Friday, June 09, 2006

Escar-gone

OK, I ate 89 escargots while in France. On the road trip back I tallied and that is the total. Possibly six were below average, but obviously not inedible. The rest were perfect. The accompanying bread served as a crispy crusted sponge for the garlicky parsleyed butter, and each dish was sent back to the kitchen gleaming clean. My classmates generally enjoyed the abandon with which I dove into the shallow snail cups, and those who were not inclined to enjoy theirs sent them my way. It would have been disgusting to another crowd, but since we're all attending the University of Gastronomic Sciences my delirium was not frowned upon; rather, it was celebrated, and I love that.
Part of our stage was a trip I'd waited my whole life for- we went to an escargot farm called L'Escarbelle in Thoisy-le-Desert which is in the Burgundy region. It is one of two small escargot producers in the area still operating and the other guy is ill, according to L'Escarbelle's owner, Isabelle Joly. Isabelle is a woman in her forties, I would guess, with bobbed wavy blonde hair and cheekbones that are as strong as her personality. She started her farm about seven years ago, originally intending to produce sheep's cheese. Her garden had become over-run by snails and a friend joked that she'd probably have better luck farming them- and she did. After five years with no profit she is finally able to rest occasionally. She produces 200-thousand escargots a year and she sells them all. She does no advertising, relying instead on word of mouth. She's able to spread the word well herself since she's an enthusiastic communicator with a gift for confidently exposing small weaknesses. (Once she thought an electric fence would deter potential escapees- instead she accidentally killed almost all her “livestock”).
The escargots are basically free-range, with a fenced in area about fifty feet by twenty. For a cow this might not qualify but it would take one of these snails a couple of days to do a lap. They get their exercise while grazing on clover, thistle, and rape- a plant with small yellow flowers and plenty of foliage. The day we visited the snails were still babies- still smaller than a pencil eraser. Snail reproduction- let's talk about it- it's as slow as you might imagine (if you ever imagined it before). Apparently they are hermaphroditic and in the spring they seem to be more in touch with their masculine side and become interested in reproducing. They get together and sort-of slowly spin around belly-to-belly until the correct organs match up. Once matched they are “in process” for forty-eight hours. Then both slide away carrying about a hundred eggs each. The breeding actually happens on Styrofoam in a lab somewhere, and Isabelle buys 100 snail eggs in a petri dish for one Euro and fifty cents. The tiny snails are brought to their new home in said petri dish and they will find plenty of greens and shade in their new paradise, along with slats of wood for them to attach underneath. Isabelle sprinkles these boards daily with lime for them to get calcium for their shells. This, she says, is the most labor intensive part of running the farm- next to the actual process of removing them from the shells for washing.
D-day for the escargots comes in the fall. They are collected in late August and September and are forced to fast for fifteen days to clean out their digestive system. Then they're put into a chilly place with fans where they instinctively hibernate. They can stay like this for a few months if the producer doesn't have time to process them right away. Isabelle then puts them into a netted nylon bag- similar to those you'd find holding potatoes at the grocery store. This is put into boiling water, then into cold water, and then comes the tedious part- pulling them from the shells.
There is more to the snail than we get in the restaurant, by the way. There is a curly bit of meat that coils into the shell, and it is the snail's liver. Previously it was believed to be the intestines, and people would remove it for fear that the snail had eaten something poisonous while in the wild (also part of the reason for the pre-hibernation fasting). This part is still removed because the liver retains heavy metals and while this wouldn't be a problem at Isabelle's farm, many of the snails that we find on the market and in cans today come from Eastern Europe- more specifically from areas near enough to Chernobyl to arouse suspicion of nuclear accident left-overs. So we are left to wonder enviously as those “in the know” assure that is is an exceptional flavor that is shamefully missing from the landscape of the modern palate. And I find this mildly irritating.
So, Isabelle removes the liver and discards it, then stirs the escargots in a pot with salt and vinegar to remove the slime. They are rinsed, then par boiled, then put into fresh vinegar and salt, and rinsed again. She prepares a vegetable broth, adds snails, then jars them for sale. Others, she packs back into shells with the traditional garlic-butter-parsley mixture and freezes them. She says this is ok because they are protected by the butter fat from freezer issues. Otherwise, freezing is not an option for her.
Farming the escargot is a new adventure in agriculture (called Heliculture). Only twenty years old, really. Before that people would hunt for the snails out in vineyards- probably because the snails would benefit from the limestone soil in France. Over-hunting depleted the wild Helix Ponatia which is prized in Burgundy (in Southern France it is the Petit Grey). So much so, it became illegal to hunt wild snails for resale twenty years ago. There aren't many left still because of pesticides and the early over-hunting. Now there are three hundred snail producers in all of France- a few of which make up a large segment of the market because of enormous production numbers. France consumes 65-thousand tons of escargot, according to our lecture, many of which come from Eastern Europe. I'm not sure of this total includes shell weight, but I am proud to say that I did my part in adding to that total.

