Lapin à la Moutarde (Rabbit in Mustard Cream Sauce)

Rabbit hind quarter in mustard sauce.

For a short time during the mid-'70s, when I was attending Northern Illinois University, I was unattached and loving it. I would take myself on extended day trips into Chicago for museum crawls, ethnic festivals, often followed by a light dinner at The Berghoff (cheap eats in the late 1970's: escargot, a basket of bread, a glass of white wine, and a generous tip for the cute waiter in the bow tie = $5). I spoiled myself regularly. 

I had a fantasy (which eventually came true) that I would fall in love with a man as interested in art and music and film and literature and travel and international cuisine as I was. In pursuit of that dream, I would, from time to time, invite someone with potential to join me in the windy city. 

The following recipe is a recreation of a dish that I had at a French bistro-style restaurant in Chicago in 1977. I don't remember the name of the restaurant or the name of my date that night, but I do remember that it was a very long and interesting day. We'd started at the Field Museum, spent considerable time wandering through the Art Institute, and ended up at a foreign film festival. We saw three movies, including the 1960's French film Shoot the Piano Player, which I enjoyed immensely for its absurdities, its stylized violence, and its send-up of Hollywood mobster films. For a few hours, I thought I'd found my kindred spirit.

Thirty seconds after the waiter handed us our menus, however, my date's mask slid off. "This menu is in a foreign language!" he snarled. "Oh, for God's sake! Look at these prices!"

I stared back at him, dumb-founded. "Don't worry about the prices. My treat."

"But how can I order when I can't even read the menu!" he said.

Clearly, he one was not The One. I steered him toward the bifsteak (steak) and pommes frites (fried potatoes).

I order rabbit, for the first time . . . and fell in love!

Ingredients

• 1 rabbit (2 to 2 1⁄2 lbs.), cut into 6 to 8 pieces
• salt and black pepper
• 3 slices of good quality bacon, cut into small pieces
• 1 medium onion, diced
• 2 cloves of garlic, crushed
• 1 bay leaf
• 1 tsp. dried thyme leaves
• 1 tablespoon whole mustard seeds
• 2 cups chicken broth
• 1 cup crème fraîche
• 1/2 cup dijon mustard

Get Cooking!

1.  Salt and pepper the rabbit pieces.
2.  Starting with a cold pan, fry the bacon pieces over low heat, rendering out the fat.
3.  Turn the heat to medium and brown the rabbit pieces in the bacon fat.

 
4.  Toss in the diced onion and crushed garlic, the bay leaf, thyme and mustard seeds. Move the rabbit pieces around in the pan so that the onion is at the bottom. Continue to cook until the onion is translucent.

5.  Deglaze with chicken stock and bring the pot back up to a boil. Lower the heat to low, put a lid on the pan and slow simmer for 1 to 1 1/4 hours. 

6.  Remove the lid, increase the heat, and boil until the liquid in the pan is reduced by half.

7. Add the crème fraîche and dijon mustard and stir. Heat through.


8. Oooo-la-la!! Serve over boiled potatoes or pasta.



Oops! I forgot to take a picture of the whole plate. Here's the remnants of the rabbit, extra sauce on my remaining garlic smashed potatoes, and steamed green beans and mushrooms on the side.

 Serves 4 and freezes well.

Rabbit & Andouille Gumbo

First off, let me be clear: I do not advocate the eating of pets. Domesticated pets are not food. In the area of what to eat, I follow the general rules of polite society as voiced by the Red Queen in Alice in Wonderland. She was the one, you remember, who explained to Alice that “it isn't etiquette to cut anyone you've been introduced to."

Rabbits raised for meat are not acquaintances. They are well-care-for livestock until they're humanely-slaughtered deadstock that has been turned into “food” or “meat.” Livestock and their consumers in America are complete strangers to one another, usually. The same is true with rabbits raised for meat. Bunnies destined for the stewpot and hungry diners never meet in the (living) flesh, so to speak. Hence, no rules of propriety are broken.

By the time I get involved, the rabbit that will become my dinner is skinless, headless, footless, devoid of internal organs, and frozen. I buy chicken at the grocery store without ever seeing their beaks or tail feathers;  I buy rabbits from a local farmer without ever touching their fur, looking into their faces, or experiencing those prominent incisors.

As you can see, there is nothing about this rabbit that even vaguely resembles "Thumper" or that creature I met last Friday at the Canfield Fair. This is meat:
  

[This entry continues.]

Good Eats at The Canfield Fair

According to the Canfield Fair website, the fair is home to over 1,000 food stands. Sounds impressive, doesn't it? Indeed, it is impressive, horrifically impressing.

Most of the food concessions are lumped into one giant maze-like grid--block upon city block--of vendors selling (almost) exactly same stuff. When you are wandering the maze in search of something to eat, the smell of fryer grease and burnt sugar wafts through the air, overpowering all other odors, including that of the nearby farm animals.

This year was the first time I'd ever attended the Canfield Fair, though I've lived in the area since 2002. It's not that I have anything against fairs; I simply hadn't gotten around to going before this year. I arrived Friday afternoon with the storm clouds, and throughout my three hours of wandering the grounds, clouds burst open from time to time, drenching everything. This was not a problem for me, however. As a former Seattleite, I happen to love walking in the rain.

[this blog entry continues]