When I wrote my first comprehensive cocktail post I figured I needn't post how I made those classic cocktails. I mean, they're classics, right? Two years experience being over twenty one and I know differently. I don't go to bars very frequently, but I've ordered two Martinis. First of all I had to specify and confirm that I wanted them made with gin. When I finally got my Martini, not only was vermouth almost nonexistent, but the drink was iced so thoroughly that instead of tasting like uncomplemented gin it tasted mostly like ice water. That's for both instances. One of those was from Sophia's and cost $7. Their Mojito was also off-balance (mostly mint and soda water). At a bar in Dublin (CA) I ordered an Old Fashioned and was similarly displeased.
It seems to me that bartenders accustomed to "pinky up" drinks that are incredibly hard to mess up are now ruining the last respectable cocktails on the house books. Fine cocktails are difficult to balance and I suppose bartenders have incentive to make drinks as quickly as they can, but I don't mean it lightly when I say they were nearly undrinkable. All of those drinks were travesties. I know there are good bars out there that still take cocktails seriously. I've promised myself to investigate one sometime when I have the extra arm and leg required to pay the tab. Until then, I'm going to err on the side of beer. They still haven't figured out how to mess that up.
Those of my readers who've been around the block are welcomed to weigh in here. I could be totally off-base. For those pinky-uppers and non-cocktail-drinkers among you, don't hold bar failures against a good cocktail.
The Martini was the first cocktail Brandon and I got into. It took us awhile to get the proportions right and it took us awhile to figure out how to drink them properly (small sips, guys). Though we did the vermouth by eye, we learned quickly enough what amount made a good Martini. That amount ended up remarkably close to IBA specifications: one shot gin, one quarter-shot dry vermouth. When done right, as you roll the fiery liquid around your mouth, you can bask in the divine balance of sharp juniper with the nutty/fruity/spicy flavors of vermouth.
Since our early days using Seagram's Gin for our Martinis, Brandon and I have moved to "swanky" gins, which really comes down to deciding between Bombay Sapphire and similarly-priced Tanqueray. I'm partial to the latter as it tastes more like gin. I don't think the flowery flourishes of Bombay Sapphire lend themselves to Martinis, though they work better in Gin and Tonics (one of the more foolproof cocktails, fyi).
So, my rules for Martinis are as follows:
-When left unspecified, a Martini is made with gin, not vodka.
-"Martinis", as a category, includes various vermouth-containing cocktails such as the Vodka Martini and the Dirty Martini, which is to say "Martinis" do not include most cocktails served in martini glasses or with the suffix "-tini". Too many times have I heard beer or whiskey snobs refer derisively to "Martinis", alluding to their syrupy ways, and it gives me a sad.
-Vermouth should make a 1:4 ratio with the gin unless specified "dry" or "wet", which I do not recommend and I certainly don't recommend starting off with.
-The gin should be shaken or stirred with ice straight out of the freezer and for a short period of time. The primary ingredient in a Martini should be gin, not melted ice.
Brandon and I also took the foundation for our Manhattans from the IBA via wikipedia. I've found the ratio of vermouth to liquor is a little more forgiving than with Martinis (unlike dry, sweet vermouth is pretty good on its own). We ended up eyeballing about the same amount of vermouth for both Martinis and Manhattans.
My dad serves Manhattans on the rocks without bitters rather than the IBA-recommended straight up. He's also a fan of a variant he picked up from my Wisconsinite maternal grandfather, Grandpa Pee Wee, which uses sweet white vermouth aka Bianco. Between the ice, the lack of bitters and a more liberal application of vermouth, the whole thing comes out much milder than my don't-shake-it-too-long-or-it'll-be-watery Martinis and Manhattans. Personal taste aside, my dad makes an excellent Manhattan, which I guess is a testament to the drink's flexibility.
I'd also like to mention the Sazerac, which is reputed to be the oldest cocktail and the catalyst for the first time I stocked a bar. It's how I got into rye whiskey. While there is no IBA-official recipe, I'm very happy with the Wikipedia recipe. I often simplify the process to resemble how I make Martinis/Manhattans (though the Sazerac is more complex), but I've found that it is absolutely necessary to first add the Absinthe/Herbsaint (or Pastis or any anise-flavored liquor) by coating the glass. I've also found that releasing the lemon peel's oils onto the drink is essential for the overall effect.
Other, also respectable, cocktails that lean harder on water and sugar are more forgiving to make and more approachable for those with weak palates, but there's nothing like classic straight up cocktails with that heady mix of spices, fruits, herbs and aromatics only they have to offer. Nothing else takes the taste of alcohol to such a pure, high glory.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Ghost Chicken
I had the most compelling, detailed dream I've had in a long time this morning.
