Smooth American cast iron — already broken in for you.
The No. 10 is what Lancaster calls the main course skillet. Eleven and five-eighths inches across. A ten-inch cooking surface. Large pour spouts. A stout handle, a helper handle opposite. Smooth, pre-seasoned, ready.
The sizing dates back to the 1800s, when cast iron pans were matched to the round ports cut into the tops of wood stoves. A number 10 slotted into a number 10 port, sealed against the heat, and cooked everyone’s dinner.
The stoves are mostly gone now. The sizes stayed. This is a number 10 — which is still, a century and a half on, the right size for dinner.
Most cast iron leaves the foundry rough — pebbly, porous, one thousand tiny places for eggs to stick. The Lancaster surface is machined smooth before it’s seasoned, so food slides where food ought to slide.
Then it’s pre-seasoned in Lancaster, by hand, in a real oven. Which means you don’t wait, you don’t fuss, you don’t Google. You put it on the stove tonight, and you cook.
Cast iron doesn’t wear out. It gets darker, smoother, and more obedient. You’re not buying a pan — you’re picking out the one a grandchild will someday fight their cousin for.
“I’ve worked in kitchens with ten‑thousand‑dollar copper sets. Honestly? I reach for this first. It feels honest. And somebody’s grandkid is going to cook in it. That’s rare.”