The steaks are high: Learning to cook perfect sirloin

Self-confessed kitchen failure Kevin Hackett tries Jones the Grocer's cookery master classes, in a quest to find out how to serve up perfect steak.

One of the steps to cooking a restaurant-quality sirloin steak: cooking the fatty side to sear in the flavour. Lee Hoagland/The National

I admit it. I'm useless at cooking steak, and that, in the eyes of many, makes me less of a man than I'd hoped I was. It's depressing, but it's true.

At least two recent attempts have caused the extractor hood above my cooker to be overwhelmed by fumes, setting off the building's smoke alarms and resulting in a frantic knock at the door courtesy of two security guards. The last time this happened, over the shrieking siren and a recorded woman's voice telling everyone to evacuate (a bit like the pre-self destruct countdown on Alien just before Ripley nukes the Nostromo starship), I embarrassingly 'fessed up and promised "No more steaks", as the acrid smoke billowed into the hallway. And even when I've managed to dish up without instilling panic into the hearts of my neighbours, the results have been nowhere near what I've come to expect when dining at a half-decent restaurant.

Jones the Grocer, the chain of artisan delicatessens, restaurants and food paraphernalia stores, was where I happened to be enjoying lunch a few weeks ago, when I spied a blackboard advertising a number of cookery classes. Held with impressive frequency, both in Dubai and in Abu Dhabi's branches, there were three dishes to choose from (plus a separate one for chocolate dessert aficionados), each with its own allocated training session.

Reasoning to myself that the Dh375 fee was a bargain if it meant an end to destroying rather expensive pieces of beef, my choice was obvious: Wagyu sirloin steak with foie gras ravioli, fresh chanterelle mushrooms and al Pepe sauce. Jones would, the blackboard promised, provide participants with their own cooking stations, a complete set of ingredients and, afterwards, allow them to enjoy the fruits of their labour. I immediately booked myself in.

Tonight's the night of reckoning, and I'm introduced to Alex Ferriss, a Brit who has been out here, working as Jones's head chef in Dubai, for the past 11 months. Talkative yet mild-mannered, he immediately puts me and my fellow students at ease and assures us that he'll be guiding us through every step of the process, so there'll be little scope for getting anything badly wrong. Good job, too, as the recipe card that we've each been handed looks pretty complicated, and some of the terminology is unfamiliar.

At this point, I should mention that I'm going to skip the homemade foie gras ravioli instructions and cut to the chase to talk you through preparing and cooking the steak, as well as the al Pepe (creamy peppercorn) sauce, because that's the reason I'm here wearing a blue pinafore, standing in front of a stainless-steel worktop with a selection of tools at my disposal that would make Dexter Morgan feel right at home.

Chef Ferriss talks us through the Wagyu sirloin that we're cooking tonight. "The marbling is vitally important," says Ferriss, "and Wagyu beef is famous for the way its fat permeates the meat, adding intense flavours. You can buy cuts that are really decent in supermarkets and local butcher stores, but they aren't cheap, not even for those of us in the trade."

The other thing that's obviously key to success is preparation. Most of our ingredients have been measured out for us, making for a smoother, quicker experience. And it means that, instead of running the risk of overcooking or burning something because you're rummaging for the garlic or having to dash to the shops for the mushrooms that you swear you bought two days earlier but obviously forgot, you're in complete control of the cooking process. Sound advice, but bear in mind that what I'm about to tell you is correct for a serving for two people, and amounts obviously need to be adjusted according to the numbers that you're catering for.

First of all, we lightly fry (in exceptional-quality olive oil) 60g of chanterelle mushrooms. "If you buy any mushrooms and they look a bit dirty, perhaps with a bit of soil still on them, never, ever wash them under a tap," says Ferriss. This is not advice that I expected to hear. "When you do that, you're basically washing almost all their flavour down the drain, so it's best to gently pat them down with a damp piece of kitchen towel. Also, never slice them with a knife; rather, you tear them down the centre of the stem, into quarters or halves, with your fingers. Again, this ensures they maintain their incredible flavour." We toss the mushrooms in the oily pan, like we're cooking small pancakes, for a couple of minutes until they begin to glisten. At this point, they're removed from the pan and set aside in a dish.

So as not to risk undercooking, the steak should ideally be no more than 25mm thick. We're only using a pan on the hob tonight, but you can cook thicker pieces using a combination of hob and oven. The meat has plenty of that prized marbling throughout, evidenced as small specks of white, and it needs seasoning before it goes in the pan. "Personally, I view pepper as a stand-alone flavour," says Ferriss, "not as an enhancer, like sea salt is. So my advice is to leave the pepper until after the meat is cooked, because we don't want anything interfering with the steak's flavours." We grab small handfuls of coarse Maldon sea salt, and liberally coat both sides of our steaks. "We don't use oil," adds the chef, "because the meat contains enough fat to cook itself in the pan."

