Duck Season
Page 23
Michele had made a special trip to Aire sur l’Adour, a nearby bourg, to procure two other things for our cocktail gathering: some very good Basque chorizo from the town’s covered market, and a box of savory puff-pastry petits fours from a patisserie Aline had recommended the night before with no small amount of euphoric eye-rolling. The two-bite cocktail snacks were of varying shapes and flavorings: mini quiches studded with bits of chive and pimentón; triangles of golden, flaky pastry folded around tiny squares of anchovy; macaroons flecked with caramelized shavings of Emmentaler and filled with creamy duck-liver terrine. The pastries were almost too pretty to eat.
Not that I should have been surprised, but our company arrived laden with gifts, making me feel badly that Michele and I hadn’t thought to reciprocate. Henri and Monique gave Charlotte three French Christmas books. For Michele and me they’d brought a hand-embroidered dish towel from the Pays Basque and—in the cocktail-hour vein—a lacquered drinks tray inscribed with the words “It’s Wine O’Clock.” Aline and Jacqueline had gone in on a T-shirt for Charlotte; it had a photo of a kitten in a hat and scarf on the front. Lagors, who had gotten wind of my pigeon-hunting misadventure, presented me with a pen-and-ink drawing, made by an artist he knew, depicting a hunter climbing up to his treetop palombière.
I poured champagne, and we drank and snacked in front of the fire, wrapped in scarves.
The evening concluded with Charlotte singing the first few stanzas of “La Marseillaise.” This got a standing ovation. On leaving, Jacqueline took my hands in hers and invited us to join her and her daughter for Christmas dinner. She looked let down when I told her we were departing the day before. Aline gave Michele a handwritten list of her favorite restaurants; it was two pages long.
Monique, on her way out the door, said something that has stuck in my mind ever since: “Thank you for bringing life to this old moulin.”
I’M LOUSY AT GOOD-BYES. When faced with the prospect of a long separation, I tend to dissemble, joking and joshing and making promises of imminent reunions that have little chance of happening. Gascons, however, are not easily distracted from the sentimental gravity of a situation, and while they don’t go in for lots of hugging, they do express their feelings with a disarming openness. As the holiday gatherings in and around Plaisance ramped up, this state of affairs began to test my powers of avoidance.
Parting ways with our expat friends—at a Christmas cocktail party thrown by Tim and Chloé—was easy enough, because, like me, they tended to keep the tone chummy and droll, in the British–Northern European manner. But when Patrick, the only Gascon in attendance, gave us a book of his photos as a going-away gift, I clammed up, my jesting reflex suddenly disabled. The book was a collection of a hundred or so black-and-white portraits of the people of Plaisance: the butcher, the baker, the grocer, the pharmacist, the florist, the mayor. I paged through it and realized that I recognized almost all the faces.
The next afternoon was the elementary school’s annual holiday pageant, held in Plaisance’s municipal gymnasium. It was to be followed, as is the case with most large gatherings in Gascony, with le verre de l’amitié. There were skits performed in Occitan, poetry readings, and the singing of Christmas carols. The spectacle concluded with the principal taking the stage, microphone in hand, and asking everyone to join her in wishing a fond farewell to Charlotte, notre jeune Américaine, who would now be performing a special dance number with some of her schoolmates.
Michele and I had not been informed of this.
Charlotte and six older girls took the stage. Maîtresse Nathalie, standing in the wings, pressed a button on a boom box, and pop music echoed tinnily through the room. The girls began executing a series of pliés and arabesques, which were followed by some Flashdance-like business with folding chairs and then a few leaps and shaky relevés. As the music faded out, the other girls formed a circle around Charlotte and started chanting her name. Soon the rest of her classmates joined in. Then the whole room, parents and all. Charlotte held her ballet pose, a bewildered smile on her face.
After it was over, Michele and I remained in our seats, dumbstruck. Michele rummaged in her purse for a tissue. Eventually we got up and followed the other parents over to a long bar that was, as far as I could tell, a permanent fixture of the gym. We served ourselves cups of wine and shook hands with parents who came by to wish us a bon retour. Charlotte found us, and soon was surrounded by teachers from the school. Most of them, including the stoic Nathalie, were wiping away tears. I couldn’t blame them.
