Free A Cook's Tour by Anthony Bourdain Page A

– but where’s the food? C’mon! You like foie gras! You said so!’
         ‘Sure,’ I said. Why not? Sounds educational. Sounds interesting. I do like foie gras – love it, even. The swollen fresh livers of goose or duck, lightly cooked en terrine in Sauternes, or seared in a pan with a few caramelized apples or quince, maybe a little balsamic reduction, a nice fat slice off a torchon with some toasted brioche. It’s one of the best things on earth.
         We were right near Gascony, the epicenter of foie gras territory, so sure . . . let’s do it! Let’s make riveting, informative television, and scarf up some free foie while we’re at it. How could we go wrong?
         The previous night, I’d sat for the cameras and choked down an absolutely gruesome, clumsily prepared, three-day-old dino-sized portion of tête de veau – a terrifying prospect in the best of circumstances. Usually (the way I make it anyway), it’s a slice of rolled-up boneless calf’s face, peeled right off the skull, tied up – with a stuffing of sweetbreads – and served boiled in a little broth with a few nicely shaped root vegetables and a slice of tongue. It’s an acquired taste, or, more accurately, an acquired texture: the translucent fat, the blue calf’s skin, and the bits of cheek and thymus gland take some getting past before you can actually enjoy the flavor. The squiggly, glistening, rubbery-looking gleet is – or should be – pretty tender and flavorful. Accompanied by a dab of sauce ravigote , or gribiche , the dish can be a triumphant celebration of old-school French country food, a conquering of one’s fears and prejudices. It’s one of my favorite things to cook. The few (mostly French) customers who order it at Les Halles, when I run it as a special, adore it. ‘Ahhh! Tête de veau! ’ they’ll exclaim. ‘I haven’t had this in years!’ I make it well. And I have always gotten a very good reaction from those I inflict it on. I eat my own, now and again, and I like it.
         This stuff was different. First of all, I had ignored all my own advice. Sucked into some romantic dream state of willful ignorance, I’d overlooked the fact that for three days I’d been passing by that specials board with Tête de Veau proudly written in block letters in white chalk. Meaning that it was, without question – particularly considering this was off-season Arcachon – the same unsold tête on day three as they’d been offering on day one. Business was hardly so good, and they’d certainly not been so swamped with orders for this (even in France) esoteric specialty, that they’d have been making a fresh batch every day. How many veal heads were they getting in the whole town per week? Or per month? Even worse, I’d broken another personal rule, ordering a not-too-popular, potentially nasty meat and offal special in a restaurant that proudly specialized in seafood – a very slow restaurant specializing in seafood.
         My brother, who is usually pretty daring in his tastes these days when it comes to food, had ordered the sole. I’d ignored his good example. During the meal, he’d looked at me as if I were gnawing the flesh off a dead man’s fingers and washing it down with urine. By any parameters, it had been disgusting; undercooked, tough, seemingly devoid of cheek, tasting of some dark refrigerator and, worst of all, absolutely slathered with a thick, vile-tasting sauce gribiche – a kind of mayonnaise/tartar sauce variation made from cooked egg yolks. I’d swallowed as much as I could for the benefit of the cameras, trying to look cheerful about it, and, far too late, simply said, ‘Fuck it!’ then tried sneaking away half my food into a napkin concealed below the table (as I had not wanted to offend the chef).
         So the next morning, at eight o’ clock, feeling none too fine from what had easily been the worst head I’d ever had, I found myself standing in a cold barn, watching my