Do not let the word tripe deter you, let its soothing charms win you over and enjoy it as do those who always have!  Visually, as well as gastronomically, there is a great serenity to a plate of tripe and onions.

Before I get into it, I’d like to mention that yes, I do have one ad up from Foodbuzz now.  Don’t get the wrong idea.  All of the proceeds I make will be going to the National Parkinson Foundation in Mr. Henderson’s name at the end of the year.

Now, tripe.  I’ve waxed poetic about tripe a few times before.  Way, way, way back when I first got “The Cookbook” I tried to make this recipe just to see if it was within my abilities.  Following the directions exactly, using the best possible ingredients, it ended up being terrible.  The taste, the texture, the whole mess was just inedible.  I got frustrated and moved on to other cookbooks.  The thing is though, I absolutely despise having an aversion to any food or drink.  I forced myself to learn to like cilantro and Campari.  So disliking tripe wasn’t really an option.  While I overcame my issue years ago, I haven’t revisited this dish until this week.

The recipe calls for honeycomb tripe but none was available from my sources.  What they did have was tripe that is used to make menudo, aka Rumen tripe. Rumen tripe comes from the first cow stomach, while honeycomb tripe comes from the second.  Fear not though, I got the full tripe experience as the only major difference is texture.  The taste of both kinds is very similar.

In a large enough pot I added roughly a quart of whole milk, a few roughly chopped onions and a massive pinch of mace.  The milk was brought to a gentle boil and then I turned the heat down to let things simmer for a little while.  In the meantime I cleaned the tripe about a dozen times under cool water to remove any “undesirable” elements.

Clean tripe?  Check.  Softened onions in milk?  Check.  Time to combine them.  I carefully decanted the tripe into the pot and added just a bit of salt and pepper.  A few good stirs to even out the mix and then I hit the heat again. Once I had hit boil again it was back down to simmer, which is where I left it for the next hour, stirring all the while to keep the bottom of the pot from burning.

Here you can see how some of the fat from the tripe has rendered off, enriching the liquor.  The frustrating thing was that the tripe itself was still pretty rubbery and completely unlike the amazing stuff I’ve had before at restaurants.  So on the cooking went for another hour and a half with me carefully checking every twenty minutes for tenderness.  There is a certain balance I was looking for: giving, but not falling apart.  My big fear was that the tripe would just melt away, which is a possibility. But before that could even remotely happen, I realized that the onions had vanished completely due to the extended cooking.  This is supposed to be tripe and onions, so I needed to add onions somehow.  A light bulb went off over my head.

I’d incorporate the onions into the next step!  Into a pan went a stick of butter and as it melted I quickly sliced another whole onion, adding it to the butter to sweat a little.  After a few minutes I dumped in enough flour to soak up all of the butter, making the beginning of a Soubise sauce.  The roux-like mixture was then used as a thickening agent for the tripe liquor, turning it into a gravy.

And here it is, tripe and onion with sauce plated on top of mashed potatoes.  It sort of looks like a blanquette de veau, doesn’t it?  Well, if you squint I suppose it does.

At the top of the page, Mr. Henderson requests that you let tripe’s “soothing charms win you over”.  The last time I made this dish, it was anything but soothing.  It was downright off putting to be kind.  But I can now say that it was due to my inexperience in cooking, not the recipe.  The first bite was in fact, incredibly soothing and comforting.  There was also something oddly familiar to it that I can’t place, and I’m still grappling with how to describe it now.  It just seemed… right.  My wife said that it reminded her of beef stroganoff, and I can see where she is coming from. The tripe itself was nice and tender–a little chewy in places–but you could cut it with a spoon.

Tripe is like blood when it comes to taste, nothing else really comes close.  Even Berti Bott Every Flavor Beans tried and didn’t quite succeed as far as I’m concerned.  But let me say this:  the tripe was so good, my wife had it the next day for breakfast.  We’ll be making this again for sure.

One down, eighty three to go.