Lamb Leg Steaks over Coals with Burnt Aubergine

A lamb leg steak is cut straight across the leg, usually from the middle or the upper end, so instead of one muscle you get three or four in the same slice, each running in a slightly different direction and separated by fine seams of connective tissue. Most of ours carry a neat cross-section of marrow bone somewhere near the centre. You will hear them called gigot steaks, particularly in Scotland, or simply leg chops. They are the cut that a rack of lamb quietly hopes you never discover, because they cost roughly a third as much and taste more of lamb.

The reason they taste more of lamb is straightforward: the leg works. It carries the animal, and working muscle builds myoglobin and the fat-soluble compounds that give lamb its particular character. Cutlets, taken from the ribs, do almost nothing all their lives. Leg is darker, closer-grained and considerably more assertive, which is why it stands up to smoke and charred skins and raw garlic in a way a delicate loin chop simply cannot.

At the counter, look for thickness first. Under 2cm and you have no margin: the steak will be past medium before the outside has coloured. Ours are cut at 2.5cm, around 200g apiece, which gives you roughly four minutes of hard searing before the centre is anywhere near the danger zone. Then look at the fat. You want a clean rim of firm, creamy-white fat along the outer edge, 5 to 8mm deep, and ideally a little marbling threading through the larger muscles. Grass-fed lamb fat is faintly yellow rather than chalk white, and that yellow is carotene from grass — it is a sign of a good life outdoors, not of age.

Colour should be a deep brick red, not pink and not purple-brown. Pale, slightly wet-looking leg steaks usually mean a very young, fast-grown animal, and they will taste of nothing much. We dry-age our lamb for seven days, which firms the surface, deepens the colour and concentrates what is there; on the cut face you should see a faint matt sheen rather than a slick of liquid in the tray.

Lastly, look at how it has been cut. A good leg steak is cut square, at a right angle to the bone, so it sits flat on the grate. A wedge-shaped steak — thick at one end, thin at the other — is a butcher rushing the saw, and it will cook unevenly no matter what you do. Ask us to trim the outer membrane and to nick the fat rim in two or three places, which stops the steak curling up off the bars as it tightens.

Three separate things are happening on the grate, and each one depends on getting the fire right rather than getting clever. The searing zone is doing Maillard browning, which needs a surface above about 150°C and, crucially, a dry one. That is the whole reason for wiping the marinade off in step eight: water boiling off the surface holds it at 100°C and nothing browns until it has gone. Four minutes of genuine contact heat on a dry, lean steak builds a crust deep enough to carry the dish without ever pushing the centre past medium-rare.

The aubergines are doing something different. Sealed inside their own skins they are effectively steaming, so the flesh collapses and its cell walls break down into that silky texture, while phenolic smoke compounds — guaiacol and syringol, the same molecules that make bacon and whisky smell the way they do — pass through the charred skin and settle in the flesh. Slice an aubergine before it hits the fire and you get neither: the moisture escapes, the flesh firms up, and you have grilled vegetable rather than smoke.

Then the dressing, which is not garnish. Lamb fat is rich and it coats the palate, and burnt aubergine is deep, savoury and slightly sweet. Without acid the plate becomes heavy after three mouthfuls. Vinegar and lemon cut the fat, the raw shallot adds a sulphurous bite, and mint contains menthol, which triggers cold receptors on the tongue and makes the whole thing taste lighter than it is. That combination of lamb, yoghurt and mint has survived several thousand years across the eastern Mediterranean for a reason.

If we are out of leg steaks, lamb chump chops are the closest match — slightly fattier, equally happy over fire, and cooked to the same 52°C. Barnsley chops work beautifully but need a minute longer each side for their thickness. Lamb neck fillet, sliced into 3cm medallions, is the budget option and wants gentler heat and a slightly higher pull temperature of 56°C, since it carries more connective tissue. Going the other way, this treatment suits a butterflied leg of lamb if you are feeding eight, cooked over indirect heat for 35 to 40 minutes with 5 minutes of direct at the end.

Without a barbecue, follow the pan method in the questions below and blacken the aubergines directly over a gas hob ring, turning with tongs over a sheet of foil to save the hob. Under an overhead grill at full blast they will take about 30 minutes and char less evenly, but they still work.

On the flavours, oregano and cumin push the plate Greek; swap them for a teaspoon of ground coriander and a pinch of cinnamon and it leans Levantine. Dill instead of half the mint is excellent. If you want the dressing hotter, leave the chilli seeds in; if you want it milder and more herbal, drop the chilli and add a tablespoon of capers. The tahini can go if you have none — the yoghurt will simply be lighter and cleaner. For a meat-free version of the same plate, the aubergine yoghurt with charred hispi cabbage wedges and the mint dressing is a genuinely good dish in its own right.

The aubergine yoghurt is better made a few hours ahead and left at room temperature to let the smoke settle in; it keeps three days covered in the fridge, though bring it back to room temperature before serving or it will taste flat and chalky. The mint dressing can be built up to a day ahead without the herbs, which should go in within an hour of eating or they will darken and lose their lift. The steaks can be rubbed and left uncovered on a rack in the fridge for up to 24 hours, which dries the surface and improves the crust; take them out 45 minutes before cooking. Leftover lamb is far better cold than reheated — slice it thin into the flatbreads with the yoghurt the next day. Cooked lamb keeps three days; freeze the raw steaks in their rub for up to three months.

This is a platter dish and it should hit the table as one, with everything else in bowls around it. Warm flatbreads are not optional — you need something to mop the yoghurt and the lamb juices, and a good chewy flatbread charred on the coals for thirty seconds is worth ten times a shop-bought pitta. Beyond that, keep it sharp and green. A chopped salad of cucumber, the last of the summer tomatoes, red onion and plenty of parsley, dressed with lemon and olive oil, is the right counterweight. Charred spring onions or whole green peppers blistered on the same fire cost you nothing extra since the coals are already lit. If you want a starch beyond the bread, new potatoes crushed and rolled in olive oil and oregano suit this better than chips or rice. A bowl of good olives and a dish of pickled green chillies on the table earn their place. And keep the fire going after the lamb comes off — halved figs or late plums laid cut-side down on the dying coals for two minutes, served with the leftover yoghurt and a spoonful of honey, make a pudding out of embers that were going to waste anyway.