The good-byes kept coming. André Dubosc invited me to his house for a midday apéro—not a rarity in Gascony—and persuaded me to stay for what he insisted would be a simple, improvised lunch. We ate homemade pâté, grilled quail, a zucchini-tomato tart, and a sorbet made on the spot from pears that Françoise had picked from the trees in the fall and frozen. All of this was whipped up with the nonchalance that an American might associate with the making of a ham sandwich. Dubosc also gave me a book to take back to the States: an illustrated catalog of all the known grape varietals of southwestern France. It was a hefty tome.
That night we had yet another farewell apéro, this one at Henri’s. I was grateful for the invitation, though I’d been less than enthused at the idea of an evening of stiff conversation in the fussy upstairs salon. But when we arrived, Henri led us to their cozy living room on the main floor. The TV was on. A fire crackled in a wood-burning stove. We sat in comfy old armchairs. Henri opened a bottle of Pacherenc and brought out a bowl of nuts. Monique gave Charlotte a comic book to read. The couple’s Springer spaniel snuffled around our feet, begging for snacks. Monique chattered about gardening, Henri chiming in from time to time to correct the exaggerations to which his wife was prone. It was spare as Gascon cocktail hours go, but it was one of the most relaxing, familial moments I can ever remember having in France.
Henri asked us to stay for dinner, and we did. As we were leaving, I remembered a dozen items of unfinished business at the moulin: returning the sleeping bag Henri had loaned me, locating the screws for the wobbly headboard I’d taken out of the master bedroom, giving back Henri’s books. Henri stopped me before I could get halfway through the list.
He rested a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Je m’en occupe.”
IN THE FACE OF SO much generosity and goodwill, I kept my composure as best I could.
The Friday before our departure, I made my final visit to the Esbouhats. It was their annual tapas night, the club’s most popular event of the year: an apéro to end all apéros. The bodega was packed when I got there, and plates of food, contributed by various members, occupied every inch of counter space: scallop crudo, thin-sliced jamón, pieces of crisp-bottomed Spanish tortilla, curried chickpeas, bruschetta, plus the usual Gascon hit parade of pâtés and cured sausages and ducky things.
I found a spot at the bar. Doudou, the school cook, passed me a plate of his homemade samosas, and mentioned offhandedly that the club had raised funds so that he could fly back to Madagascar to visit his sick father.
Well-wishers migrated over: Bernd with his halo of smoke and a recipe for goulash he’d been wanting to give me; Henri Michel with a sampling of his homemade foie gras; Luc with an extra-long “Whassuuuuuup!”; Francis with an unexpected invitation to return to his palombière next year. Basso materialized, brandishing a bottle of Jameson’s. He refilled my glass, raised his own, and bid me safe travels. I was certain I saw, for the most fleeting instant, his puckish grin disappear.
The evening rolled on. Someone topped off my drink again. Bernd offered me one of his cigarillos. For some reason, I smoked it. I noshed, drank some more, chatted with some Esbouhats I hadn’t previously met, and generally lost myself in the splendid conviviality of it all.
Now Alphonse was standing behind the bar, clinking a spoon against a glass. Suddenly the room was quiet and he was speaking. Heads turned in my direction. My face felt hot. Alphonse was saying something a
bout bidding au revoir to “our American Esbouhat.” I’m sorry to say I can’t remember the rest, as my emotional defenses by this point had been reduced to rubble and I found myself in tears, in the middle of a roomful of rugby players, blowing my nose into a cocktail napkin.
25
Last Supper
For reasons no Gascon has ever satisfactorily explained to me, the denuded carcass of a duck—what’s left once the breasts, legs, liver, and other parts have been removed—is referred to as a demoiselle. Gascons do not throw away the demoiselle. In fact, they take pleasure in grilling it and stripping off the remaining morsels of meat using their fingers, teeth, and, occasionally, a switchblade. A grilled demoiselle is the most irreducible of Gascon meals. It’s what paysans ate after they’d sold off everything else. If you search among the profusion of posters and fliers for local festivals in Gascon villages, you’ll probably find one or two for a soirée demoiselle. Such communal meals are also sometimes called, less euphemistically, soirées carcasses.
