Lamb Slam

A sort of Greek rotisserie on a rooftop in Rome

Italians currently have a problem with certain Americans but not certain American culinary traditions, notably the concept of grilling slabs of meat on an outdoor grill. I would call Italians barbecue-curious—not fully invested in the sense of actually owning a Weber, but open to possibilities. As an American in Rome, I am expected to be an expert in grilling by virtue of my passport.

I try not to disappoint. But there are issues.

From my 7^th-floor roof terrace I see a good deal of Rome, churches and monuments but also many other private terraces. And I can say with fair confidence that I have possibly the only Weber kettle grill in the historic center of the Eternal City.

So you might think I’m up there grilling all the time, wearing my Motown cap and my MasterChef apron.^[1] But no. The problem is, my roof terrace is up a narrow flight of stairs from my apartment level, which makes transporting all the necessary grilling shit a bit of a slog. Then there’s the issue of safety—on the roof of a 16^th-century palazzo, now divided into ten apartments, surrounded by other neighbors and historic churches, one can’t well leave an open flaming barbecue unattended; it’s not a suburban backyard.

In my quest to grill both safely and with minimal effort, I hit upon an excellent solution—the rotisserie. Using my electric-powered meat spinner (the technical term), I can impale entire chickens, shoulders of pork and other cuts, then light the coals, cover the whole bloody mess and open a bottle of wine as the grill does its job, allowing guests to revel in my brilliance.

This week I decided to spin a whole leg of lamb. I wanted to make it Greek style, which is to say bathed in lemon juice, olive oil, garlic, rosemary and oregano. As I have a something like a million lemons on my terrace tree, and an oregano bush the size of a hedge, this would indicate fewer trips up and down the stairs.

I also wanted to cook it until falling off the bone which is the Greek way and would allow the meat, over many hours, to become infused with smoke while developing a major crust. I know, the French faint at the thought, preferring their lamb medium rare—as do I when it comes to lamb chops and other precious cuts. But the leg is another matter.

About the bone: you can find a billion recipes online for a boneless tied leg of lamb on the rotisserie, the chief advantage being ease of carving. But a bone-in leg offers other pleasures, beyond the enhanced flavor from the bone itself and its ability to conduct heat throughout the center, assuming you’re not going for medium rare. Above all there is that inner cave dweller who compels us, now and then, to cook a recognizable piece of anatomy over an open flame—and I say that as someone who eats far less meat than I used to. In those moments, a primly bound boneless roast feels inadequate to the mission.^[2]

So on Saturday morning I pointed my bicycle to the sprawling Campagna Amica farmer’s market, just behind the Circus Maximus, beelining to the butcher for that whole lamb leg, then across the pavilion for a kilo of fresh new potatoes, still caked in the black volcanic soil of Lazio. A €3 glass of organic Pecorino white wine pulled from the tap (the imperative to support local producers begins at daybreak), and I was on my way home before lunch.

First I made a paste of olive oil, lemon zest, chopped rosemary and dried Sicilian oregano which we buy on the branch; I have a pot of fresh oregano growing on the terrace but sometimes I prefer the intensity of dried, the importance being to avoid any in a plastic jar sitting above the stove for a year. Then I reduced a dozen or so garlic cloves to slivers. Making slits all over the leg with a pointed knife, I pushed garlic slivers and herb paste deep into the meat. Salt, pepper, an olive oil massage, into the fridge overnight.

My plan was to roast the potatoes in a (disposal) pan under the turning meat, to soak up any juices. I often make Greek-style oven-roasted potatoes, cut into thick lengths like French bistro-style fries, in a sheet pan with equal amounts lemon juice, olive oil and chicken broth—a brilliant technique (not mine) that eliminates the fussy bother of parboiling the potatoes, as the liquid helps them cook while soaking into the spuds. Today I decided to sub white wine for the broth, just because. And to keep it simple, I figured the same mix could pass for a basting liquid—important because a lamb leg doesn’t have all that delicious fat like a pork shoulder.

So I mixed up half a cup each of lemon juice, olive oil and white wine, added a lot of minced rosemary, dried oregano and cracked pepper, then divided it in two. In the half for the potatoes I added sea salt; the half for basting I left unsalted, the leg already being salty enough. To the baste mixture I added, just for the hell of it, a good glop of mustard; I used a French honey Dijon because I had it.

Time for a good book.

And I went up to the grill. I used trad briquets instead of lump charcoal because as much as I like real wood coals, which burn hotter for steaks and grilled vegetables, the briquets provide a longer, slower heat desirable for rotisserie, and they don’t extinguish when you cover them. I lit a chimney of coals (maybe 20), arranged them on either side of the rotisserie, pan of potatoes in the center, and set the lamb and the kettle cover above. Every so often I added a few coals and a handful of wet hickory chips, but not too much. And a few branches of rosemary straight off the bush. More often I basted. All of this while reading Ferdinand Addis’s excellent anecdotal history of Rome, The Eternal City, on my teak recliner.

At five pounds, the roast took about five hours to reach 200F/95C, an ideal temperature for falling off the bone. The book took longer. A simple salad dressed in olive oil and lemon juice was the final link. By the time Alexandra and our three guests arrived (bearing six flavors of artisanal gelato for dessert), everything was ready. By midnight we were down to the bone.

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^[1] Upon finishing MasterChef Italia the contestants are gifted their personal aprons, MasterChef logo and our names embroidered, with the strict proviso that we can only wear them at home and never on social media.

^[2] My son Harper is the family expert on pork barbecue; for more on his adventures grilling in Italy see here.