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...