It probably suits the British perception of the French that they are the supreme butchers. But that depends on whether you believe butch ery to be an art or a visceral delve into a carcass. For some, butchery is beautiful; for others, it ritualises barbarity. Perhaps this is why, once invaded, we were happy to adopt Norman derived names for meat, such as pork for pig, venison for deer and beef for cow. In an effort to put the gore of the slaughterhouse further out of mind, individual cuts are often named after things butchers would much rather be thinking about, such as skirt or bodice. In Ireland skirt is the cut the British bluntly name flank before mincing it. The French call it bavette, meaning a baby's bib, then eat it with a delicious jus.
When Jack O'Shea, at 34 the youngest in a long line of Tipperary slaughtermen, opened his butcher's shop in London in November, he decided butchery continental-style would be the main theme. There are some unfamiliar but interesting cuts of meat to choose from. Forget chops and T-bone, there is onglet, pave, faux filet and paleron. Interesting, because a British butcher would not value most of these cuts, yet all can be pan-fried or grilled, just like a rump steak. They are also modest in size; no Texan scale portions of beef here. O'Shea, who is cutting between muscles on a piece of inexpen sive chuck, explains.
'In Britain, a butcher would dice this for stewing or throw it in the mincer,' he says. 'But French and other continental butchers were so much more imaginative. I believe it was because most French villages had their own abattoirs, and there was much more experimentation, searching for what could be done with each cut. They liked to find an individual muscle, seam around it with a knife and cook it quickly so it was rare inside. In Britain, every festive dish was a baron of beef.' O'Shea acquired his taste for these dinky little cuts while living in Brussels. 'I had been working there, training show jump ers, when my mother was taken ill: he says. 'I went back home to Tipperary and worked in the family butcher business. Once she recovered, I decided I wanted to go back to Brussels.'
It was 1998. British beef exports were banned because of BSE. Knowing both the expatriate and Belgian former admiration for best-quality grass-fed, outdoor-reared British native breeds, O'Shea saw an opportunity. 'I opened a butcher's shop in 1998 and brought over the Irish equiva lent from the family firm: Black Angus, fed on Irish pasture and dry-aged for 40 days.'
If cutting is the butcher's art, hanging (or maturation) is the canvas. O'Shea's beef is admir ably dark at the edges. 'The reason the Belgians can't hang their beef for long enough is because it is too lean; it does not have that layer of fat to protect the meat inside from bacteria: he says. 'I like to feel the raw beef soften under pressure from my finger - then I know I can cook it.'
But while the beef in O'Shea's new shop oppo site Harrods in Montpelier Street is Irish, arriv ing by boat, he is also selling 'seaweed-fed' lamb from the Shetlands and pork supplied by Child Hay Manor in Dorset. He cuts paves - fist-sized pebbles from the very top of the lamb legs that he tells me can be cooked in a moment. 'Fast and furious,' he advises. 'You make one cut, tak ing off the top part of the whole leg, near but not too near the aitchbone [hip]. You are left with the chump, the last four or so inches of the leg. Inside that is the "chum", or pave.'
One of the most interesting beef cuts, rarely found in a British butcher's (but look out for gooseskirt), is the onglet, the trim between the ribs on the lower belly. Dark-brownish in colour, with a wide grain, it has a delicate flavour and can be cooked in a pan quickly on both sides before slicing and serving (traditionally) with a red wine and shallot sauce. One onglet serves two people quite generously.
Not all such cuts are French in origin. 'This is the picanha,' O'Shea says. 'It originated in Portu gal, but I know that now Brazilians prefer it to rib-eye and will pay more for it than anything.'
He points to a strip of muscle between the outer layer of fat on the rump, and smaller pieces of muscle below. 'This is the piece we are after,' he adds, seaming his knife between the muscles and cutting a triangular piece of meat the size of two hands. Trimmed, it is roasted whole and ideally served rare. Clearly, all this dissection leaves various bits and pieces of meat lying on the butcher's block, unused. 'I trim and skewer these on to sticks, for brochettes [kebabs],' he says. 'The clientele in this area of London love this kind of thing.' The 'clientele' have been pop ping in all morning, in spite of the rainy windy weather. Many are English, businessmen and mothers, dripping in their winter clothes. The door opens again, to let in another of O'Shea's devotees, an immaculately dressed Frenchwoman complete with beret and clutching her baguette. She does not look windswept at all. Or cold. And she is not here for the bavettes or paves this time, but to issue an invitation for dinner, announcing that there will be four 'jeunes'.
O'Shea, the Irish butcher and former horse trainer whose continentally accented invasion of London olTers new scope to meat cooks tired of chops and big stews, must be doing something right. He accepts, speaking perfect French.
Jack O'Shea, 11 Montpelier Street, London SW7, 020-7581 7771, www.jackoshea.com
