Il était une fois dans la Ville de Foix
Une marchande de foie qui disait,
« Ma foi ! C’est la première fois
Et la dernière fois que je vends du
Foie au Marché de Foix. »
I have always had problems with gender in French. People ask how I can make such mistakes when I speak French so well. First of all, in my defense, everyone makes mistakes with gender, even French people. The first time I noticed this was at a picnic when a French father asked his child if she wanted to go on le balançoire. I resisted the urge to follow him and his daughter to the swing, muttering la, la, la in the manner of some of my well-intentioned friends and family, and instead, sat in the sunshine, basking in the satisfaction that I was not alone.
Several years before, I had failed, spectacularly, I might add, my oral entrance exam to the interpreting section of the University of Paris ESIT, École Supérieure d’Interprètes et de Traducteurs because of gender confusion. That is, gender confusion, and my dogged persistence in sticking to my story, and ignoring all of the jury’s verbal and non-verbal cues which could have gotten me back on track. The exam consisted of listening to a recording of a news story, a piece on the dangers of doping among high performance athletes, and then interpreting it. I gamely explained that the faith of these athletes could be irreparably damaged as a side-effect of drug use even as it occurred to me on some level that this was a highly original take on the possible consequences of steroid use. When a jury member helpfully asked me if I didn’t think it was a bit of a reach to come to that conclusion, I replied that America was a devout country and while it might seem a bit far-fetched to the French, the reporter apparently thought that the spiritual life of countless numbers of Americans was not strong enough to withstand off-label drug use. After the jury deliberated behind closed doors long enough to release gales of laughter and shake their heads at another example of American audacity, they invited me back in for a short grammar lesson. La fois, time, as in ‘once upon a time’; la foi, faith, and le foie, liver, as in foie gras.
The penny dropped! If they had just explained le foie, liver, as the organ that is damaged if you drink too much or take too many performance-enhancing drugs, I would never have retained that the noun liver is masculine in French. By associating liver with fat, as in fattened liver, or that magical experience, foie gras, I would always have the delicious image of a slice of foie-gras mi-cuit sprinkled with crushed pepper and crunchy sea salt, a slice of fig-anise toast on the side. With that image and the two masculinely declined adjectives to remind me that foie, even with its final ‘e’ is masculine in French, liver’s gender was forever fixed in my mind.
Foie gras is the liver of a duck, or goose, that is fattened by gavage, or force-feeding. This fattened liver can be served fresh, seared with a pan sauce of raspberry vinegar; flash cooked, mi-cuit either in a terrine, or pressed and rolled, traditionally in a dish towel, ‘au torchon’; or fully cooked, cuit, and preserved in a glass jar or tin. My favorite foie gras source in Paris is at the Restaurant Tir Bouchon on rue Tiquetonne. You can purchase the foie gras for take out, or enjoy their foie gras mi-cuit at the restaurant, served with toasted fig-anise bread, or in their cavatappi foie gras aux figues which used to be served next door at the now defunct Terre et Soleil. ‘Floute’ on the French forum dismoiou.fr (Dis moi où is ‘Tell me where’) says about the pasta dish:
“Qui n'a jamais goûté aux Cavatappi aux figues et au foie gras n'a jamais entrevu la grâce...”
(Whoever has never tasted cavatappi with figs and foie gras has never had a glimpse of grace.)
As exciting as foie gras is, the magic doesn’t end there. The meat of a regular duck, one that has not enjoyed the same gluttonous diet as his foie gras counterpart, can be tough or stringy, and lacks the moistness and buttery mouth feel of the foie gras duck in the form of confit de canard, duck cooked slowly and preserved in its own fat, or magret de canard, the meaty breast of the fattened duck, which can be served fresh and seared, with pan juices deglazed with honey and pepper, a tablespoon of butter swirled in at the end; or smoked, or better yet, dried and smoked, magret de canard fumé et séché.
The fat of the fattened duck is also a revelation. You can save the fat from duck confit, or magret, but you can also buy it in jars or cans to use in cooking. In the southwest of France, the story goes, some people are known to pull out the skillet, set it over the fire and drop in a healthy dollop of duck fat while they decide what to cook for dinner.
Recently, I wanted to reproduce the garbure, a soup made with duck stock, white beans and cabbage, served with cilantro and pieces of roasted chestnut that I pick up at Oyez P’axoa, a Basque restaurant near Montparnasse. I didn’t have duck or duck stock so I used chicken stock and a few spoonfuls of duck fat. A couple of days later, I took some lobster tails, brushed each with about a teaspoon duck fat and draped them with a couple of pieces of coppa before passing them under the broiler.
I recently saw a couple of TED talk videos with Dan Barber, the scholar-chef at New York’s Blue Hill Restaurant, one of which was about the Spanish foie gras producer, Eduardo Souza, and his happy geese, non force-fed, but given lots of opportunity to overfeed themselves.
Fat Duck Vocabulary
Foie gras frais (fresh), mi-cuit (partially cooked), cuit (cooked) – the liver of a duck, or goose, that has been fattened in such a way, usually through force-feeding, to ensure a fat liver with a butter texture.
Poêlé (pan-fried, seared), en terrine (in a porcelaine terrine), au torchon (pressed, and wrapped in plastic, or in a dish towel)
Gavage – the technique of force-feeding ducks or geese in order to fatten their livers.
Magret de canard – breast from a duck that has been fattened for foie gras
Magret de canard fum̩ Рsmoked duck breast, usually sold sliced and vacuum-packed, or whole at country markets and food fairs.
Magret de canard fum̩ et s̩ch̩Рsmoked and dried duck breast, usually sold sliced and vacuum-packed, or whole at country markets and food fairs.
Filet de canard - breast from a duck that has not been specially fattened
Confit de canard – the leg and thigh of a foie gras duck that is slowly cooked and preserved in its own fat. Sold in glass jars, cans, or in vacuum-packed bags.
Cassoulet – a slow-cooked white bean dish from Toulouse with sausage and duck or goose confit.
La Graisse de canard – rendered foie gras duck fat, sold in jars, cans, or plastic tubs. Prefer a resealable container.
Faire la grasse matinée – ‘to do the fat morning’, sleep in.
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Comptoir de la Gastronomie, 34 rue Montmartre, 1st, Tel. 01 42 33 31 32 ;
Currently closed Sunday. www.comptoirdelagastronomie.com .
Confit de canard in vacuum-packed bags, easier for transport than traditional, heavy cans; Magret de canard séché et fumé. Preserved meats can be brought back to the U.S. if they are in sealed containers (cans, vacuum-sealed bags, etc. Avoid jars.)
Restaurant Tir-Bouchon, 22 rue Tiquetonne, 2nd, Tel. 01 42 21 95 51.
http://www.le-tirbouchon.com Closed Sunday lunch.
Foie gras mi-cuit au torchon. This very delicate foie gras does not travel well over long distances as it must be kept chilled.
Oyez P’axoa, 118 boulevard du Montparnasse, 14th, Tel 43 27 22 00, www.restobasque.com, Closed Sunday and Monday evening.
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