Numbered Ducks
No,
it's not my snapshot, but I will probably be getting one just like it in 4 days.
Sunday, I leave for Minneapolis to meet Junie. The next day, we take off
on NWA to JFK to board the
OpenSkies flight to Paris. As they are a subsidiary of British Air,
I'm hoping that they stay in business for the next two weeks.
Junie and I have looked over various travel and restaurant guides. Even
though there are more acclaimed restaurants at this point (they lost two
Michelin stars in the last decade), we decided to make a reservation at
La Tour d'Argent,
arguably the most famous restaurant in Europe. We may still get to one of
the higher-rated restaurants (e.g., one of Alain Ducasse's restaurants), but I
can't go to Paris one more time without getting a numbered duck. This is
the specialty of La Tour d'Argent, and is formally known as
Canard au Sangs, which is roughly
translated as "bloody duck". The restaurant has a farm outside
of town dedicated to raising them, and there are flying ducks everywhere in the
Flash pages of their web site. Here's what PlacesInFrance.com says:
"Tour d'Argent and Canard au Sang Duck Cuisine
The duck dish called the Canard au Sang, which is also known as bloody duck or pressed duck, is the main speciality of the Tour D'Argent restaurant, and is also one of the reasons why this restaurant has become so famous throughout the world.
It was back in 19th century that the owner of the Tour d'Argent, Frederic Delair, became famous when he created the ritual of the Canard au Sang, which is a very complex dish of duck, when he declared that every duck should bear a number and this ritual still carries on today.
For the dish to be prepared they need specific culinary equipment in the form of a certain type of press and the Tour d'Argent has two of these, both by Christofle in solid silver, and there is always one on display, but as a back up in case the one in use has to be sent back to Christofle for repair.
It was only a short while after inventing the recipe that includes cognac and Madeira, the tradition of numbering each duck started and a little card was produced and handed to the recipient of the meal confirming this."
So, I'm expecting to come out of the restaurant with certificate in hand.
The certificate numbers are now well over a million, which, as anyone can tell
you, is a lot of ducks. I'm expecting to get into the restaurant in
a sports coat and tie, since that's the only way they let you in. I was
thinking of bringing my vintage Star Wars tie with Princess Leia, and Luke, and
Hans and the Wookie on it, but Junie nixed that idea. So, I'll just bring
my cowboy wedding jacket, a white shirt, and something subtle in the way of a
tie.
~~~
In anticipation of culinary wonderment in France, I've been eating simply, or
what passes for simply where I'm concerned. The Longmont Farmer's Market
has been my answer to Eating Locally lately, and every Saturday I run over and
pick up: a pound of fresh lettuces; as many giant heirloom tomatoes as I
really think I can eat in a week; a bag of oyster, shiitake and lions beard
mushrooms from this dour guy who seems to find my actually buying them
objectionable (particularly at $5 a bag); nice non-heirloom tomatoes for other
purpose (most of the organic tomato vendors have 20-pound boxes of canning
tomatoes for $20); a couple of bunches of fresh basil. On one occasion, I
bought a bottle of local white wine. Last time, I bought a nice bunch of
basil with roots intact. I put them in a vase and have been clipping off
leaves as I need them all week.
As for eating simply: I've eaten risotto for 7 days. Well, maybe
there's a bit of paella in there. I started with a simple risotto recipe
with Arborio, chicken stock, saffron and a small handful of Parmesan at the end.
The next day, I added asparagus and sautéed shallots. The next day, I
sautéed up some of the mushrooms that I got at the farmer's market and threw
them in. The next day, I made a separate small batch of rice with sautéed
red peppers and the next day yellow peppers and the next day orange peppers.
Somewhere in there, I started throwing in shrimp, after Ms. Emily got her
obligatory 2 shrimp for dinner snack. Tonight, I made another batch to
meld with the original batch, adding more red peppers, some sautéed calamari,
and frozen peas.
So, I guess this is more like Stone Risotto.
~~~
I'll leave you with a poem:
Poem That Begins With An Excerpt From Bertrand Russell’s Biography And Proceeds to Paradox
… and it turned out on logical analysis that there was an affinity
with the ancient Greek contradiction about Epimedies the Cretan,
who said that all Cretans were liars. Though Crete is now divided
on the question, sipping thimbles of dark coffee at one end, ouzo
at the other. Far from Paris, where your young Greek girlfriend
screams at you on the second tier of the Eiffel Tower. Yesterday
Melina fancied a limited print propped up against the Quay
that would be perfect in the dining room of the small house
you mean to have when you’re both sure of things. Someone was juggling
on the broad concrete foyer of the Pompidou: a badminton birdie,
a bowling ball. A chainsaw would have completed the flashback
to Venice Beach where you first saw Melina walking nine dogs
on the Strand, when you likened her to the sun among those yapping
planets. You ran your finger around the tight inside of your collar,
and recited Pi to twenty-one place. She held your face in her right hand
and the dogs in her left. One thing led to another.
~~~
In the Metro, you watched a woman arrange her hair, as only
the French can manage without self-consciousness. While Melina
contemplated baby names that echoed in the small tiled tunnel:
Alexandra, Anaxamander, even Paris. Names that provide an identity
even before personality steps in to contradict. An old man sold her
a lottery ticket from a long flimsy ribbon of them pinned
to his lapel, and you told her how you admired her grasp of nomenclature,
numerology. Piaf smoldered from the PA system, or someone
close enough. Melina stopped dead in the turnstile: “Why
do you lie to me?” Melina, the pragmatist, who loathes
anyone who doesn’t loathe themselves, now perched
on a railing, one hand grasping the metalwork, the other waving.
~~~
A man on the ground with a pipe between his teeth mumbles “Jump if you must.”
And you say to her, “I have always loved you, we only needed to meet”,
so she lowers herself to the cold metal platform and moves to you as you
sign up to reconcile her self-worth with your self-doubts. Five thousand miles
from your family of liars, 23 years since your first kiss. 120 meters above
the vendors and barge traffic, from which you descend, arms around
each other’s waist, doves mourning in the Tower’s chords. The man no longer
has his pipe and smiles as you pass, as if he know he’s only here for
affirmation,
and a sunset that began in Athens stretches across the long walk to the cab
stand.
A thousand ships depart from Marseilles. Melina’s already asleep in your lap.
On a whim, you say you’d like to go to Illium. The taxi man smiles
beneath a full mustache, puts the flag up, points the cab east.
~~~~
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