Foie Gras de Canard Entier du Sud-Ouest, or, Why I Love the French

It all began about two months ago. It may seem over-dramatic to introduce anything other than chick-lit or a muder mystery this way, but if you understand the beauty of the duck, you'll know why. Jean-Michel, a post-doc working in my lab who we inexplicably call "Jim", walked in and proceeded to whine about his mother and how she sent these absurd care packages and how was one man supposed to eat so much foie gras by himself. He then went on to say, and believe you me, a small piece of me died at this moment, that he usually just threw most of it away. That right there may well be enough to justify the bastardization of his name. I may have gasped audibly or maybe he just noticed my face, because he said, "If any of you people would actually eat it I would give it to you, but I know you think it is disgusting." A few people made noises of disgust, but I think my very eloquent reply was more along the lines of "Uhhhhh....are you serious?" In any case, Jean-Michel promised to bring me a container of foie gras, imported directly from Paris to Geneva, NY. At this point, I'm nearly certain I wept tears of gratitude.

Time passed slowly, and each time I saw Jean-Michel empty handed a little bubble of loathing gurgled in my stomach which had not tasted such fatty luxury in nearly a year. After becoming more comfortable with him over the course of many a coffee break and game of MarioKart, I finally worked up the courage to remind dear old Jim of what bliss he had offered me. He exclaimed his usual mix of French and English cursing (this being the man whose license plate reads "MERDE")...likely something close to, "Ooh La Fuck!", a personal favorite of his isms. Two days later and I am handed a glass jar full of the good stuff. He looks me very sternly in the eye and says "Now this is the real thing, there will be chunks. Do not be afraid. You think you can handle it?" I gaped at it and him, barely managing to close my mouth enough to lavish him in thanks and praise. I did, however, thank him profusely. I kept my treasure next to me all day, not willing to take my eyes off of it. I brought it home and rushed into the kitchen.









Holding the foie gras in my hands, I tremble with anticipation. It takes a good 5 minutes of exertion to actually open this perfectly sealed jar. I open it, after much struggle, and marvel at the blend of liver and bright yellow fat. I spread the gooey amazing-ness onto the plainest cracker I can find and bite into it, allowing it to melt delightfully in my mouth. The real stuff, indeed, and I lust fully for my next encounter with it.