Sunday, June 04, 2006

A Bone to Pick

Being from Kansas City I have gnawed on my share of rib bones. I have always felt it to be the most crude and yet satisfying display of carnivorism. Grease and bar-b-q sauce dripping from knuckle to elbow with a good smear of it across the lower face shows that I know what stalking prey is all about. I look primitive. I feel primitive. And that is not pretty on a girl.
So now I have found a refined way to get the most from an animal bone; in formal dress with no less than a silver spoon. It is eating the marrow from a bone much bigger than any rib. At a restaurant in Dijon called La Ruelle my friend ordered it and I was stunned at the size of these bovine leg bones. They were cut and arranged on her plate like little industrial smoke stacks with the slightest steam rising from the warm center. In that center, where I'm accustomed to seeing either nothing or a dog treat there is a gooey translucent substance with juice or warm fat pooling around the outer edges. This is the marrow and it closely resembles something I am psychotically not fond of- visible animal fat. Grizzle is what I called it as a kid and to this day it does not pass my lips if I have any control over it. If a crafty interloper passes the incisors, it is quickly dispatched into a napkin regardless of who I am sitting across the table from. It could be the Pope. If it were a religious order to not eat visible animal fat, like no pork for Jewish people, the pontiff would be proud of my resolve. But alas, it is seen as juvenile at best, disgusting at worst, and still my addictive aversion abides.
However, I said I would try the marrow before I saw it. Of course I never imagined what it would look like. Thankfully you don't eat it straight as it is served with accompaniment. My patient friend prepared my bite, carefully spooning the marrow onto a slice of the wonderfully crusty bread of France. With the measured carelessness afforded only to people with more worldly food experience than I, she sprinkled fleur de mer sea salt over the glistening lump and handed it my way. I'm in a food course where adventurousness is admired. I couldn't play the vegetarian card, because I've never professed to be one and I couldn't feign a stomach ailment because I had a plateful of cassis- sauced pink shrimp staring at me from my spot at the dining table. I wasn't about to totter off to the bathroom moaning in my best Meryl Streep and risk the seafood being whisked away in my best interest. So I had no choice but to try it and be enthusiastic about it.
To say it was life altering would be melodramatic, but it did cut the tether to my youthful knee-jerk reaction to its appearance. The bread carried the marrow and its juice to all corners of my mouth. As I chewed I felt it spread like warm massage oil over my teeth, gums, and tongue- spreading the subtly beefy flavor towards my throat. As with all things glorious, the bite was over too fast. But before I could form a tear of remorse that it had disappeared- I sensed its flavor lingering there- mercifully suspended by the protective armour of fat- the marrow's spirit hung on. I was so grateful. Its persistence made up for the fact that there is not much of it. Each bite is to be savored and beloved for at least five minutes, then followed by a small sip of Cotes de Nuit. The wine seemed like a long lost lover of the bite I had just taken and as they reunited on my tastebuds I groaned a little. Opening my eyes I realized I made a bit of a scene for my friends and thankfully none of the other diners noticed. Or if they did, they acted like they didn't notice, and that is a nice thing about the French. They do that.
So I would suggest if there is a way, try marrow for the first time with people you won't be embarrassed in front of- or at least with French people. Because while your reaction may not be as wanton as mine there will be some sort of pause while you ponder what you've just consumed because it is unlike anything in the common repertoire of daily dining.