Our own soirée was nothing more than me, Michele, and Charlotte sitting in front of the fire on our final night in Plaisance, gnawing on duck bones, our chins shiny with grease. I had cut the hollow carcasses into quarters and grilled them on the hearth. We saved the aiguillettes—the tender strips of meat clinging to the duck’s sternum—for last.
At some point while we were eating, I asked Michele and Charlotte if they were going to miss Gascony. The words came out in a loud dad-voice—I suppose I was fishing for affirmation.
Charlotte nodded mm-hm and continued attacking her duck. I decided to take this as a full-throated yes.
Michele wiped her hands and seemed to give the question due consideration. Then she smiled and said, “I really am.”
After dinner I put on my coat, went outside, and sat on the banks of the stream so I could gaze at the bridge for a while. The Arros, glimmering faintly in the dark, flowed around the stone foundations and on toward its union with the Adour, joining the waters of thousands of Gascon brooks and streams.
I wondered when I’d be able to take in this view again. Suddenly I thought of Amandine. I’d said good-bye to her at the market a few days before and she’d informed me, in her laconic way, that she was selling her van and leaving the Gers to work as a nanny. The news had shaken me a little, disabusing me of the comforting but illusory notion that things in this sleepy corner of France would remain the same until I could return—same faces, same places, everything right where I left it. But Amandine’s revelation had reminded me of an obvious truth: Change does come to the Gers.
Fortunately, it takes a while.
Acknowledgments
Thanks, first and foremost, to the Gascons who opened their doors for us, and to those who knocked on ours. I am especially grateful to Nadine Cauzette, a magnificent cook and a natural-born teacher, and to André Dubosc, the most knowledgeable ambassador for Gascony I could ever have wished to meet. Thanks also to Diane Caillard and her husband, Nicolas Kujawa, and to Patrick Fitan, a man for whom the phrase joie de vivre seems to have been specially coined. To Alphonse Caulier, Michel Basso, and the rest of the Esbouhats: If the spirit of the mousquetaires is alive and well anywhere in Gascony, it is in the bodega behind the old bastide. Thanks to Henri and Monique de Rességuier, whose patience and kindness would certainly meet the definition of noblesse oblige, and to Amandine Belmonte, who is wise so very far beyond her years. Special thanks to Paula Wolfert, who, unbeknownst to her, became my spirit guide during my first forays into Gascon cookery. Thanks, too, to Maurice Coscuella, Alain Lagors, Fred Poppe, Lut Goudleder, Tim and Chloé Wootton, Jean-Claude Dupuy, Colette Lasserre, Sandra Lemarechal, André Daguin, and his daughter, Ariane, who kindled my interest in Gascony with a phone call and a prediction: “This place will change your life.” It did.
I owe enormous gratitude to my agent, Daniel Greenberg, who shepherded me through the book-making process with such aplomb. I’m equally grateful to my editor, Jonathan Jao, for peering into the thickets of my first draft and locating the true path, and to his colleague Sofia Ergas Groopman, whose line edits helped me do a rather un-Gascon thing: Trim the fat.
This book also benefited immeasurably from talented and insightful early readers. Mark Adams is preeminent among them: He is the most astute and sympathetic guide a first-time author could ever want. Thank you to Maura Fritz, who steered me away from so many writerly pitfalls, and to Alex Fischer, Melinda Blum, and the friends and colleagues who considered my first, inchoate ideas for the book and said, “Do it”: David Brown, Bonnie Eldon, James Oseland, and Holly Dolce, among others.
Thank you to my parents, Jim and Susan McAninch, for their boundless love and support, and to Michele and Charlotte, for sticking with me, and for finding so much joy and beauty in places I’d never have thought to look.