I was in Japan with Sarah, which was apparently her homeland. She was telling me that the bugs got worse the closer you were to the east or west coasts. I asked, "Are we near a coast?" and just as I asked, we rounded a corner and came into view of the Yellow Sea. We went into a beach cabin right up against the water with the top half of the seaward wall cut out to make a window. I looked at the sea which, just like pictures I'd seen, was as blue as the Mediterranean (in spite of the name). I commented how pretty of a blue it was and Sarah agreed. I noticed that the big swells were coming up to the bottom edge of the window. I talked with Sarah. I'd had amnesia and couldn't remember knowing her that long and I was still learning about her, but I knew that we had had a long romantic history and I could feel it in our magnetism. The ocean swells got bigger and bigger, tipping over the edge of the window and into the room, rising in glorious curves and sometimes cresting a little before rolling over the low wall into the room. The room was starting to fill up with water. I got more and more lost in the wave motion as I became increasingly concerned about our precarious situation.
....
I went into the bathroom that I knew Sarah was taking a shower in to pee. Looking up I saw a girl was in the upper bunk of the shower/bunk-bed Sarah was showering in. I know the girl because I went to primary and secondary school with her. Her actual name in real life, weirdly enough and by the way, is Sarah (Rodgers). She was pretty and brassy with curly red hair, but we'd never had any affinity or much interaction in school. She was talking with my Sarah, who she was evidently close friends with. She'd gotten cooler with time. She'd seen me naked peeing, but her facial reaction indicated that she didn't give a shit and I decided I didn't give a shit either. I saw her partly naked later and similarly didn't care.
I went to another room to visit with some old high school friends, Nick and Dana. Like every nerd in my high school I'd had a crush on Dana (and had actually gone to prom with her), but she and Nick were genuinely close friends. Apparently they'd finally started dating in the last few months (in real life Nick recently married). When I entered the room, Dana was sitting on the bed and Nick was in the bathroom taking a shower. I attempted a stab at awkward conversation, talking about how many people have such specific and unique taste in jeans that it seems like they only own one pair of jeans, like the way cartoon characters always wear the same outfit. This was true of Dana and is also true of Sarah, Howard and a lot of other people I know. Dana was wearing her characteristic jeans in the dream. I was still trying to explain what I meant when Nick came in and gave Dana a provocative kiss. I feebly tried to finish explaining and/or relieve the awkwardness for another few seconds before I gave up and sheepishly left.
I went back to the bathroom where Sarah and her friend were talking. They mentioned a French word used in a Lady Gaga lyric. I asked about it. Sarah explained it was pronounced "Troce" and meant close affection. I asked how it was spelled and Sarah's friend patiently spelled it for me. It was spelled bizarrely (complete with three syllables and an "eaux" that wasn't even at the end of the word) and I knew I'd have to write it down, so I asked to hear the spelling again after I'd gotten pen and paper. The spelling Sarah gave was slightly different and similarly nonsensical. For the next few minutes I'd periodically interrupt their conversation to ask them to clarify how it was spelled and they would patiently spell it for me, each time more confusing than the one before it. Given my weird relationship with French, that of being the only of my close friends with strong French heritage but also being in the minority among them for not speaking it (and not even speaking another language fluently), the experience was naturally alienating and I was kind of jealous of the obviously close relationship Sarah and her friend had.
....
At this Mongolian fried chicken stand (little whole chickens on skewers), I had a brain wave to ask if the stand owner needed a new employee because Matt Wingert, despite his half-finished PhD in Mechanical Engineering, desperately needed a job to pay rent. The stand owner agreed to consider him so I brought Matt over. The guy asked if he'd be okay with killing chickens with his bare hands. Matt said "I'd love to", but the uncertainty in his voice was unmistakable. I told the chicken stand owner that though I'd masked my fear better when interviewing for jobs past, I'd always risen to whatever daunting task I was set to with aplomb and Matt would be the same way. To demonstrate, I offered to kill a chicken myself. I killed a defeathered chicken and stripped off the skin in one pull (like can be done with rabbits). The stand owner was happy with that and it sounded like he was going to hire Matt, but as we were talking the chicken skin stood up on its own and started moving around like it was alive. I was like, "Holy shit it's an actual ghost chicken!" but the owner said, "It's just epidermal nerve activity and muscle memory." The chicken started to move aggressively towards me. I tried to bat it away, but I was so unnerved, I wasn't very effective. The chicken advanced on me menacingly, preparing to attack. Then I woke up.
Cheers, All
Enjoy!
