Foie gras folly.
I’m more adventuresome in theory than in practice when it comes to food.
While on our recent getaway, Dean and I went to the highly recommended La Belle Vie, a French-Mediterranean restaurant in downtown Stillwater. The waiter came by and graciously started rambling on about special items not on the menu. I pretended to listen attentively but who can follow these sorts of spiels? (Especially while worrying that one’s husband’s discomfort quotient is growing exponentially by the second.)
The waiter said something about foie gras on a crepe and I said, “We’ll try that one,” thinking it would be in pâté form.
However, what I got for my ignorance and inattentiveness, was seared fois gras au natural, no pâté in sight. Blackened on the outside, quivering viscously on the inside, a nearly raw, fattened duck liver was not what I had in mind. Dean took one unknowing bite and said that was enough for him. I perched a slippery bite on the crepe and although the flavor was rich, the slimy consistency was too much for me too. I’m just not a nearly-raw organ kind of woman. Where was Seneca, the border collie, when I needed him? We could have sent it back, but I gamely ate a few more bites, thinking my body could, at least, use the vitamin A.
So do I recommend the dish to you? No. Foie gras, no matter the form, has been called the delicacy of despair. I can only recommend you pay attention and be informed so that you know what you are getting--and how you are getting it.
As for the bouillabaise, which I’d ordered for my main course, that was excellent, (and I don't think any prawns were force-fed for my pleasure.) The rich saffron broth almost succeeded in keeping me from tasting foie gras all night long---almost, but not quite. Those poor ducks.
11:32:23 PM 
|
|