Recipes
La Garbure de Nadine
Nadine’s Cabbage and White Bean Soup
Serves 6 as a first course or light meal
There are meatier garbures to be found—the extravagant stew in Paula Wolfert’s The Cooking of South-West France, for one—but this simple version from Nadine Cauzette is closer to the everyday garbures served in most Gascon homes. Dried Great Northern beans are a fine substitute for haricots Tarbais, the kind of beans used for garbure in Gascony. This soup tastes even better if made a day ahead and allowed to rest in the fridge overnight.
4 confit duck legs
1 cured or smoked ham hock
10 medium waxy potatoes, cut into 1-inch pieces
4 medium carrots, cut into 1-inch pieces
2 small turnips, cut into 1-inch pieces
1 large leek, thinly sliced
1 medium onion, quartered
8 ounces dried haricots Tarbais or Great Northern beans, picked through, soaked overnight, and drained
1 head Savoy cabbage, cored and thinly sliced
6 garlic cloves, minced
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
Remove the skin from the confit duck legs and set it aside for making cracklings. Warm the duck legs in a 350°F oven for 15 to 20 minutes until heated through. Let cool; pull the meat off the bones and tear it into chunks. Set the duck meat aside.
Add 5 quarts of cold water to a large pot along with the ham hock and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer the ham hock, skimming frequently, until the water starts to turn cloudy, 20 to 30 minutes. Add the potatoes, carrots, turnips, leek, onion, and beans and simmer over medium-low heat for 11/2 hours, skimming occasionally as necessary. Add the reserved duck confit and the cabbage and simmer for another 20 to 30 minutes, skimming occasionally. Add the garlic and simmer for 15 minutes more. Remove the ham hock, strip off the skin, pull the meat off the bone in chunks, and return the meat to the pot. Discard the bone and skin. Season the garbure with salt and pepper to taste.
Magret de Canard à l’Armagnac et aux Mûres
Seared Duck Breasts with Armagnac-Blackberry Sauce
Serves 4
The name has a fancy ring, but this dish—one of dozens that pair magret with a sweet pan reduction—is as straightforward as can be.
2 skin-on moulard duck breasts (or 4 skin-on Pekin duck breasts)
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
1 small shallot, minced
1 cup chicken or duck stock
1 1/2 ounces Armagnac
1 1/2 tablespoons blackberry jelly
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
Using a small, sharp knife, score the skin of the duck breasts in a crosshatch pattern, taking care not to cut into the meat. Season both sides of the breasts with salt and pepper and set aside for 15 minutes. Pat the meat dry with paper towels and place the breasts, skin side down, in a cold skillet. Turn the heat to medium-low and cook the breasts until most of the fat has rendered out and the skin is golden and crisp, 8 to 10 minutes. Flip the breasts and continue cooking for another 6 to 8 minutes until medium-rare.
(Note: If using Pekin
duck breasts, cook over medium heat instead of medium-low, and reduce the cooking time by 2 minutes per side. Cook in two batches if necessary to prevent crowding the skillet.)
Transfer the breasts to a cutting board and tent them with aluminum foil. Pour off all but 1 tablespoon of the fat from the skillet, then add the shallot. Cook over medium heat until soft, about 1 minute. Add the stock, Armagnac, and blackberry jelly and stir to combine. Bring the mixture to a boil and continue boiling until it has reduced by a little more than half and has become lustrous and almost syrupy. Remove the sauce from the heat, swirl in the butter, and season with a little salt and pepper.
Pour the sauce into the bottom of a deep serving platter. Slice the duck breasts and place the slices on top of the sauce.
Daube de Boeuf
Red Wine Beef Stew
Serves 6
Like many Gascon dishes, this one takes time: a full night for marinating, and another to let the stew rest before it’s degreased and gently cooked a second time the following day. Most Gascons I know use poitrine de boeuf, or brisket, for daube, but I recommend good-quality chuck instead since American brisket isn’t usually streaked with fat in the same way French poitrine is. Also, adding tomatoes isn’t particularly Gascon, but they give a nice, subtle acidity to this rich braise.
3 pounds beef chuck, cut into 2-inch chunks
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper