Gazing down at $80 worth of bloated duck liver lying naked on the kitchen counter, the hesitant cook may well wonder how these smooth lobes ever morphed into fois gras, the epitome of haute cuisine.
It seems we've become addicted to this guilty pleasure. Sliced thickly and seared to a caramelized gold with a melting centre, foie gras is the ultimate indulgence. Or you may find it au torchon,wrapped in a towel, rolled into a cylinder and poached in duck fat or stock. Modern chefs have even experimented with foie gras pizza.
But the most extravagant and classical preparation of all is the slow-baked terrine of foie gras, with its rich, sensual texture and intense flavour. It's omething every gourmand should aspire to make at least once at home.
My first foie came from Brome Lake Ducks in Knowlton, Que. Since my sister and her family were coming from France for Christmas, I decided we must have some. The Lac Brome farm itself was disappointing, a field of low grey sheds with a water tower in the middle, but the retail shop proved to be a shrine to the hapless bird. There were whole ducks, confit legs cooked in duck fat, tongues and all manner of canned duck liver mousse and parfait.
In the midst of this treasure trove lay the prized liver, vacuum-packed whole and frozen. At $55 a pound, it was the first time I'd ever used my Visa card to buy a pound and a half of meat.
A restaurateur friend of mine is convinced that most North American diners order foie gras for its snob appeal without really knowing what they're eating. I prefer to believe we simply don't want to dwell on the force-feeding of ducks while their rich, pleasurable fat melts in our mouths. Or be reminded that foie gras translates simply as "fat liver."
From what I recall of a long ago visit to a farm in the canard capital of France, Perigord, the greedy young ducks didn't seem to mind swallowing kilos of corn mash from a funnel for a few weeks. I suppose life isn't much fun, however, when your liver becomes so engorged you can barely move.
Aux Champs d'lis in Marieville, which supplies Brome Lake with foie gras, is one of a handful of Quebec farms that produces this costly specialty for chefs and meat shops across Canada. Here, ducks are fed a paste of crushed corn and hot water twice a day for the last two weeks of their life. A tube is inserted into the duck's mouth (not the stomach) for three seconds at a time, says export manager Pierre Meunier. "Think of it as 90 seconds in the life of the duck," he says. "It's not romantic, but they're still healthy and running around even just before slaughter."
My modest Quebec foie, which we carried home in ice as carefully as a crystal wineglass, brought back memories of my summer as a stagiare at La Crémaillère in Orléans, a one-star restaurant in the Loire owned by the tall, imposing M. Huyart. I can still hear him roaring at the 13-year-old apprentices, threatening to call their mothers for not cleaning the walk-in fridge properly. And feel his big bear paw on my shoulder as he urged me to sample one of his signature dishes.
"You must taste, Mlle David," he commanded. And I did. Tiny wild strawberries brought to the restaurant's back door by a forager, Norwegian salmon smoked by the chef's father-in-law, delicate soufflés beaten by hand in a copper bowl. I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.
Of all his specialties, M. Huyart's fois gras frais dans sa terrine was his pride and joy. Every Monday, the chef carefully deveined giant yellow duck livers and laid them in white ceramic terrines with port and homemade stock. Several days later, he served square slices of terrine with a thin layer of fat on top with a bit of frisée and shards of sparkling clear gélée. It was unctuous, buttery heaven when spread on toast. I was so inspired, I brought some home, thinking one day I'd try my hand at it.
Fifteen years later, the time had come. My precious foie was thawed and ready to cook. Finding a reliable recipe, however, proved frustrating for they were all completely contradictory. One French cookbook called for soaking the liver in milk for hours, while another marinated it for days. Some cookbooks sprinkled the foie with two tablespoons of Sauternes, while others called for a litre of sweet white wine.
This last mystery was solved by Ariane Daguin, co-owner of New York duck purveyor d'Artagnan. "You can never add too much salt or too much liquor," the duck expert informed Martha Stewart's viewers last Christmas. "The foie will take what it needs."
