Saint Koffe was right. But when he was alive, nobody listened to him, and when he was dead, even less.
The real question is, why do we persist in ingesting reconstructed sludge when the freshness of the season offers us in a vegetable or fruit all the felicity imaginable, just as the cow offers us its calf and its pretty little liver, notably the one I was about to feast upon?
But be careful! This is a very serious matter! Cooking veal liver is a ritual. You can't waste such a beautiful gift from nature: it has to be sublimated on the altar of taste!
Of course, the veal doesn't share this opinion. In fact, it shares none. And that's why I vouch for a worthy celebration of its present. For, since a certain age, I've had a certain idea of Gastronomy according to which it's only through its science and art that liver can reveal all its greatness.
As I was saying, there are some things that should be taken seriously, that border on the divine, and that should be respected.
Freshness, for instance. It's essential. It's like a joke, a bon mot or an idea in a dinner conversation. The further you get from the point of inspiration, from the word itself, the more bland, indigestible, even unpalatable the joke becomes. Freshness goes quickly, and you don't want to waste it, especially when it comes to l’Oiseau's liver. Freshness is like l’esprit de l’escalier: at the bottom of the staircase it is useless.
L'Oiseau is the nickname of “my” butcher. Why I appropriate this worthy fellow with such pride, I couldn't say. After all, what have I done to make this butcher mine? Nothing, really. He moved into the neighborhood, I chose him, and that was that! Besides, why should I be proud of him? Apart from being the guarantor of a long tradition, of high standards and constant renewal, there's nothing extraordinary about him - this concept of rejoiced fool, happy with what he hasn't done, puzzles me.
It's just that I invest such an emotional charge in my butcher that my posture is perhaps normal. He's my kitchen chaplain, a trusted spiritual figure. To discover that he's deceiving me in the pulpit would be tantamount to discovering that “my” priest is feeding me tainted ideas.
Fortunately, I don't belong to this parish. I don't have a priest, I only have preachers like my butcher, my cheesemonger or my wine merchant, even if I am a bit polygamous on that side.
But I’m going astray.
Butter, garlic, parsley, temperature. Layout is a cardinal virtue in the kitchen: it's essential to have ingredients, dishes and utensils in working order, at the risk of ruining or even outraging magnificent ingredients. Something was missing. The fleur de sel, in its little Japanese bowl. And pepper. I hesitated among the many pepper grinders in my collection. The emotion of the coffee gear becoming an aerial vehicle mingled with that of the different fragrances that each of these mills could unveil. With so many bicentennials approaching, both my taste buds and my neurons exulted.
I picked up the rust-orange cast-iron Bali model, into which I had poured a very fragrant white pepper. There was only one thing missing, but I'd have to do without it: company.
It had been a tough choice - Cornelian even - between imperious freshness and a partner on the plate. But even if you're a queen, you can't keep a calf's liver waiting. Of course, a good meal is a joy to share, and it's even a deep conviction: we'd made immense progress since the solitary gueuletons of our founders, Grimod and Brillat. However, the events I'm about to describe, which would follow on from one another like a poorly-constructed meal, took a first turn that would prevent me from sharing this immoderate pleasure. Let me be clear: this is not onanism, it's a tribute to Barnabé the calf.
Having to travel to the police station to make a statement, my bed and table companion was unable to join me at the late hour of the afternoon to enjoy this divine delicacy. Since the liver couldn't wait, i was obliged to honor it, alone.
The wait at the police station had been long and tiresome. Why I had been there shortly before noon, I had no idea. I blamed myself for my lack of anticipation. With my taste buds moistening with my own saliva, generous at the thought of feasting on that tasty flesh, at the ideal temperature, smooth in texture, embellished to near-perfection with those fine chisels of garlic, neither too browned nor too little, time seemed endless.
Especially as lunchtime had in the end long been over, leaving my stomach to take over from my palate.
This ordeal thus made the impertinent ringing of the bell all the more inconvenient. No matter - no one had announced themselves beforehand, I wasn't expecting a single person, no deliveries were planned - whether they were standing in line or walking around the pâté, I didn't care, apart from my frying pan, which was starting to heat up, just ready to receive my fresh butter from the market.
But the technicalities involved in cooking a calf's liver don't allow for any distractions, especially when they become insistent. Cursing the oddball who had come to disturb me at such a sacred moment, I pushed aside the frying pan and its bruised butter to go and castigate this bad-looking bird.
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