pan fry some steamed potatoes, stirring in a dash of whole cumin seeds. The potatoes developed a glorious crisp and a deeply satisfying richness. I served them alongside a salmon filet that I’d sauced with a mix of white miso, lemon juice and more of the carrot poaching fat. I made the sauce by first sautéing some fresh garlic in leftover carrot-poaching fat, of course. When the garlic hit max fragrance, I added the miso mixture and turned off the heat. I rubbed this sauce on the salmon and cooked it slowly. 

I was fully committed to this fat-poached carrot lifestyle when my other son suggested, blasphemously, that the carrots were too rich for his taste. So, I came up with a lighter version of the recipe. I added about an inch of water to a pan, along with the carrots, herbs, lemon peel, salt, pepper and only two tablespoons of olive oil. I cooked the carrots on medium heat with a tight lid, and when they were tender, I took off the lid and allowed the water to evaporate, leaving only the oil and seasonings in the pan. I let the carrots cook a wee bit longer, so they could get a little crispy in the oil, and served them to the leaner son. He was pleased. 

About a week later, I ran into my farmer friend Luci and told her about my breakthroughs. As a carrot grower, I figured she would be interested in my research. She took a step back and looked at me like I was crazy. It turns out Luci is such the practical sort that harvesting baby carrots makes no sense to her. She lets them grow bigger so there will be more carrot to sell, or to enjoy — grated into salad, dipped in hummus or cooked into her famous carrot pasta sauce. 

But something didn’t add up. “Don’t you thin your carrot rows?” I asked. Indeed, she does, she said. I thought I had her cornered. Going in for the kill, I asked, “What do you do with the little carrots you pull when you thin the rows?” 

“We stuff them into jars of leftover pickle juice.”