Foie Gras Faux Pas

One unintended - but very welcome - consequence of becoming a meat-eater is that people start inviting you over for dinner. Our social lives have vastly improved. (Veggies take note: your carnivorous friends and co-workers have dinner parties that they don't tell you about. Trust me, they do.)

Thankfully, we came out in time to be invited to a French Christmas Eve dinner last year at the home of our friends Gibouille and Elise.

This is the kind of event that strikes both excitement and fear in the heart of a born-again carnivore. At a restaurant we can pick and choose the meat we feel comfortable with; at someone's home you have to eat what you are served. Or at least try it. Mom said so.

I was a little nervous as we set out...Christmas Eve dinner with a bunch of French people? Please, God, don't let there be any organ meats or gelatinous textures. I was not ready for that.

We arrived fashionably late at 7:30, and were the first guests there. I had a Ricard and helped to set the table. Then I had a beer. And another beer. And a kir. Around 9pm, the other guests started to arrive. We had champagne.

I was standing in the dining area with the only other American there. Everyone else was outside smoking. Gibouille came in and dropped a baking sheet full of bacon-wrapped prunes on the table. "Amuse bouche," he said, and went out to join the smokers. I hadn't eaten all day and scarfed down 7 or 8 of them.

Finally, more champagne was opened and everyone came to the table. We had a toast, then Gibouille and Elise started to serve the first course. Foie gras.

Oh god, there it was. The most politically-incorrect of all meats. A slab of foie gras the size of a pork chop was sitting in front of me.

I'd never had foie gras before. I'd never had liver before. I'd never even had duck before. I thought about politely saying something like, "Oh, I'm so sorry, but I don't eat foie gras," but I'm sure no one would have heard me. The French people were busy letting out little shrieks of glee, making loud yummy noises, and saying things like "oh la la" (yes, French people really do say that!). I looked over at Jason - he was digging right in - and he shot me the look that means, "This shit is goooood."

The room was spinning a little. I didn't know if it was the alcohol or the scent of tortured ducks in the air. The foie gras was mocking me, daring me to eat it. On my right shoulder, an angelic miniature Morrissey begged me not to savour the flavour of murder. On my left, a tiny evil Anthony Bourdain said "Don't be a pussy. Do you really want to humilate yourself in front of half the French waiters in the city?"

I confided in the guy sitting next to me. "Ummm, I've never had foie gras before. I'm a little afraid of it."

"Oh my god, this is the best thing. You have to eat this," he said. He prepared a piece for me - a little bread, a lot of foie gras, a little fig compote. I took a bite.

I was surprised...it doesn't really taste meaty. It's a little sweet, a little savory. Oh yes, I get it now...it fills your mouth with velvet. It's so smooth and delicious. It doesn't taste like torture at all. It's like ambrosia. I'm amazed. I'm impressed. I'm overwhelmed. I'm going to be sick.

No one notices as I leave the table, they are all too wrapped up in their foie gras-induced ecstasy. But the bathroom is not far from the table and when I come back, everyone knows.

"Did you just get sick?" Gibouille asked.

"Yeah...but I'm okay now," I say. I sat down and KEPT EATING. This, my friends, is the most punk rock thing I've ever done in my life. Oh yeah I felt like crap, but I was NOT going to miss the rest of this dinner.

What followed:

cream of mushroom soup with truffle oil

buckwheat crepe with smoked salmon and creme fraiche

lemon & vodka sorbet

roasted chicken
(I took a nap during the chicken course. It was okay because this is when the French people started singing and by the time I woke up from my nap they were still singing and my chicken was still waiting for me.)

wild boar cooked in wine with celery root puree
(This course was amazing! I still dream about it. While I was eating it I happened to glance at my watch and it was 1:30 am. This was some serious eating.)

roquefort cheese tart with carmelized pear and salad

Phew. No one had room for the chocolate mousse. Then our friend Freddo arrived, fresh from his shift at Fleur de Lys, carrying a cake in the shape of a log. I laughed at the log. (I've since learned that this is a traditional French Christmas cake, ooops).

It didn't really matter that I'd just spent 5 hours eating the largest dinner my life. When Hubert Keller sends a free cake your way, you eat it. So I ate it. I don't know how.

Jason & I were up all night. We ate nothing the next day. But we will always have fond memories of our first meaty Christmas. And foie gras? Well, wait til I tell you about our trip to Paris...

