"Unhand That Foie Gras Duck, You Brute!"

A gripping yarn from the days they paid me to write.

Photo by Ross Sokolovski on Unsplash

Happy Newish Year, Substackers and Substackettes!

I suspect many of you are struggling to maintain your resolutions and in hopes of helping you stay the course, I thought I would put modesty aside and tell you about one of mine.  It was not done just because another year was rolling around. It was deeply felt, born of a desire to make the world a better place, and came out of an experienced forged in blood though happily, not mine.   

Uber, get me the Wayback Machine. And don’t try to pull any nonsense about surge pricing. The holidays are over.

VROOM, VROOM!!! BLAST-OFF!  (Take a moment and hit that link. It will make this life lesson so much more enriching.) 

It’s November, 1999, just before Thanksgiving, and the Wayback machine has landed in a Hudson Valley duck farm. Let’s all take a moment and wipe our feet.

I have to be honest: This farm raises ducks for foie gras and I am here because I am a reporter for The New York Times and I need a story with a holiday peg. I have a feeling I will lose some of you with that foie gras admission, but you try finding a fresh Thanksgiving peg year after year. There are only so many times you can go over to Jersey and talk to the guy who designs Macy’s hot air balloons. 

I also might as well tell you that at the time of this story, I loved foie gras. I know it comes from ducks or geese which are force fed, but I also know that most cows and pigs do not have bucolic lives and that when it is time for the big sleep they are not walked to the execution chamber in the company of a kindly priest.

This farm, anyway, is the main producer of foie gras in the country, producing $9 million worth a year. The two owners, Mr. X and Mr. Y, sensing immediately that they have an omnivore on the premises and that there is no need to hide anything, give me the grand tour. They raise Moulards, a cross breed of Pekin and Muscovy, which can neither quack nor reproduce.  Their ducks live four months, the first few weeks of which are adorable.

I have never seen so many ducks. The foie gras nursery, putting it in Manhattan real estate terms, is something like a Rockefeller Skating Rink of fluffy ducklings.  The owners offer me one to take home, which I politely decline, not only because of the Times policy against accepting gifts, but because if I wanted a shitting machine in my apartment, I would have ordered one from Hammacher Schlemmer. I am amazed that anyone takes a baby duck home, but I’m told that visitors with children often do. Then, after the third day of stepping in duck shit, they make a teeny little roast and offer it to the child with a sippy cup of pinot noir.    

The controversial aspect of foie gras farming, of course, is the forced feeding. It’s done here by putting a long plastic tube, which is connected to a motor and a container of cornmeal, down the duck’s throat and throwing a switch. The farm owners tell me that this does not bother the ducks because their throats are lined with gristle and they feel nothing. Based on what I’m seeing, that seems to be the case. The ducks don’t run from the woman who comes to feed them, they circle around her, though of course this might be because life on a duck farm is very dull and they’re starved for gossip. The feeding process takes less than 30 seconds.

After a month of delicious, force-fed meals it’s time – and here I have to get down to the harsh reality – for the ducks to go over The Rainbow Bridge.

I have never been in a slaughterhouse or seen a living creature die, so I have to steel myself for this part.

It goes like this: First, somebody puts the ducks into crates, telling them they are going to Disneyland. (Okay, I didn’t witness this part, but those crates were pretty stuffed and they had to get the ducks in there somehow.) The crates are put on a conveyor belt, which goes to The Rainbow Bridge departure lounge, where a half dozen workers await. At this point, the ducks in the front of the crate are getting a bad feeling.

“I hate to tell you, guys, but this doesn’t look like Disneyland,” one will inevitably say.

Then a worker grabs a duck, flips it upside down, and puts it, dangling by its yellow webbed feet, on another conveyor belt, which slowly carries it to an electrified pan of water. The ducks are stunned which, according to the farm owners, makes their final moments painless. Then their throats are cut.

I have no way of knowing if the painless part is true. Stunning the ducks definitely makes them unable to move, but I can’t help wondering, watching this process, if they are conscious. Their eyes remain open. They certainly cannot be happy being flipped upside down and being conveyed down the line, from where, it seems to me, they may be able to see what awaits.  

I may love foie gras, but I can’t help feeling bad for the ducks. I have seen “Dead Man Walking”, the movie in which Susan Sarandon plays a nun who accompanies condemned man Sean Penn to the gas chamber and tells him, as he awaits execution, to look into her eyes.

 “I want the last face you see in this world to be the face of love,” she tells him, “So you look at me when they do this thing. I'll be the face of love for you.”

I decide I will be Nun Sarandon to Sean Penn Duck.  I pick out an upside side down duck and lock eyes with him, thinking strong loving thoughts along the lines of, “I’m right here with you, Mr. Duck.” (Why I think the duck is male, I don’t know. Maybe all those death row movies with James Cagney.)

Then I drive back to the city, vowing never to eat foie gras again.  Unlike my New Year’s resolutions, which generally involve the gym and weight, I don’t worry about whether I can keep this promise.

A day later, I am invited to a party at a Manhattan culinary school for chefs. It’s arranged in an assembly line of sorts, too, with guests going from one room to the next. There’s a choice of wines to start. (“Champagne, my good waiter/actor!”) and lots of delicious hors d’oeuvres and small plates.

A half hour into my stroll, I come to a room featuring something I’ve never heard of: French Kisses, which turn out to be prunes soaked in Armagnac and stuffed with — wait for it! — foie gras mousse.

I’d like to tell you I walked out of that room in disgust. I’d also like to tell that war is over if you want it to be and you will live to be ninety in excellent health and that if you have a dog, the two of you will check out at exactly the same moment, walking together over that beautiful Rainbow Bridge.

The truth is, I reached for that French Kiss faster than the Wayback Machine blast-off. It was one of the most delicious things I had tasted. It was so good I had two. Walking the last mile with Mr. Duck?  It was a powerful memory, but faced with the corporeal bliss of that fois gras mouse, it was just fog and mist. Those French Kisses were real. I wanted them.

Good luck with those New Year’s resolutions.