A Cook's Tour_ In Search of the Perfect Meal - Anthony Bourdain [24]
We ambled awkwardly down to the beach, stepped over driftwood and debris that once, as children, had promised untold possibilities for construction projects and play but now appeared sad and dreary. My brother and I stood by the water’s edge looking out at a violent surf, neither of us saying anything for a long while.
‘Dad would have loved this,’ I said.
‘What?’ asked Chris, snapping back from his own thoughts.
‘The whole idea of this. That we came back. That we came back here again – just the two of us. He would have liked it. He would have liked hearing about it.’
‘Yeah,’ said my little brother, no longer littler, taller than me now. The mature one.
‘Fuck . . . I miss the guy.’
‘Me too,’ said Chris.
I’d been looking to hook into the main vein on this stretch of my around-the-world adventure. I’d thought everything would be instant magic. That the food would taste better because of all my memories. That I’d be happier. That I would change, or somehow be as I once was. But you can never be ten years old again – or even truly feel like ten years old. Not for an hour, not for a
minute. This trip, so far, had been bittersweet at best.
I hadn’t, I realized, returned to France, to this beach, my old town, for the oysters. It wasn’t the fish soup, or the saucisson, or the pain raisin. It wasn’t to see a house in which strangers now lived, or to climb a dune, or to find a perfect meal. I’d come to find my father. And he wasn’t there.
Reasons Why You Don’t Want to Be on Television: Number One in a Series
‘While you’re in the area, let’s see where foie gras is made,’ said the creative masterminds of Televisionland. ‘We’re making a food show, remember? All this trip down memory lane is nice and all – but where’s the food? C’mon! You like foie gras! You said so!’
‘Sure,’ I said. Why not? Sounds educational. Sounds interesting. I do like foie gras – love it, even. The swollen fresh livers of goose or duck, lightly cooked en terrine in Sauternes, or seared in a pan with a few caramelized apples or quince, maybe a little balsamic reduction, a nice fat slice off a torchon with some toasted brioche. It’s one of the best things on earth.
We were right near Gascony, the epicenter of foie gras territory, so sure . . . let’s do it! Let’s make riveting, informative television, and scarf up some free foie while we’re at it. How could we go wrong?
The previous night, I’d sat for the cameras and choked down an absolutely gruesome, clumsily prepared, three-day-old dino-sized portion of tête de veau – a terrifying prospect in the best of circumstances. Usually (the way I make it anyway), it’s a slice of rolled-up boneless calf’s face, peeled right off the skull, tied up – with a stuffing of sweetbreads – and served boiled in a little broth with a few nicely shaped root vegetables and a slice of tongue. It’s an acquired taste, or, more accurately, an acquired texture: the translucent fat, the blue calf’s skin, and the bits of cheek and thymus gland take some getting past before you can actually enjoy the flavor. The squiggly, glistening, rubbery-looking gleet is – or should be – pretty tender and flavorful. Accompanied by a dab of sauce ravigote, or gribiche, the dish can be a triumphant celebration of old-school French country food, a conquering of one’s fears and prejudices. It’s one of my favorite things to cook. The few (mostly French) customers who order it at Les Halles, when I run it as a special, adore it. ‘Ahhh! Tête de veau!’ they’ll exclaim. ‘I haven’t had this in years!’ I make it well. And I have always gotten a very good reaction from those I inflict it on. I eat my own, now and again, and I like it.
This stuff was different. First of all, I had ignored all my own advice. Sucked into some romantic dream state of willful ignorance, I’d overlooked the fact that for three days I’d been passing by that specials board with Tête de Veau proudly written in block letters in white chalk. Meaning that it was, without question