Seeing as how this whole darn Duck deal has landed in my lap, it occurred to me that I better do that orderly asymetrical three-on-a-plate thing. Went to the market, and there were the usual absurdly cheap "canard manchions." Duck drumsticks, basically. And the reason they're so absurdly cheap is because they're so absurdly tough. Because ducks are made for swimming, and that's just what they do. They're muscle-y, tendon-y little bastards, those canards enchainé, and you've got to cook them slowly. You can make confit from them, if you have the patience, but I decided to see if I could swim against the current, and paneé them, poelle' them. Ever so slowly. We shall see.
I'll be missing Malcolm's funeral, and Bernard Natan, among a great number of of others, wasn't given one. I'm not so sentimental as to suggest A Last Meal — knowing Malcolm, he would have been trying to pitch Bernard a movie, and then would have stuck him for the dinner check — but I'm inclined to savor my canards in both their honor this lovely evening. It's wonderful to be currently alive, it's wonderful to buy duck for so little, it's wonderful to hear it sizzling rather than to be sizzling. I wonder what they would have thought of one another, that pair of odd ducks? I wonder what kind of movie they might have made? I wonder where Russ Meyer is? I wonder what Roger Ebert would order?
3 comments:
You should probably add insufferable egomaniac to your "about me" section.
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