The first time I had caldo de costilla was at the wedding of my sister-in-law, Ana-Maria, in Bogotá, Colombia. As midnight rolled around, I figured the grandparents, great-aunts and great-uncles who led the charge on the dance floor might have finally tired of salsa and bachata; in my 20s at the time, even I was starting to feel the effects of drinking anise-scented aguardiente and dancing all night.
Servers wheeled in a large silver tureen filled with steaming-hot broth. They ladled the broth into small hand-held bowls, depositing a chunk of tender beef rib and a few slices of potato into each with a garnish of sliced green onion and cilantro. Droplets of golden fat pooled on the surface.
The music paused momentarily as everyone sipped on the rich, salty broth, fragrant with onions, garlic and cumin. By the time I had finished pulling the meat off a rib bone and had eaten the potatoes — a waxy variety called pastusa — the music had started again, and the grandparents were already back on their feet.
I soon learned that this was not a unique experience. I found myself sipping a hot, restorative bowl of caldo de costilla at 4 a.m. outside Andrés Carne de Res, a carnival-like restaurant and club in Chía, just outside Bogotá. The dish originates in the chilly high altitudes of the Andes, where hearty, simple soups are a staple, but, even at our own wedding in coastal Cartagena, the dance floor filled with the aroma of beef and cilantro at midnight. I don’t remember asking the caterers to do this; it was just a given.
In Colombia, caldo de costilla is typically eaten as a late-night or breakfast pick-me-up, but at home I’ve taken to making it for dinner. There’s clear appeal in its ease and short ingredient list.
When I think of stocks, my mind goes to the complex stocks I learned to make in restaurants, or the ones that cookbooks urge you to save chicken bones and scraps in your freezer for.
Caldo de costilla has none of that. I cover raw beef ribs with water (any cut high in connective tissue, like boneless chuck, oxtail or even shin, will work), add a small handful of aromatics (cilantro stems, onion, garlic, scallions and whole cumin seeds — some recipes call for carrot or achiote, but I never bother), bring it to a simmer and walk away for a couple hours until it’s done. Once it’s cooked, I remove the bones and beef with a set of tongs (I aim for meat that is spoon-tender but doesn’t fall apart), strain out the broth and discard the aromatics. Then I season the broth well with salt, and add back the beef.
When we’re ready to eat, I add peeled, sliced potatoes (waxier varieties like Yukon Gold work well, but any potato will do) and simmer them until succulent, finishing it all with a handful of sliced scallions. The whole pot goes on the table at dinner with a bowl of chopped cilantro on the side (for those in my family who can’t stand the flavor of raw cilantro).
As far as active time goes, you’re looking at around 10 minutes of work, and there’s not much that can go wrong.
My last tip: Make extra, and, before you add the potatoes, throw it in the fridge. The relatively neutral flavor of the broth means that it is wonderfully easy to turn into different dishes. Recently, we’ve reheated leftover broth and beef with warm spices, then served it seasoned with lime juice, fish sauce, rice noodles and fresh herbs and aromatics for a noodle soup reminiscent of Vietnamese pho. We’ve made it into pozole blanco, and into quick and hearty beef and barley soup.
I’ve even found myself drinking it, as intended, at midnight (though alone by the light of the microwave door is, perhaps, somewhat less romantic than by the Andean moonlight).
Recipe: Caldo de Costilla
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