Volume 9
An Online Literary Magazine
November 30, 2014

 

Ŕ Table

Nonfiction

Meredith Escudier

 


The Dordogne River runs through the Dordogne Valley, a region famous for its ducks and geese, and the inimitable foie gras and confit de canard and yes, salade de gésiers.

 

C
learly, salade de gésiers sounds better in French than gizzard salad. Much better. The French gésier with its caressing initial consonant and uplifted last syllable exudes an air of mystery and promise that the more down-to-earth “gizzard” fails to deliver in English (no matter how good the gizzard). Just for the beauty of language alone, a starry-eyed tourist on his first day in a cozy Parisian brasserie might be tempted to try it. “Hmm, szay-zee-ay,” he might mutter as he slips into a romantic rêverie, “that sounds pretty good...,” never guessing that gésier actually denotes a digestive organ full of poultry pickings. While such curiosity and confidence are highly commendable, especially on the first day, not everyone succumbs. I didn’t. After a near lifetime in France during which I avidly embraced most any culinary offering, I took my own sweet time before going to the gizzard. To be exact, about thirty years.

 

Yes, I had numerous opportunities, but I drew a little line, eschewing the experience of Gizzard Love except as a little concession to please my French husband or some other well-meaning gizzard aficionado willing to sacrifice a small fragment of the organ for my edification. Through pursed lips, I would bite off a tiny morsel, feigning interest and openness, only to settle comfortably back into my stubborn prejudice. Gizzard meat is hard, tough, compact and firm. It has power. It resists, which is not surprising as it has spent its life contracting and breaking down kernels of corn and multifarious whatnot scratched from the ground. But though crunchily resistant, it is neither rubbery like licorice nor chewy like taffy. Almost always, it has absorbed the juices (and fat) from cooking, either on the inside of a roasted bird as in its original anatomical position or cooked slightly crisp when baked alongside the bird in its sizzling juices. Any French host or hostess is liable to spoon out the precious innards and inquire with sparkling eyes as to who will be first to lay claim to the lone organ (qui veut le gésier?), because yes, there are takers and some of them might be willing to fight for it, especially given the biological fact that there is only one gizzard per host animal. Alas.

 

Nevertheless, I must have known down deep that the gizzard (in all of its God-given glory) was bound to catch up with me. And it did one day, as it happens, in the simplest of venues, in a modest, roadside restaurant—the kind frequented by truckers and motorists who appreciate the relative calm and character of France’s back roads. These drivers, up early in the morning and feeling peckish by noon, look forward to punctuating their long hauls with a homey stop and a warm meal. The mom and pop restaurants once lining the departmental roads in France grew out of this reliable, traveling, working clientele. Furnished with clunky chairs and rustic tables, regional table linens and gloomy, yellow lighting, these inns and way stations still spell home to the hungry pilgrim. A slight whiff of ammonia might wash over expectant customers as they enter the dining room and primitive washrooms come with a drab towel hanging limply on a rack, but not to worry. These establishments promise basic, home-style cooking, pridefully and decently served.

 

 


Confit de Canard:The ultra-moist confit meat falls off the bone with the merest pressure of a fork or knife and leaves a lasting imprint on its lucky diner. Who would have guessed that gizzards benefited from the same loving treatment?
On the road ourselves since early dawn, Jean-Pierre and I were feeling the first pleasant pangs of hunger by 12:05. Perfect. We were between Bordeaux and Bergerac, still in the heart of the Gironde. No danger of starving. Pushing on for a few more reasonable kilometers, we reached what seemed like a cozy refuge in the drizzle of a wet autumn. Parking our car and entering on our tiptoes as first comers are wont to do, we chose our table, scraped our chairs into position and consulted the hand-written menu on laminated pages bound within an imposing, slightly sticky leather-like book. With pleasant anticipation, we perused a couple of meager choices for a three-course meal, a natural enough reflex activity when à table, an innocent act without the slightest chance of mishap, but that’s when I snapped. That’s when the gizzard salad spoke to me loud and clear and became the preferred choice, the obvious favorite, the go-to gizzard that lifted itself over and above a plain ol’ liver pâté or egg in jelly.

 

“Hmm, I’m thinking of giving the salade de gésiers a go.”

 

What? My husband looked up in consternation. After all these years? After so many previous foregone opportunities? After turning up your nose at so many perfectly fine gizzards going down the gullets of your fellow, more rapacious tablemates? (Or that’s what I think he thought. Galling, non?)

 

I could feel my resolution solidify like reinforced concrete. A sense of recklessness and freedom rose within me, building boldness, power, layers, depth. Allez! I shall have the gizzard salad. May the gizzards spill forth. Let the good gizzards roll and the wild rumpus begin!

 

The patronne barely blinked an eye as she diligently wrote down my order and the salade de gésiers arrived forthwith: little gray chunks resting comfortably on a bed of shredded greenery, sprinkled with parsley. There were five or six of them, all pre-seasoned, pre-cooked, pre-conditioned for their final swan song, an appetizer requiring the silent participation of as many as two or more birds whose fates now included me as their ultimate destination. I lifted my fork, carefully, thoughtfully, mindfully. Not in a squeamish way, just in a maybe-not-quite-to-my-taste way. The first mouthful was to define the whole experience. I looked up at Jean-Pierre as if discovering grace. C’est délicieux! My gizzards are so…so tender (yet resistant), flavorful (yet delicate), well-defined (yet elusive)!

 

“You really must try this,” I said, fully forgetting my former reluctance. “Take a bite,” I insisted, completely contradicting my usual need not to share my own bounty. “C’est bon, n’est-ce pas?” I waited for his considered assessment, watchful of his every move because Jean-Pierre is an Epicurean by nature and nurture, an explorer of tastes and an adventurer on the high seas of gastronomical forays. He is an original palate, an unsentimental experimenter and if that weren’t enough, a native of the Southwest.

 

“It tastes like goose grease,” he said. “That’s why you like it.”

 

“It does?” Could he be right? Of course he was. The irresistible graisse d’oie dominated. The incredibly flavorful grease from the Périgord tradition of duck and goose raising, of foie gras, of glistening confits de canard—the ducks that are cooked, coated and preserved in their own grease in glass jars or clay pots, opened only on special occasions, such as the arrival of unexpected honored guests. The ultra-moist confit meat falls off the bone with the merest pressure of a fork or knife and leaves a lasting imprint on its lucky diner. Who would have guessed that gizzards benefited from the same loving treatment? Yes, gizzards, too (guy gizzards, girl gizzards, gizzards galore of every stripe imaginable) belonged in that famed happy family. Proof: Here they were sitting pretty on my plate like so many expectant Easter eggs, their little gizzardy fragments shining brightly and brilliantly (but in a humble sort of gizzard-like way). Oh là là, so much work, so much history, so many fortuitous steps from the barnyard to my palate.

 

Needless to say, I became a convert that day, bitterly regretting my heretofore narrow-mindedness. But I decided that resentment and remorse would get me nowhere. Rehashing the Lost Gizzards would be an exercise in futility. Instead, I resolved to carry on with my newfound curiosity and openness (non, je ne regrette rien). Fresh and whole, cleansed and innocent, I would not think about the many gésiers that had escaped my grasp by landing on somebody else’s plate, flying the coop right under my very nose until that melt-in-the-mouth moment of epiphany. I would move forward, not forgetting to sing the gizzard’s praises to my future fellow diners, exhorting its unique attributes to one and all. Onward. La vie continue.

 

And now for the salade de museau. Beef snout salad sounds perfectly...wonderful.

 

Meredith Escudier has lived in France for 30-odd years, teaching, translating and raising a family. She is the author of Scene in France…from A to Z and Frenchisms for Francophiles.

 

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