Free The Grave Gourmet by Alexander Campion Page A

boundless.”
    â€œAlexandre, be serious. I need your professional advice.”
    â€œWith pleasure: throw open the prison doors; release all the prisoners; feed them exquisitely; the country will be entirely free of crime.”
    â€œPlease, I really do need your help. What’s an ortolan?”
    Alexandre burst into laughter. When he recovered he said, “I need something to drink, and apparently so do you.” Still chuckling, he twisted open a bottle of champagne and poured them both flutes. “What’s this all about?”
    â€œNo, you first. Tell me and then I’ll fill you in.”
    â€œWell, chérie, an ortolan is a tiny little bird. A very yummy tiny little bird that with great sagacity summers in northern Europe and flies south to winter in North Africa, as we all should. Sadly for them but happily for us along the way they are netted in great quantities in the Landes and eaten with enormous appreciation.”
    â€œIs that legal?”
    â€œSadly not. Apparently they appear to be an endangered species so hunting them is forbidden. But that certainly doesn’t prevent the Landais from catching about a hundred thousand of the little darlings each year. And who could blame them since they sell them for about a hundred and fifty euros each.”
    â€œSo that’s it? We’re talking about poaching?”
    â€œThere’s a bit more. A number of delicate souls are shocked at the way the birds are prepared. The process is a bit barbaric. First they are caught by being driven into nets by beaters. And then they are blinded with a hot poker.” Capucine grimaced. “The dark is supposed to be restful for the little things and give them an appetite. They are fed on a special diet, usually millet, grapes, and figs, until they are four times their original size. As you can imagine, there is great controversy about the perfect diet. At that point their cute little beaks are forced open and a single drop of aged Armagnac—nothing else will do—is popped down their gullets. They die in a paroxysm of delight. Then, and only then, are they ready to eat.”
    â€œSo it’s about birds that are poached and then tortured to death?”
    â€œActually, it’s even a bit more complicated. They have to be eaten in a certain way. Obviously, there are any number of recipes. But no matter how they’re cooked, the diner puts his napkin over his head like a little tent, picks up the steaming bird by the beak, puts the whole thing in his mouth, and lets it cool while the delicious fat trickles slowly down his throat. Then he eats it bit by bit, everything but the beak. The napkin is supposed to intensify the aroma of the bird, but it is often said that it’s really to hide the spectacle from God’s view.”
    â€œYou’re making this up, you overstuffed old dipsomaniac! That’s the most ridiculous story I’ve ever heard. It sounds vile and gross.”
    â€œI most certainly am not making it up. Ortolan is held to be the epitome of French cuisine. A dish you absolutely must eat before you die. So much so that when Mitterrand finally knew he was only days away from the end, he had himself carted to a restaurant, trussed up in blankets at the table with a dozen friends, and consumed a Pantagruelian meal of oysters, foie gras, capons, and ortolans. The whole thing found its way into the press, pictures of benapkined heads and all, and so the public knew not only that he was about to expire but also exactly to what extent he thought the laws of France applied to him personally. In his case the napkin kept much more than the ingestion of a hapless bird from God’s sight.”
    â€œJean-Louis Rolland—you know, Jean-Basile’s sommelier—hinted that the mysterious midnight delivery might have been ortolans for some sinister secret meal that Jean-Basile was planning.”
    Alexandre burst into laughter again. “He was