I was in Japan with Sarah, which was apparently her homeland. She was telling me that the bugs got worse the closer you were to the east or west coasts. I asked, "Are we near a coast?" and just as I asked, we rounded a corner and came into view of the Yellow Sea. We went into a beach cabin right up against the water with the top half of the seaward wall cut out to make a window. I looked at the sea which, just like pictures I'd seen, was as blue as the Mediterranean (in spite of the name). I commented how pretty of a blue it was and Sarah agreed. I noticed that the big swells were coming up to the bottom edge of the window. I talked with Sarah. I'd had amnesia and couldn't remember knowing her that long and I was still learning about her, but I knew that we had had a long romantic history and I could feel it in our magnetism. The ocean swells got bigger and bigger, tipping over the edge of the window and into the room, rising in glorious curves and sometimes cresting a little before rolling over the low wall into the room. The room was starting to fill up with water. I got more and more lost in the wave motion as I became increasingly concerned about our precarious situation.
....
I went into the bathroom that I knew Sarah was taking a shower in to pee. Looking up I saw a girl was in the upper bunk of the shower/bunk-bed Sarah was showering in. I know the girl because I went to primary and secondary school with her. Her actual name in real life, weirdly enough and by the way, is Sarah (Rodgers). She was pretty and brassy with curly red hair, but we'd never had any affinity or much interaction in school. She was talking with my Sarah, who she was evidently close friends with. She'd gotten cooler with time. She'd seen me naked peeing, but her facial reaction indicated that she didn't give a shit and I decided I didn't give a shit either. I saw her partly naked later and similarly didn't care.
I went to another room to visit with some old high school friends, Nick and Dana. Like every nerd in my high school I'd had a crush on Dana (and had actually gone to prom with her), but she and Nick were genuinely close friends. Apparently they'd finally started dating in the last few months (in real life Nick recently married). When I entered the room, Dana was sitting on the bed and Nick was in the bathroom taking a shower. I attempted a stab at awkward conversation, talking about how many people have such specific and unique taste in jeans that it seems like they only own one pair of jeans, like the way cartoon characters always wear the same outfit. This was true of Dana and is also true of Sarah, Howard and a lot of other people I know. Dana was wearing her characteristic jeans in the dream. I was still trying to explain what I meant when Nick came in and gave Dana a provocative kiss. I feebly tried to finish explaining and/or relieve the awkwardness for another few seconds before I gave up and sheepishly left.
I went back to the bathroom where Sarah and her friend were talking. They mentioned a French word used in a Lady Gaga lyric. I asked about it. Sarah explained it was pronounced "Troce" and meant close affection. I asked how it was spelled and Sarah's friend patiently spelled it for me. It was spelled bizarrely (complete with three syllables and an "eaux" that wasn't even at the end of the word) and I knew I'd have to write it down, so I asked to hear the spelling again after I'd gotten pen and paper. The spelling Sarah gave was slightly different and similarly nonsensical. For the next few minutes I'd periodically interrupt their conversation to ask them to clarify how it was spelled and they would patiently spell it for me, each time more confusing than the one before it. Given my weird relationship with French, that of being the only of my close friends with strong French heritage but also being in the minority among them for not speaking it (and not even speaking another language fluently), the experience was naturally alienating and I was kind of jealous of the obviously close relationship Sarah and her friend had.
....
At this Mongolian fried chicken stand (little whole chickens on skewers), I had a brain wave to ask if the stand owner needed a new employee because Matt Wingert, despite his half-finished PhD in Mechanical Engineering, desperately needed a job to pay rent. The stand owner agreed to consider him so I brought Matt over. The guy asked if he'd be okay with killing chickens with his bare hands. Matt said "I'd love to", but the uncertainty in his voice was unmistakable. I told the chicken stand owner that though I'd masked my fear better when interviewing for jobs past, I'd always risen to whatever daunting task I was set to with aplomb and Matt would be the same way. To demonstrate, I offered to kill a chicken myself. I killed a defeathered chicken and stripped off the skin in one pull (like can be done with rabbits). The stand owner was happy with that and it sounded like he was going to hire Matt, but as we were talking the chicken skin stood up on its own and started moving around like it was alive. I was like, "Holy shit it's an actual ghost chicken!" but the owner said, "It's just epidermal nerve activity and muscle memory." The chicken started to move aggressively towards me. I tried to bat it away, but I was so unnerved, I wasn't very effective. The chicken advanced on me menacingly, preparing to attack. Then I woke up.
Cheers, All
Enjoy!
Monday, September 12, 2011
The Coca-Cola Fiend
Back in the 80's, Coca-Cola tried to change their formula to so-called "New Coke", the fallout of which is why, until the last couple of years, cans of coke were labeled "Coca-Cola Classic". The rather compelling story of "New Coke" can be found on Wikipedia (of all the unlikely places to find a compellingly-written story).
I have said previously on this blog that Coca-Cola is awesome and I am here to say it again. Coca-Cola is fucking awesome. I'd like to elaborate on that starting premise.
Coca-Cola, as declared by a paper airline napkin, is "zesty and refreshing on the first sip and full and rich on the last". It has an impenetrable depth of flavor that, far from being intimidating, tastes easy and approachable even as it dares you to bury yourself in it's complexity. It complements most food and liquor remarkably well (my favorite pairing being with Chinese food). It has mild medicinal effects. In short, Coke is everything I believe a beverage should be.
My fascination with Coca-Cola led me to discover that different countries have been permitted to tweak the original formula for local tastes. Despite Andy Warhol's rather inspiring quote, not all cokes are created equal. The Apple House tasting team had one of its more epic sessions comparing cokes from the US, Mexico ("Mexicoke"), France and Spain. I must be getting spoiled by all of the options available to me as a resident of a major US city, because I think there really should be a store/soda bar somewhere in San Francisco that sells Coca-Colas from every country that coke is bottled in.
I'd also love to be able to taste older formulations of Coca-Cola, particularly the very earliest incarnations that still contained modest quantities of cocaine. In fact, crazy as it may sound, I would like to see that oldest formula reintroduced. At low concentrations, there's no reason that such a soda would be particularly dangerous or addictive. Coca-leaf tea is still consumed all over the Andes without causing problems. It is treated like coffee is treated here-- as a mild stimulant to power people through the working day. Of course, I expect that this retro coke would have considerably more kick than the current formula.
Flavor-wise, coke holds up well against craft sodas, though there is a key difference in approach. Like a good second-day gumbo (gumbo is always better the second day), Coca-Cola's flavors are married such that the individual ingredients cannot be parsed out. This is ideal for easy drinking and culinary harmony, but it plays poorly with gourmets who've been taught to pick out flavor notes, as with wine. Excellent craft sodas like Virgil's Rootbeer and Red Bull's Cola make their concoctions' individual components as clear as possible in the tasting. To sip one of these sodas is to take a tour of the ingredients proudly labeled on the back of the container: nutmeg, cinnamon, anise, clove, cardamom, cassis oil, etc. While purported ingredients for Coca-Cola's famously secret recipes are similarly complex and exotic (neroli oil, anyone?), the difference is one of taste rather than of quality. Coca-Cola produces a more harmonious soda while the best craft soda makers sacrifice harmony for a more explicit complexity. With the notable exception of Coke's choice of sweetener, there are no culinary grounds to fault or marginalize the quality of Coke as a world-class soda. Anyone who has, as I have, made a point to compare every available cola must inevitably recognize the resounding excellence of Coca-Cola.
I have said previously on this blog that Coca-Cola is awesome and I am here to say it again. Coca-Cola is fucking awesome. I'd like to elaborate on that starting premise.
Coca-Cola, as declared by a paper airline napkin, is "zesty and refreshing on the first sip and full and rich on the last". It has an impenetrable depth of flavor that, far from being intimidating, tastes easy and approachable even as it dares you to bury yourself in it's complexity. It complements most food and liquor remarkably well (my favorite pairing being with Chinese food). It has mild medicinal effects. In short, Coke is everything I believe a beverage should be.
My fascination with Coca-Cola led me to discover that different countries have been permitted to tweak the original formula for local tastes. Despite Andy Warhol's rather inspiring quote, not all cokes are created equal. The Apple House tasting team had one of its more epic sessions comparing cokes from the US, Mexico ("Mexicoke"), France and Spain. I must be getting spoiled by all of the options available to me as a resident of a major US city, because I think there really should be a store/soda bar somewhere in San Francisco that sells Coca-Colas from every country that coke is bottled in.
I'd also love to be able to taste older formulations of Coca-Cola, particularly the very earliest incarnations that still contained modest quantities of cocaine. In fact, crazy as it may sound, I would like to see that oldest formula reintroduced. At low concentrations, there's no reason that such a soda would be particularly dangerous or addictive. Coca-leaf tea is still consumed all over the Andes without causing problems. It is treated like coffee is treated here-- as a mild stimulant to power people through the working day. Of course, I expect that this retro coke would have considerably more kick than the current formula.
Flavor-wise, coke holds up well against craft sodas, though there is a key difference in approach. Like a good second-day gumbo (gumbo is always better the second day), Coca-Cola's flavors are married such that the individual ingredients cannot be parsed out. This is ideal for easy drinking and culinary harmony, but it plays poorly with gourmets who've been taught to pick out flavor notes, as with wine. Excellent craft sodas like Virgil's Rootbeer and Red Bull's Cola make their concoctions' individual components as clear as possible in the tasting. To sip one of these sodas is to take a tour of the ingredients proudly labeled on the back of the container: nutmeg, cinnamon, anise, clove, cardamom, cassis oil, etc. While purported ingredients for Coca-Cola's famously secret recipes are similarly complex and exotic (neroli oil, anyone?), the difference is one of taste rather than of quality. Coca-Cola produces a more harmonious soda while the best craft soda makers sacrifice harmony for a more explicit complexity. With the notable exception of Coke's choice of sweetener, there are no culinary grounds to fault or marginalize the quality of Coke as a world-class soda. Anyone who has, as I have, made a point to compare every available cola must inevitably recognize the resounding excellence of Coca-Cola.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Oh The Humanity: Regarding Foie Gras
I saw this banner on Facebook:
"Humane Foie Gras?
