FOIE GRAS

I’m currently in the grips of a madly lustful affair with foie gras. This will come as no surprise to  readers of my recent Facebook postings from France, in which I detailed several of my trysts with various foods. I flirted with vin, I dallied with saucisson, I fairly threw myself at crème fraîche and chocolat. But I left the country with an empty wallet (surely the sign of one besotted) and six glass jars full of my latest infatuation, which I will mete out to myself and a select few over the next year.

It’s hard for me to envision that time in my life not so long ago when I hadn’t yet tasted this splendid organ meat that occupies much of my gastronomical dream life. My friend and hostess last week in the South of France—Christelle—told me how, as a girl at Christmastime, she and her mother would go to the market and choose a squawking, fat goose for the butcher to kill and eviscerate in front of them while they watched the emergence of a magnificent liver quivering in its bloated glory, which they took home to sear in a blistering pan as the appetizer to their family meal. Of course, the product I brought home with me is not (thanks to Canada Customs) the raw version but a soft, cooked meat swimming in yellow fat. (I know, it doesn’t sound too pretty, but what magnificent flavour!) Christelle has taught me to never mistakenly call this princely food “pâté,” and neither is it “terrine,“ both of which are much more processed and—well—crude, so to speak (if also delicious in a more rustic way). The foie gras pictured in the jars here is the entire liver, seasoned sparingly, that I’ll spread cold on crusty white bread or toast points—mostly duck with one jar of goose I’ll save for a special occasion to consume with a bottle of real champagne. But I won’t start for a couple of months yet—not until the taste of France, like a paramour’s kiss, has left my mouth.

The chef-prepped delight served me on my second-to-last night in France was created by Montpellier propriétaire extraordinaire Wilfredo who, local legend has it, hates to cook for more than a few people at a time. (Check out his establishment—le Passionné). I don’t have a photo of that splendid dish. I doubt a photo could encapsulate my experience, anyway—the presentation of three half-inch-thick, gold-and-pink slices on a bed of softened lychee fruits in Port reduction, the slight resistance as I cut through the sliver-thin crust, the succulence as I crush the delicacy between tongue and palate with a crystal or two of sea salt spiking through the round, soft fullness of the meat.

Well, you can tell I am hopelessly in love. Perhaps the ardour will pass, but I cherish it for the moment, adoring the power foie gras exerts upon my corporeal senses. It’s almost sacramental—an outward and visible sign of an inward and (in this case) scrumptious grace. In my estimation, foie gras is certainly a gift from above.