Last week I rather inexplicably received the following email from a young lady called Erica. It’s about the French culture of eating a rather tiny songbird called an ortolan, and was sent to me with no introduction, no preamble, no how’s-yer-father, not a thing. The only (tenuous) connection I can imagine is that the practise of scoffing lickle birdies was mentioned briefly in a comments thread months ago, but that’s about it. And yet the whole thing was too bizarre and too fantastically silly to simply delete. So, erm, here you have it, readers of Toad, enjoy:
Long considered the pinnacle of gastronomic delight by the French, the ortolan is a protected species after being hunted almost out of existence. The prized birds can fetch up to €150 (£102) each if sold illegally to restaurants. Diners savour the ritual almost as much as the flavour. François Mitterrand, the former French president, notoriously feasted upon a whole one at his “last supper” while terminally ill with prostate cancer, concealing his head beneath a napkin in the traditional manner.
Some say the napkin helps the diner savour the aroma, others that it is intended to conceal his greed from God. The more pragmatic point out that eating ortolan, which is placed in the mouth whole and eaten bones and all, is a very messy business.
France’s League for the Protection of Birds claims ortolan numbers have plunged 30 per cent in the past 10 years, with as many as 1,500 poachers catching an estimated 30,000 live birds a year in the south-western Aquitaine region. The maximum fine is €6,000 (£4,075), but two of the three poachers caught last year escaped with verbal warnings. Last week Nathalie Kosciusko-Morizet, the environment minister, declared that enough was enough. In future, she said, laws passed in 1999 to protect the endangered species would be fully enforced.
Jean-Marc Michel, the head of the ministry’s nature and countryside department, said: “We have brought in reinforcements to increase surveillance on poachers and their traps, and to search suspects’ homes if necessary to catch them in flagrante delicto.”
The move brought predictable dismay. “I find it sad that we can no longer serve ortolan in France, or woodcock for that matter, while it is still possible to eat the latter in restaurants in Britain, Spain and Belgium,” said one leading chef, Michel Rostang. Restaurateurs caught serving ortolans also face the €6,000 fine and risk jail if they reoffend. “It is part of our culture which is disappearing,” one complained. “The ortolan isn’t in danger. That’s just a strategy by the ecologists to prevent hunting.”
Officially, ortolan is off the menu at all French restaurants. But François Simon, the restaurant critic for Le Figaro newspaper, said some would still serve it discreetly – “if you are a close friend of the owner who trusts you to guard his secret with your life”. Mr Simon, who considers himself fortunate to have savoured the delicacy on several occasions, was enthusiastic.
He said: “It’s absolutely delicious: rather crunchy, with the texture and flavour of hazelnuts. The bird is about the size of a young girl’s fist. Some people begin with the head, others start with the rear end – there are competing opinions on how best to enjoy them.” He admitted, however that eating an ortolan whole was “quite monstrous” to watch. “Hence the napkins.”
* How it tastes
Once it has been fattened on millet, the captured ortolan is drowned in armagnac, plucked, and stripped of its feet and a few other tiny parts. After roasting in a ramekin for eight minutes, it is brought to the table while its pale yellow fat still sizzles, for the diner to take whole into his mouth. It comes painfully hot, says one who has sampled the forbidden flesh – “but the first taste was delicious, salty and savoury, swiftly followed by the delicate, incomparable flavour of the fat.
“By now it had cooled sufficiently to allow me to get the whole thing into my mouth. It was awkward, but not the struggle I had imagined. I was aware of fine bones but resisted the urge to crunch them immediately. Still sucking fat, I was aware of the richer, gamier flavour of its innards. I had been dreading this but the flavour remained delicate. Crunching the bones was like munching sardines or hazelnuts. I chewed a long time. When I finally had to swallow, I regretted the end of a very sensual experience.”
What song shall we put with that then? I know:
Eels – I Like Birds (Live)
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