"Humane Foie Gras?
If you have purchased Foie Gras, believing it was humanely raised, we want to hear from you. Contact the Animal Legal Defense Fund."
I figured it merited a reply.
Dear Animal Legal Defense Fund,
I have bought Foie Gras with the knowledge that the poultry I am eating represents some of the most humanely raised meat available for purchase in the United States. I have seen the videos of geese eagerly lining up for their feeding and the idyllic living circumstances of high dollar French foie gras geese. These birds are not suffering. To assert that they are suffering amidst a backdrop of the breathtakingly inhumane treatment of the average American chicken is so absurd as to be motivationally suspect. Does any of your funding come from the poultry industry?
Sincerely,
Max
Dear Mr. Vidrine,
Thank you for your email. I appreciate your interest in animal welfare. I would be very interested in speaking with you further about this issue. Would you be available to speak by phone in the next week, and if so, when would be a good time?
Meanwhile, I will explain briefly Animal Legal Defense Fund’s position on foie gras:
While the video featuring Mr. Bourdain suggests that the conditions in force-fed foie gras farming are humane, it appears that it shows only the early stages of the force-feeding process. Our research has shown that ducks in the mid and late stages suffer serious health consequences as a result of the high-calorie, nutritionally deficient diet they are fed. Aside from the risk of injury to the esophagus from repeated insertion of the feeding tube, ducks develop lameness, bone and skin disorders, respiratory problems, and an inability to groom properly as a result of obesity. Some ducks, unable to walk, attempt to push themselves around their pens with their wings, causing themselves injury. In some cases the excess food leads to aspiration pneumonia. Many ducks develop painful foot infections due to the combination of their increased weight and the wire-mesh flooring of their pens. Finally, the accumulation of fat in the liver interferes with liver function. Many ducks slaughtered for foie gras would otherwise die of liver failure or other conditions brought on by the force-feeding. Based on this information, we do not believe that this production is humane.
You can find more information in an EU study of foie gras production and in a report by the Humane Society of the United States.
Although it is true that some ducks naturally gorge in preparation for migration, the amount of food that is force-fed to ducks in foie gras operations is well beyond what a duck would normally ingest, even while gorging.
Finally, I assure you that Animal Legal Defense Fund does not accept funding from any industry that exploits animals. We are fully in agreement with you that the treatment of chickens in factory farms is unacceptable and inhumane. Addressing those conditions is one of our aims as an organization. The attention we give to foie gras is in no way meant to express an endorsement of other forms of factory farming.
Sincerely,
Michelle Lee
Dear Ms. Lee
After perusing the literature you linked, it seems clear that foie gras production has been subject to considerable rationalization in the last 20-30 years and that it is no longer as uniformly idyllic as my father and Anthony Bourdain would present it.
That said, most of the health consequences you mentioned refer back to the ducks/geese being made extremely fat. I'm afraid I do not find the existence of such health problems troubling. This is because of two things, the first being that fatness is the point of force feeding and the second being that these animals only live in such an extremely fat state for a relatively short period of time before they go to slaughter.
Frankly, as a foodie, being indulged to the brink of death doesn't sound so bad. Furthermore, however rationalized most foie gras production now is, the fact remains that the poultry involved are substantially better off than mainline poultry on factory farms. Also important is the fact that foie gras ducks/geese represent a tiny, delicious minority of all poultry produced and consumed.
Now apart from the humane-ness or inhumane-ness, I dislike foie gras restriction as a political issue. It sits, along with curtailing deer hunting (deer are overpopulating throughout the US without natural predation from wolves), as one of the most misguided routes attempted in the name of animal rights. Don't get me wrong, I understand why it is brought up as an issue: it is both moralist and populist without actually affecting the welfare of poultry in any significant way. It makes activists feel like they are accomplishing something without incurring the wrath of business-conscious conservatives. Imported luxury goods are always an easy political target to raise a rabble with.
Unfortunately, this does nothing to address the very real problem of inhumane living conditions for chickens and other factory-farmed poultry. It wastes political capital on eliminating one of the handful of reasonably ethical segments of the poultry industry. It discourages people like me who eat meat, but would like to see meat not produced in a living poultry hell. It is a slap in the face to gourmets (who, generally speaking, do care about how their food is treated). It discredits animal rights as a movement by giving emphasis to its bleeding heart, little picture, meat-is-murder contingent.