That frying pan has been heating over a small gas hob for three minutes or so, and is very hot. As instructed, I place each of the two steak on their fatty edges, and hold them there with a pair of tongs for 30 seconds, sealing in those flavours until they look golden brown. Then, with the heat still on maximum, I lower them fully into the pan, and cook for three minutes, after which I flip them for another two. "You have to cook to your likeness [rare, medium-rare, medium, etc] by touch and feel, not sight," says our tutor. "If it feels a bit firm when you prod it with your index finger, it's medium. If it's overly resistant to your prodding, then chances are it's heading for well-done".

Or, as I like to say, "ruined".

"We're looking for a caramelised brown colour to the meat," advises Chef. "If it goes beyond that, then we'll get a burnt, bitter taste." Once mine begin to take on that lovely golden hue, I flip the steaks again, turn the heat down to the medium setting, and keep them there for another minute, before removing the steaks and letting them rest to the side (ideally, they should be placed somewhere warm and left for more than half an hour while the flavours naturally disperse through the meat).

The same pan should be used for making the sauce, so as not to waste any of the flavours within the oily residue left behind from cooking the steak. I turn the heat up once again, and throw in a small handful of black peppercorns, stirring them around the pan as they start to sizzle and slightly froth. Once they're busy foaming away, I add a finely chopped shallot and a clove of garlic that's been chopped and pulped with the back of my knife, continuously stirring until everything begins to soften.

At this point, I remove the pan from the heat, grab a bottle of verjuice (a vinegar substitute to reduce acidity) and, pointing the pan away from me, add a sizeable splash. Smoke erupts from the pan, as the chef explains that this process is basically taking all the flavours that have gathered so far in the pan and is putting them back into the sauce. After a few seconds, it's time to add 60ml of double cream; keep off the heat and stir into the mix until it's a very light brown in colour, then add those pre-cooked mushrooms and a couple of sprigs of finely chopped parsley, which serves to counteract some of the garlic's pungency.

Onto a plate goes the steak, around which are placed three raviolis. Then I spoon the sauce from the pan onto the meat and the pasta, making sure that most of the peppercorns are left in the pan. They've done their duty and given us the flavours needed for the sauce, so there's no need to have them crunching between your teeth.

It looks impressive but, as we've been going through the entire process step by step, it feels like this moment has been building forever. Now it's finally time to sit down and try out our handiwork and, I have to admit, I'm feeling slightly apprehensive. What if I've done something wrong, and I leave downtrodden, a shell of a man, resigned to not being able do what men have been doing for millennia: cook a hunk of meat without looking like a total amateur?

I needn't have worried. What I taste is absolutely extraordinary - a melt-in-the-mouth explosion of intense flavour that could turn the most hardened vegan into a raging carnivore. This is what my taste buds are for, and, yes, I cooked it. I cooked the whole thing, from start to finish and, without a word of a lie, as I savour every mouthful, I don't want this experience to end. It really is that good.

The entire experience has taken almost four hours, but it's been extremely educational, rewarding and, most importantly, enormous fun. Hand on heart, I can recommend that you sign up for one of these evenings for a number of reasons, not least that it proves that people like me can cook a dish that any restaurant in the UAE would rightly be proud of serving. If I can do it, seriously, anybody can. Neighbours, prepare yourself for evacuation - I'll be setting off the smoke alarms again soon.

WAGYU BEEF: THE FACTS

It’s a word that we see on increasing number of menus, but what actually is Wagyu beef? It refers to several breeds of cattle, each genetically predisposed for softer fat (responsible for the intense marbling), higher percentages of monounsaturated fats, omega-3 and omega-6 fatty acids, and lower levels of cholesterol than other beefs. This combination, when correctly cooked, makes for a truly distinctive, intense flavour.The most exclusive Wagyu comes from Japan, and is known as Kobe beef. Many outlets refer to their beef as such when it’s not – all Kobe is Wagyu but not all Wagyu is Kobe. Most Wagyu now originates from Australia, where the relevant bulls were imported for breeding and, since 1976, the US has been getting in on the act, although most of what passes for Wagyu is actually from Wagyu-Angus mixed breeds.Any product stating that it’s Wagyu should be officially certified as such, and proper Kobe steaks typically retail for around Dh800 per portion, with even burgers costing Dh200. With the meat being this costly, knowing how to liberate the potentially life-affirming flavours – and not ruin it – can require expert guidance.

For more information on the classes, visit www.jonesthegrocer.com

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