VGML

I have a confession to make. Okay, no, I have two confessions to make.

1. I have been on 22 flights in the last two months. Yep, I have a carbon footprint so big that I could stamp out the sun. (Hey, what do I care? I don't have kids!)

2. I love airline food. Honestly. I love airline food in the same way that I loved TV dinners when I was a kid. Do you remember TV dinners? The kind that came in a foil tray, that got cooked in the real oven? Sure, they were always disgusting, but there was something so exciting about peeling back the foil to reveal what secrets lie beneath. What will it be? Will it be cooked all the way through or frozen in the middle? What is the dessert? Can I really eat Salisbury steak without puking? It was the element of surprise, combined with the challenge of eating something so disgusting, topped off with a warm dessert, all in a neat compact tray. I get the same thrill every time I fly.

Well, not every time. If you've been on a domestic US flight lately, you know that they don't give you food anymore. But on international flights (which are sometimes shorter than domestic ones) and in the rest of the world, they still give you food. Hey, at least it gives you something to pass the time.

Now despite the fact that I've been eating meat for over a year now, this was really the first big trip where I was out of the closet as a carnivore. Oh, sure, I nibbled a few bits of chicken last year in Thailand (and suffered food poinsoning from it) but until now, I've stuck to the veggie meal.

Let me tell you, getting rid of the veggie meal has made traveling a dream. For those of you who have never suffered through an airline veggie meal, let me share my pain of flights past.

It goes like this:
You book a flight, and at some point, on the phone or online, you opt for a special meal. The airline will present you with a dizzying array of special meals. Lacto-ovo vegetarian, vegan, low fat, low sodium, kosher, bland, halal ...

You choose lacto-ovo. That sounds safe.

As soon as you reach 30,000 feet, a flight attendant will come up and confirm that you have ordered a special meal. You feel special.

A few minutes later, she will return and plop your meal in front of you. Of course, meal service has not begun for the rest of the cabin, so you are getting jealous stares from all the other passengers. You have no drink.

Your meal is covered in foil and is labeld VGML. It has your name on it. Awww. You peel back the foil to reveal a veg mess. It's usually something like eggplant with mung beans and green beans and a little bit of tomato sauce over rice. It's the sort of thing I would expect to be served by those Food Not Bombs kids. Off to the side, is a half-frozen whole wheat roll with corn-oil margarine. A rotting salad with fat-free Italian dressing, with the texture of phlegm. A graham cracker. And a little dish of underipe melon with grapes.

Ummm, okay. Well, the veg mess is warm at least and the plane is freezing, so you eat.

Right around then, food service begins for everyone else. "Chicken or veggie lasagne?" they're asking. Veggie lasagne!!! Hey, wait. I could have eaten that! Why can't I have the veggie lasagne??? (Don't bother asking, they will tell you they don't have enough to go around. After all, you ordered the veggie meal.)

Soon your seatmates will have their meal. You stare (payback). They have veggie lasagne. And the same wilted salad, only they have full-fat ranch dressing! And instead of a graham cracker, they have real crackers, with a packet of real cheese. And instead of fruit, they have carrot cake. And a normal roll, with real butter. What gives? Didn't you order the lacto-ovo veg meal? Why couldn't you have these decadent delights??

My theory is that that lacto-ovo meal, the vegan meal, the bland meal, the low fat meal and the low sodium meal are ALL THE SAME THING. They just put a different sticker on it to make you feel special. BASTARDS.

Anyway, I can now tell you that flying without the dreaded VGML is like having a weight lifted off your shoulders. You don't even really have to eat any meat. And once you leave the American-owned airlines, the food improves dramatically. (Seriously, some of the best food I had in India was on a 1-hour Jet Airways flight....more on that later.)

I'm baaaccck!

Oh dear, poor, neglected blog. I am so sorry for having abandoned you. You see, I have been traveling since October, and I don't have a laptop. No, really.

I've been traveling for work. I've been traveling for fun. Don't believe me? I'll tell you. Since October, I have been to Washington DC, Tunisia, Barcelona, Paris (twice), Florence, Rome, Naples, Sorrento, Palermo, Nice, Las Vegas and India.

But good news, I have consumed more meat in the last two months than I probably have in the whole of my life. I've eaten ducks. I've eaten goats. I've eaten wild boars and milk-fed baby lambs. Truly, I have a story to tell about meat in all its glory. So please, don't give up on me, blog.