I'm glad your organization receives no money from the poultry industry, but I hope you understand my distaste for foie gras as an animal rights issue. Thank you for bringing me to a better understanding of how foie gras is actually produced.
Regards,
Max Vidrine
Between you and me, I lied about having bought foie gras. I've only eaten it, but now I'm super hungry for some. If only I weren't so poor...
I figured it merited a reply.
Dear Animal Legal Defense Fund,
I have bought Foie Gras with the knowledge that the poultry I am eating represents some of the most humanely raised meat available for purchase in the United States. I have seen the videos of geese eagerly lining up for their feeding and the idyllic living circumstances of high dollar French foie gras geese. These birds are not suffering. To assert that they are suffering amidst a backdrop of the breathtakingly inhumane treatment of the average American chicken is so absurd as to be motivationally suspect. Does any of your funding come from the poultry industry?
Sincerely,
Max
Dear Mr. Vidrine,
Thank you for your email. I appreciate your interest in animal welfare. I would be very interested in speaking with you further about this issue. Would you be available to speak by phone in the next week, and if so, when would be a good time?
Meanwhile, I will explain briefly Animal Legal Defense Fund’s position on foie gras:
While the video featuring Mr. Bourdain suggests that the conditions in force-fed foie gras farming are humane, it appears that it shows only the early stages of the force-feeding process. Our research has shown that ducks in the mid and late stages suffer serious health consequences as a result of the high-calorie, nutritionally deficient diet they are fed. Aside from the risk of injury to the esophagus from repeated insertion of the feeding tube, ducks develop lameness, bone and skin disorders, respiratory problems, and an inability to groom properly as a result of obesity. Some ducks, unable to walk, attempt to push themselves around their pens with their wings, causing themselves injury. In some cases the excess food leads to aspiration pneumonia. Many ducks develop painful foot infections due to the combination of their increased weight and the wire-mesh flooring of their pens. Finally, the accumulation of fat in the liver interferes with liver function. Many ducks slaughtered for foie gras would otherwise die of liver failure or other conditions brought on by the force-feeding. Based on this information, we do not believe that this production is humane.
You can find more information in an EU study of foie gras production and in a report by the Humane Society of the United States.
Although it is true that some ducks naturally gorge in preparation for migration, the amount of food that is force-fed to ducks in foie gras operations is well beyond what a duck would normally ingest, even while gorging.
Finally, I assure you that Animal Legal Defense Fund does not accept funding from any industry that exploits animals. We are fully in agreement with you that the treatment of chickens in factory farms is unacceptable and inhumane. Addressing those conditions is one of our aims as an organization. The attention we give to foie gras is in no way meant to express an endorsement of other forms of factory farming.
Sincerely,
Michelle Lee
Dear Ms. Lee
After perusing the literature you linked, it seems clear that foie gras production has been subject to considerable rationalization in the last 20-30 years and that it is no longer as uniformly idyllic as my father and Anthony Bourdain would present it.
That said, most of the health consequences you mentioned refer back to the ducks/geese being made extremely fat. I'm afraid I do not find the existence of such health problems troubling. This is because of two things, the first being that fatness is the point of force feeding and the second being that these animals only live in such an extremely fat state for a relatively short period of time before they go to slaughter.
Frankly, as a foodie, being indulged to the brink of death doesn't sound so bad. Furthermore, however rationalized most foie gras production now is, the fact remains that the poultry involved are substantially better off than mainline poultry on factory farms. Also important is the fact that foie gras ducks/geese represent a tiny, delicious minority of all poultry produced and consumed.
Now apart from the humane-ness or inhumane-ness, I dislike foie gras restriction as a political issue. It sits, along with curtailing deer hunting (deer are overpopulating throughout the US without natural predation from wolves), as one of the most misguided routes attempted in the name of animal rights. Don't get me wrong, I understand why it is brought up as an issue: it is both moralist and populist without actually affecting the welfare of poultry in any significant way. It makes activists feel like they are accomplishing something without incurring the wrath of business-conscious conservatives. Imported luxury goods are always an easy political target to raise a rabble with.
Unfortunately, this does nothing to address the very real problem of inhumane living conditions for chickens and other factory-farmed poultry. It wastes political capital on eliminating one of the handful of reasonably ethical segments of the poultry industry. It discourages people like me who eat meat, but would like to see meat not produced in a living poultry hell. It is a slap in the face to gourmets (who, generally speaking, do care about how their food is treated). It discredits animal rights as a movement by giving emphasis to its bleeding heart, little picture, meat-is-murder contingent.
