A richly indulgent dish born out of an unexpected rush on rabbit, accidental over-ordering of fennel, and some quick thinking. Words and images by Nick Bramhan.
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Nick Bramham’s Rabbit & Fennel Risotto
A richly indulgent dish born out of an unexpected rush on rabbit, accidental over-ordering of fennel, and some quick thinking.
There’s a slow, creeping sense of dread, a growing tightness in my chest. It’s the middle of Saturday lunch service, the printer’s been spitting out cheques relentlessly, the walk-ins keep on coming, and they’re all absolutely going for it. It’s an unexpected bacchanal, a truly brilliant, thrilling service, but everyone is ordering the rabbit. What is going on!? Meanwhile, the evening cover count keeps growing – it has effectively doubled since last night. I’d kept the ordering tight as it had been looking quiet, plus I’ve got a whole new menu planned for next week so I wanted to avoid having a load of food left over. Now there are lots of extra mouths to feed, and I’ve got nowhere near enough rabbit to go round.
In the past, when Quality Wines was a no-reservations restaurant, running out of dishes was fine – in fact, we’d take great pleasure in striking out a dish on the blackboard. Sold out! But now we take bookings. Some people make 9pm Saturday night reservations a couple of months in advance – perhaps for a special occasion. We can’t just shrug our shoulders and say, ‘Sorry, you should’ve come earlier.’ There has to be enough for everyone. We sell fewer of our larger dishes than the small ones, but even so, a good rule of thumb is to have at least a third as many of each large dish as there are covers booked. To cover a relatively quiet evening we’d need around sixteen rabbit legs. Now I only have eight left and twice as many bookings as expected. What to do?
I keep working on this problem in the back of my mind while running around in service. I accidentally ordered too much fennel, so we’ve got that hanging around somewhere. Rabbit and fennel go very well together – perhaps a ragù? I liberally butter a few toasted bread rolls, stuff them with mortadella, and send them out with some gildas and a cheese plate. Maybe we could make a quick batch of egg yolk pappardelle to go with the ragù? As I cook and serve four spaghetti alle vongole, it dawns on me that I can’t have two pasta dishes on the menu at the same time – it’s too logistically messy in the kitchen.
Then I think, What about a risotto? We’ve got some excellent Carnaroli rice from Isola della Scala downstairs, along with all the usual kitchen staples: shallots, garlic, butter, parmesan, and the unsung hero of much of our cooking, the foundation – some very good chicken stock. Rabbit and fennel risotto it is.
I want the dish to be substantial and high impact – a main course rather than a primi. While in most risottos the vegetables are so finely chopped that they disappear into the rice, I want their presence to be felt, some textural contrast, a counterpoint to the rabbit. So, I chop the shallots and fennel a bit chunkier than is customary, and use them in greater abundance (the cynics among you might note that conveniently this approach also saves time and helps to bulk the rabbit out, making the dish go further).
I toss the shallots and fennel into a hot pan with a pack of butter and a big glug of olive oil, and when they’re completely soft and sweet but still holding their shape, I add the rice to ‘toast’ it – coating it completely in fat and getting the heat right to the core of each grain to ensure it cooks evenly. I lean into the heady aromas of anise with a big splash of sambuca (appropriately Italian, although pastis, ouzo, or raki would do the job equally well), and dump in a whole bottle of Trebbiano, which quickly evaporates in swirling plumes of steam. The stock, added a ladle at a time as the rice gently simmers away, is a mix of chicken stock and the braising juices from the rabbit legs. The kitchen smells remarkable.
I alternate between picking rabbit meat from the bones, adding the stock, and stirring the rice, while managing the temperature to ensure that everything is bubbling away steadily, neither too rapidly nor too slowly. I add the rabbit meat towards the end, to just warm through – had I added it any sooner, it would have dried out and become stringy, undoing its careful slow-cooking earlier in the day. The magic part, the bit that separates a risotto from all other rice dishes, is the mantecatura: the sloppy beating in of cold butter and parmesan right at the end, which adds savouriness and richness, and creates a silky, flowing, wave-like texture – what the Italians call ‘all’onda’. Chopped fennel fronds bring yet another (fresher, brighter) anise note to proceedings. Finally, a drizzle of grassy olive oil and a few cracks of black pepper perhaps gild the lily, but I just can’t help myself.
The recipe provided below makes a substantial and satisfying meal for four, but could also work as a crowd-pleasing middle course during a festive blow-out for a much larger group – I imagine a table initially heaving with plates of kaleidoscopic bitter leaf and citrus salads, Culatello di Zibello, and gorgonzola dolce croquettes, before the risotto is thrown down with a big spoon and the instruction: ‘Help yourselves.’ There are fat butter-basted pork chops with steamed cavolo nero to follow, then frosted bowls overflowing with marsala and raisin ice cream, and an oversized moka pot of strong black coffee. I haven’t even mentioned the booze yet. I need a lie down just thinking about it.
