Two chickens, a rabbit and four quail showed up at my front door, uninvited. Also, a pig or, well, part of a pig.
This is neither the beginning of a joke, nor an episode of “PAW Patrol,” but, rather, the story of a meat delivery gone wrong — deliciously wrong.
Last month, I placed an order with D’Artagnan, a meat wholesaler known for duck and, in particular, a line of foie gras products that made the company famous. Once a year or so, we want this rich duck liver for a treat, so we order from D’Artagnan. I always feel a little thrill when I see the company label, a duck dressed like a musketeer. En garde, triglycerides!
When two huge boxes arrived on our stoop, I thought, “Hmm. This does not look like 8 ounces of sliced liver. I opened up the box, and out came two chickens, a rabbit, four quail and four pork tenderloins. I called the customer service line and found myself on the line with a cheerful woman with one of those New Joisey accents that can fill you with a longing for the East Coast.
“I didn’t get what I ordered,” I told her.
She pulled up the order “Says here you did. Two chickens, a rabbit, four quail and four pork tenderloins.”
“But it’s not true,” I persisted, even though the packing list on the order confirmed it with my name.
We discussed this anomaly at some length, before we both had the bright idea to pull up the email confirmation.
“Hold on,” she said, “but, really, hold on. I have to go talk to them back in packaging.”
After a period of time, during which I began to worry she had driven to a plant in Delaware, she came back, chuckling.
“Those guys,” she said. laughing. “Seriously, those guys. Well, we got you all straightened out. We’ll get your foie gras shipped tomorrow.”
“What should I do with the meat you sent?” I asked.
“Do you have a freezer?” she asked. That made sense. I don’t think I’d buy from a company that asked to have misdirected meat returned.
And, so, we had a freezer full of meat. We were down with the chicken and pork, but what about the rabbit?
I’ve long heard that Americans should get more comfortable eating rabbit, because it’s easy and economical to raise, lean and nutritious as a protein source, and it doesn’t contribute to greenhouse gases and pollute the waterways. But, like most of my countrymen, I couldn’t think of the last time I considered rabbit in the meat, not pets, way.
(Side note: When my kids were growing up, we had a white-furred beauty, Bun Bun, who lived a brief but happy life. I remember when my 4-year-old called me at work to say she found Bun Bun, who often escaped his enclosure, behind a chair in the den, not moving. “Maybe Bun Bun’s sleeping,” I said. She thought about this for a second before responding, “Bun Bun’s hard.”)
Credit: John Kessler
Credit: John Kessler
I guess my last spin with rabbit in the pan was as a young cook, when I worked in a restaurant that served it as a special, now and again. There, I learned that separating a leg from a rabbit was just a matter of pulling it off. No knife needed. I always have assumed that’s the reason rabbits hop and chickens don’t, but never have looked it up.
We used to throw the ribs and forelegs into the stockpot and cut the loins from the saddle. Those, we seared in a smoking hot pan, while we braised the hindlegs — both techniques to counter the leporid’s potential for toughness.
That was then. Where would I find inspiration now? Most of the cookbooks I consulted had an atavistic sensibility, with directions like, “Carefully examine for shot.” All talked of the differences between farm-raised and wild rabbits, and between rabbit and hare. My edition of “The Joy of Cooking” suggested braising the meat with prunes. Paula Wolfert, in “The Cooking of Southwest France,” recommended finding a fresh hare and thickening the sauce with the animal’s blood and liver. And, “1080 Recipes,” the classic compendium of Spanish cooking, offered a number of simple recipes — with white wine, olives and almonds, and mustard — most of them variations on guisado or stew.
When I thawed the rabbit, I discovered that, rather than a whole, cut-up rabbit, I had four legs. Mentally merging a variety of recipes, I braised the legs in white wine and chicken stock, and finished the sauce with dried porcini mushrooms, mustard, cream and tarragon. It tasted like something from a French bistro.
Credit: John Kessler
Credit: John Kessler
We invited our pandemic bubblemates, Linsey and Scott, over for dinner. The afternoon of the dinner, Linsey texted to say she was squeamish at the thought of bunny stew. How do you feel about quail? I texted back.
No problem there. They came over early, and Linsey, a wonderful cook, stuffed the quail with veggies and breadcrumbs, wrapped them in prosciutto and roasted them until their bitty legs pointed skyward. We sat down to a weird, but tasty, multi-critter dinner.
The next day, I had a new quandary. What does one do with leftover soft, shreddy, stewy rabbit? That was easy: The empanadas were great.
John Kessler worked as a food writer and dining critic at The Atlanta Journal-Constitution from 1997 to 2015. He now lives in Chicago.
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