I'm glad your organization receives no money from the poultry industry, but I hope you understand my distaste for foie gras as an animal rights issue. Thank you for bringing me to a better understanding of how foie gras is actually produced.
Regards,
Max Vidrine
Between you and me, I lied about having bought foie gras. I've only eaten it, but now I'm super hungry for some. If only I weren't so poor...
Monday, July 25, 2011
Transmissions from Acadiana
Hey Mom,
I'm fine. Louisiana is nice, I think. I'm mostly staying with Memeem (my grandma), which is going pretty well. I'm enduring her micromanaging and in turn she's been super sweet. Uncle Pierre is a peach. Most of the fun I've had here, I can chalk up to him. Chris (my cousin) has gotten old enough that he's interesting to talk to. I'm totally at peace with the weather, but not the mosquitoes. The food is alternately amazing and, y'know, Memeem's frozen tidbits reheated plus pickled carrots.
I've been going to church with Pierre's family, which makes me a little nostalgic for when we used to go (how much should I give at collections? $5?). The actual work of putting together the family's land records is tedious and organizationally challenging, but it's kind of fascinating to dredge up all the family history.
So that's how I've been doing,
Max
Some anecdotes from my time here:
We shot an alligator that was in our lake. It took a few tries, but the third shot was "Swamp People good" and killed it dead. Unfortunately we fumbled on the collection and the alligator sank like a stone. So, no alligator steak for us.
We cooked half a pig in what is called a "Cajun microwave" (large metal box with coals on top that cooks by radiative heating). I will never forget the image of my uncle Jacques stepping out from under the roof into light drizzle, looking skyward as he very slowly chewed some morsel of pig, an expression of perfect ecstasy written across his face.
I drive my late grandpa's Lincoln town car (executive edition). Yes, I feel like a bad ass.
I listened in on a detailed discussion of how pretty much all animals taste good.
Instead of enduring the heat and humidity, I've mostly been enduring the arctic winter of Louisiana air conditioning. There is no reason for the thermostat to be set at sixty-five, guys.
We picked up some box lunches from a gas station mart that tasted better than any "Cajun" food you can find in California. It's roughly the equivalent of going to a taqueria in SoCal. Pork, beans and (dirty) rice.
Everybody is warm and friendly and knows how to have a good time. The parties are all-ages and always a blast.
We had a discussion of how some people in a small subdivision were angry at a black guy for moving in because it would lower their property values.
The clerk of court's office charges $1 per page of legal documents you print out and I've been printing hundreds of pages at a time, but nobody is going to count the pages for you or second-guess how many pages you say you printed. It would be called the honor system if it needed a name here. Have I mentioned that Ville Platte is a small town?
I'm fine. Louisiana is nice, I think. I'm mostly staying with Memeem (my grandma), which is going pretty well. I'm enduring her micromanaging and in turn she's been super sweet. Uncle Pierre is a peach. Most of the fun I've had here, I can chalk up to him. Chris (my cousin) has gotten old enough that he's interesting to talk to. I'm totally at peace with the weather, but not the mosquitoes. The food is alternately amazing and, y'know, Memeem's frozen tidbits reheated plus pickled carrots.
I've been going to church with Pierre's family, which makes me a little nostalgic for when we used to go (how much should I give at collections? $5?). The actual work of putting together the family's land records is tedious and organizationally challenging, but it's kind of fascinating to dredge up all the family history.
So that's how I've been doing,
Max
Some anecdotes from my time here:
We shot an alligator that was in our lake. It took a few tries, but the third shot was "Swamp People good" and killed it dead. Unfortunately we fumbled on the collection and the alligator sank like a stone. So, no alligator steak for us.
We cooked half a pig in what is called a "Cajun microwave" (large metal box with coals on top that cooks by radiative heating). I will never forget the image of my uncle Jacques stepping out from under the roof into light drizzle, looking skyward as he very slowly chewed some morsel of pig, an expression of perfect ecstasy written across his face.
I drive my late grandpa's Lincoln town car (executive edition). Yes, I feel like a bad ass.
I listened in on a detailed discussion of how pretty much all animals taste good.
Instead of enduring the heat and humidity, I've mostly been enduring the arctic winter of Louisiana air conditioning. There is no reason for the thermostat to be set at sixty-five, guys.
We picked up some box lunches from a gas station mart that tasted better than any "Cajun" food you can find in California. It's roughly the equivalent of going to a taqueria in SoCal. Pork, beans and (dirty) rice.
Everybody is warm and friendly and knows how to have a good time. The parties are all-ages and always a blast.
We had a discussion of how some people in a small subdivision were angry at a black guy for moving in because it would lower their property values.
The clerk of court's office charges $1 per page of legal documents you print out and I've been printing hundreds of pages at a time, but nobody is going to count the pages for you or second-guess how many pages you say you printed. It would be called the honor system if it needed a name here. Have I mentioned that Ville Platte is a small town?