The trickiest step in preparing foie is removing the veins that connect the two lobes and branch out deep inside. Here, Thomas Keller's French Laundry Cookbook proved a godsend. "When you're cleaning it," writes the celebrated Napa chef, "don't be afraid you're going to make a mistake, because you can always put it back together." To make things easier, it helps to let the liver sit at room temperature for about an hour.
You don't need a fancy terrine for your foie -- a heavy loaf pan just big enough to hold it snugly will do, leaving a little room on top. When my wine-soaked foie was at last ready for the oven, I was faced with a range of cooking times. Most French terrine recipes call for an internal temperature of 110 to 120 F. Yet in his newest tome, Glorious French Food,James Peterson advises cooking it to 135 F to kill any bacteria ever since he spent a grim night sick in Paris.
I have since learned not to bake it beyond that. The longer a foie cooks, the more fat it loses. I ended up with a shrunken grey liver floating in a pool of amber liquid. Siding with the French, I baked this one to 120 F.
Once the foie has cooked to the desired temperature, recipes advise weighing it down to press the meat together. One time, I figured the bigger the weight the better, and used the heaviest rock in my garden. Three days later, I opened the lid and removed the now bright yellow layer of congealed fat to discover a very thin terrine with a rock-shaped dent in the middle. I now use a piece of cardboard and a heavy tin can. Another thing cookbook authors agree on is chilling the terrine for at least two days before serving to allow the flavours to mingle. With its protective fat covering, however, you can easily keep it for a week.
After nearly a week of preparation and anticipation, I proudly served slightly curved strips of my first foie on Christmas Day, accompanied by a nest of frisée and a dab of homemade rhubarb compote. Though not as pink and soft as the French might like, the texture was pleasant and the sweetness of the Sauternes complemented the mild liver flavour. I'm now determined to cook a terrine of foie gras every Christmas, hoping one day to make M. Huyart proud. Classic terrine of foie gras I hope this adaptation of many recipes will help take the mystery out of preparing foie gras. Let your pocketbook dictate whether to buy one foie or two.
1 or 2 Grade A foie gras (1.5 pounds each)
2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon white pepper
Pinch of sugar
{ cup sweet white wine, Armagnac, port or Madeira
Rinse liver and pat dry. Let stand at room temperature for 45 minutes to soften. To clean, gently separate lobes and remove the veins connecting them and any bits of fat, membrane or green patches. Probe for the main vein and its branches with fingers, tweezers or a paring knife, pulling out vein as you follow its length. Place cleaned liver in a bowl.
Mix spices and season all over, then sprinkle with wine. Press a piece of plastic wrap over meat (it oxidizes and turns grey quickly) and cover bowl. Refrigerate overnight.
Bring foie to room temperature, about 45 minutes. Press large lobe smooth-side down into an oval or porcelain terrine just large enough to hold liver. Or use a heavy loaf pan lined with parchment. Add any small broken pieces of liver, then the smaller lobe (or lobes), smooth side up. If using two livers, place the second large lobe on top. Press down to fit into mould. Cover securely with plastic wrap, then foil.
Place a folded tea towel in the bottom of a pan large enough to hold the terrine and set terrine on top. Add hot (not boiling) water halfway up sides of terrine. Bake in a 200 F oven just until internal temperature measures 120 F on an instant-read thermometer. This will take 40 minutes to an hour, depending on the size of the liver and the mould used.
Remove terrine from water bath. Cut a piece of cardboard to fit the top of the terrine and wrap it in several layers of plastic wrap. Place over liver and weigh down with a large can. When liver is cool, remove the weight and cardboard; cover well. Refrigerate for three days or up to two weeks.
To unmould, run a knife along the edges, dip terrine briefly in hot water and invert onto a plate. Reserve fat. Slice with a warm knife and serve with toasted bread. Once terrine has been cut, cover and use within two days. Serves 10 to 12.