So what's the big deal? Opponents tend to have three issues with foie gras. (1) Producing it requires the force feeding of ducks or geese, artificially enlarging their livers beyond what's naturally healthy. (2) The force feeding is done by a process called "gavage", where someone must insert a tube down a bird's throat. (3) During the gavage process, which usually lasts 10-12 days, the birds are kept in pens and have little ability to move.
I figured that, as long as I was in Gascony, I needed to dig into the production process for myself. If I'm going to eat it, I should learn about how it's produced. Gascony is, after all, the spiritual home of this delicacy. France produces more than 70% of the world's supply, and almost 90% of that total comes from the Southwest. It's on every menu in the region, and every tourist shop is stacked with jars of the stuff.
Here are some facts the protesters don't mention. (And probably don't know.) Foie gras was documented as far back as ancient Egypt, and may go back further. It's an exaggeration of a natural process. Migrating, wild ducks and geese naturally fatten up before flying to their winter homes, gorging themselves to build up fat reserves for the trip. Humans realised that ducks killed and prepared just before this migration were delicious, and that their enlarged livers were particularly tasty. Farmers decided to help the process along. Force-feeding these ducks and geese, it turns out, is very easy because (1) they're greedy and (2) they have no gag reflex. They're designed this way to allow them to consume whole fish at one go. Together, it means that they don't mind the gavage tube, and don't find it painful.
We visited the foie gras farm of Martin Neuf, in the lush, rolling countryside just west of Condom. Like most of the best producers, this is a small family farm where everything is done with personal attention. They might be producing one of the world's most gourmet foods, but there are no airs and graces here.
When we pulled up in front of the farmhouse, a golden retriever loped out to greet us. Eventually Aline Perotto emerged from the kitchen, apron and hairnet suggesting she was deep in the production process. No English spoken here, but you'll get along well enough as she offers samples of their foie gras, washed down with little cups of their home-made Floc. There's a little shop here displaying the full range of the farm's products; mostly foie gras but plenty of related goodies like duck rillettes and cassoulet, all in preserving jars ready for transport.
When we asked to see the ducks (after politely buying some stuff, of course), Mme. turned us over to her husband Gerard, who runs the back end of the operation. We walked down a slope behind the house to see a large, fenced enclosure similar to what you'd find in a great zoo. There was a lake with a little island in its centre, grassy verges, a few trees and copious feeding troughs. The ducks ( a special hybrid called Mulard are most typically used) are beautiful beasts. Much larger than the mallards probably in your head when you think "duck", you'd mistake these for geese. The Perottos' flock have white bases, marked with black and brown patches. They live in that enclosure for two to three months, wandering freely and allowed (encouraged) to eat all they can.
For the last 10 days of their lives, they move to the gavage barn, where they're put in cages and fed by hand twice a day. At this point, their diet becomes pure corn. The Perottos feed some just yellow corn, some just white, which produces two types of foie gras with subtly different flavours. The farmer has to take each duck in his arms, twice a day, to feed him. That's an animal he's raised since birth. An animal upon whom the family finances are based. And every farmer knows that stressed animals don't taste as good as relaxed ones. I don't see any animal cruelty here; it would be contrary to instinct, quality and profits. They grow the corn on their estate as well, and it's either Gerard or an assistant doing the feeding. Once the ducks are slaughtered, Madame takes over in the kitchen. If you like organic farming with completely local sourcing, this is a model.
Fact is, foie gras birds lead far better lives than intensively farmed poultry, which is the way the majority of reasonably-priced chicken gets to your table.
Thanks to cooking school, of course, we weren't just buying foie gras. We were cooking with it. We spent an afternoon with Chef Bernard at Le Petit Feuillant uncovering the mysteries of how a duck's liver becomes the gourmet delicacy on Michelin-starred plates.
Everything starts with the basic livers. Each duck has two lobes, one slightly bigger than the other, about the size of a large person's hand. Preparation is actually quite simple; turns out this is one of those quality products that doesn't need much help to shine.
You can slice it and pan fry it immediately, usually serving it up with some sweet but sharp sauce. This is the preparation I like the least, as I find it too fatty. The more typical version, however, involves preservation. You work through the lobes to remove two webs of veins from each. Season, pack into a preserving jar, seal and cook in a bain marie for an hour. In this time, some of the fat from the liver cooks out, forming a protective seal around the meat. Those jars are then good for a couple of years and, once opened, the paste-like preserved meat can be used in a variety of preparations. In Gascony, it's most common to find this simply served, either as a slice next to a salad
and some fruit compote, or spread on pieces of toast.
Foie gras mi cuit is becoming more fashionable in gourmet venues. This version is literally "half cooked". It's softer and more delicate, but doesn't have the longevity of the preserved version. Bernard taught us to pack a pan half way with seasoned liver, add a layer of gingerbread, add the other half of the liver, then cook. The resulting slices are elegant, delicious, and more complex due to their addition flavours. For our third method, we worked the raw liver with a form until it was a smooth paste, then rolled it in a coating of salt. In other variations we added pepper, or espalette (the distinctive regional take on paprika). In this case, the salt cures the meat naturally so no cooking is required. Just give it enough time in the 'fridge, and it's ready to spread on toast.
Of the three versions we prepared, my favourite was the mi cuit with the gingerbread. I'm not sure that had anything to do with the difference in cooking, frankly. It was just the revelation of gingerbread with foie gras. I'll be trying that with the fully preserved stuff soon.
We put our new skills to the test in our holiday cottage kitchen during week two. Having found raw, fresh livers in Auch and preserving jars at the local Carrefour, we decided to try to make our own. I can't report on the result, as the jars needed to rest for at least 10 days before sampling. They're now safely resting in a cool, dark place chez Bencard, waiting for the next special occasion.While waiting for the bain marie to do it's work, I couldn't resist doing a few calculations. We invested £61 in liver and preserving jars. We ended up producing six 400-gram jars of foie gras, with a "street value" in Mayfair of more than £300. The cost difference wasn't as extreme against the local producers, but I still would have paid more than double for Madame Perotto to do the work for me. Beyond the cost savings, we're stocked up for holidays and dinner parties for the next two years. Assuming this works, I suspect any future trip to Gascony will require a kitchen and a day of foie gras preparation.
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