Monday, June 27, 2011
Beginning of Summer Update
Let me catch you up on my life:
I got fired from Monsanto in April. I agreed a month later to spend the summer in Louisiana doing property management for my family. In two days, I leave for southern California to visit (step-)family from South Carolina, then Saturday I leave for Wisconsin to visit maternal family for a week. From there I fly to Louisiana, where I will stay until the end of August (living without air conditioning or in-home internet access). When I get back I'll be moving to the Bay Area. With luck, I will have lined up a job there to start on. I've been dating Sarah for about six months now and she is presently looking for jobs in the Bay Area too. I'm unsure whether or not I will apply again to graduate school or indeed if I will remain in biology. I got fired because I essentially sucked at following molecular bio protocols.
This blog has been on my back burner for awhile and I apologize to you, my loyal readers. It's not for lack of ideas, but for preoccupation with life. Just as last September boasted a bumper crop of fresh material because I was freshly employed, had nothing to do and lots to write about, since April I have been unemployed and my future has been decidedly uncertain. I'd like to point out that this blog passed 5000 unique views and 100 posts a little while ago. This blog is not dying anytime soon, but be patient.
Oh, also, I just turned twenty four, so happy birthday to me. I definitely feel like I am in my mid-twenties at this point, which is something I couldn't say a year ago. According to my dad, I still have ten years before everything goes to shit physically.
I got fired from Monsanto in April. I agreed a month later to spend the summer in Louisiana doing property management for my family. In two days, I leave for southern California to visit (step-)family from South Carolina, then Saturday I leave for Wisconsin to visit maternal family for a week. From there I fly to Louisiana, where I will stay until the end of August (living without air conditioning or in-home internet access). When I get back I'll be moving to the Bay Area. With luck, I will have lined up a job there to start on. I've been dating Sarah for about six months now and she is presently looking for jobs in the Bay Area too. I'm unsure whether or not I will apply again to graduate school or indeed if I will remain in biology. I got fired because I essentially sucked at following molecular bio protocols.
This blog has been on my back burner for awhile and I apologize to you, my loyal readers. It's not for lack of ideas, but for preoccupation with life. Just as last September boasted a bumper crop of fresh material because I was freshly employed, had nothing to do and lots to write about, since April I have been unemployed and my future has been decidedly uncertain. I'd like to point out that this blog passed 5000 unique views and 100 posts a little while ago. This blog is not dying anytime soon, but be patient.
Oh, also, I just turned twenty four, so happy birthday to me. I definitely feel like I am in my mid-twenties at this point, which is something I couldn't say a year ago. According to my dad, I still have ten years before everything goes to shit physically.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Turning Back the Clock
I had a dream that suddenly I was fourteen again, in my Dad's house. I asked Dad what had happened. He wasn't sure, but suggested that I take this opportunity to correct my life's mistakes. I thought about what I would do differently. I thought briefly that I'd have more incentive to keep my grades up. My life would be so much easier if I'd gotten a grade point higher by 0.07 (anything below a 3.0 is a tough sell for grad school). Thinking on that, I realized that no, I'd probably repeat that particular mistake. It wasn't as if I was unaware of the consequences the first time around. I'd know how to deal with a few ornery classes and professors, but it wouldn't make enough of a difference. I'd probably be more successful with dating, knowing how to deal with girls. I thought about all the roads untaken and how different of a person I could be but for a few matters of happenstance. Would I have flowered in a more competitive university like Berkeley?
I looked for the bathroom, but I'd forgotten that a little later in my original timeline my sister had discovered two secret rooms in Dad's house that had been converted into the main bathroom (the other one had become a closet, I think, by 2011). So, I re-"discovered" those secret rooms, thereby changing the course of history according to my priveledged knowledge of the future.
I'd forgotten how incredibly small Bri was when I was fourteen. Now she's roughly my size, give or take six inches, but back then she was much smaller than me. She hadn't had any kind of growth spurt and was the little, feisty kid I remember her being. As soon as I started knocking at walls she began ferreting out the painted-over outlines of hidden doors and casing the new rooms.
I looked for the bathroom, but I'd forgotten that a little later in my original timeline my sister had discovered two secret rooms in Dad's house that had been converted into the main bathroom (the other one had become a closet, I think, by 2011). So, I re-"discovered" those secret rooms, thereby changing the course of history according to my priveledged knowledge of the future.
I'd forgotten how incredibly small Bri was when I was fourteen. Now she's roughly my size, give or take six inches, but back then she was much smaller than me. She hadn't had any kind of growth spurt and was the little, feisty kid I remember her being. As soon as I started knocking at walls she began ferreting out the painted-over outlines of hidden doors and casing the new rooms.
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