A Lament by Silvestro Silvestori

January, 2008
The Awaiting Table Newsletter

If you exclude advertising slogans, probably the world's all-time, most famous quote about food is that of Brillat-Savarin, Tell me what you eat and I'll tell you who you are. I think you can go even further with rabbit: you tell me your stance on eating rabbit and I'll tell you your age, where you come from and maybe even if your last name ends with a vowel or not.

To me eating rabbit is one of those activities in life, like go long stints without wearing socks or citing 'Chablis' as your favourite wine, things you see among the really poor and the really wealthy, but very rarely in between.

It's likely to do with domestication, and at some point in a lot of the world, keeping rabbits went from functioning as the emergency meat larder to little furry pets in cages: With one carefully chosen 'Bugsy' or 'Muffy', little Suzie quickly turned the concept of Rabbit from culinary asset into a familial financial liability. What little Suzie never realised though, was that when she grew up and turning into 'Susan', she would have effectively robbed herself from yet another culinary tradition, making yet another heel-to-toe on her death-march diet of boneless, skinless, flavourless and soul-less chicken breasts, nine times a week.

 

Every time I hear someone say, 'I could never eat little 'Molly' or 'Bearnie' while in the market here in Lecce, I mentally make a note to buy my future daughters pet chickens, perhaps even plucking their breast meat down to the skin, tracing out the tear-drop-shaped fillets with magic markers. I imagine several little beautiful brown-eyed girls crouching and giggling, the chickens scratching around the back of the house, their stenciled breast meat outlined like dress patterns, the happy fowl forever grateful for my magic marker and how it not only saved their lives but for all their descendents for ever more. On somedays I even fantasize about what those little girls will request for dinner, exactly, knowing that they'll know that nothing comes without a price, especially meat.

'I think it's because it had a head on it', many will say here in the market, when I ask why they won't even TRY rabbit.

I think they mean to explain their fear of eating a rabbit itself, but the commonly-given explanation is even more perplexing to me, as though meat could be had without a death occurring, without the separation of head and body, without something that was formally alive, no longer being so. I think what they mean is, 'I don't enjoy being reminded that an animal had to die for my lunch and a rabbit's diminutive size allows it to be presented as an intact animal, where as the larger the animal the more prebutchering that has to happen before I'm allowed to come any where near the meat, and thusly, the more I can forget about any death occurring, or that I'm personally responsible for it, each time I eat meat, whether I kill the animal or someone else does'. I'd find the answer refreshing though, the clarity of culpability, the honesty in the paradox.

At least it'd be addressed as an irrational food phobia issue, rather than a somehow heightened state of humanity over how genteel an animal could be, as if cows drank whiskey from the bottle while worshipping Satan and smacking around strippers.

Not that everyone hates rabbit though, on the contrary. Here in Italy, it's devoured with relish, cross the boards too, men, women and children. In Spain, Portugal and France, the same. Australians and Kiwis love it, as do the older English, Irish and Welsh, those that remember the war and what that meant to the food supply. But I think the 'Italy, Spain, Portugal and France' part is the most telling, the only nations where the non-rabbit-eaters would actually go to actively study the food. These are cultures that also happen to lack that modern and well-loved disconnect between the animated corpse and the eventual meat that it will produce. In good-food cultures, no one forgets that, if you want meat, you have to take it, and the owner never wants to give it up. That sobriety causes respect for the ingredient, and that respect can be witnessed in the kitchen and the table.

And it's obvious on every level. Ask an Italian or French kid to draw a fish, and she'll most likely reach for a blue or green crayon, where as it's becoming more commonplace for parents in other parts of the world to feel scandalized that their children choose 'yellow', the colour of fish sticks and fish fingers. (A friend of mind here recently boasted that his small daughter talks to the family dog, and rather than 'teaching' the dog his body parts, she teaches him his 'cuts'. 'This would be your tender loin', she'll say rubbing his back. 'These would be your rib chops', etc'. He tells the story as if she had just been accepted into a prestigious school, his thick paternal pride dripping down into the little holes in the receiver). I never miss a chance to eat dinner with his daughter, so fascinated I am how she's growing into a charmingly-hungry little woman, refreshingly free of food issues.

Lately I've been eating a lot with the painter Emilia Ruggiero, who is probably Lecce's most gifted artist since Eugenio Maccagnani (1852-1930) himself used to walk the streets out front of my place. Recently I took her to the market in Lecce, where she naturally gravitated to the rabbit case, pointing out the one she wanted to Ermanno my butcher (Sandro's brother and Giovanni's son). I did a triple-take as she bent down and studied the meat-case, eagerly- tapping on the glass at the one she wanted. My face flushed and my lips peeled away from my teeth, her enthusiasm over the foods I love, the most attractive thing I can think of.

Rabbit with Cracked Green Olives, White wine and Fresh Thyme
(AKA. The Awaiting Table's Great Salentine Rabbit).

Ask your butcher to cut up the rabbit, or do it yourself. You're looking for the classic 12-piece version (discard organs and head). Soak in salt water for a few hours (Keeping in mind that brining is all about surface-to-mass, the smaller the cut, the shorter the soak). Place a heavy-bottomed pan over a high heat and walk away for five minutes: you want the pan so hot you can't even touch it. French enamelware is ideal. Working in batches if need be, drizzle in some olive oil and quickly place the rabbit in the bottom, careful to avoid touching the sides of the pan or each other. You want to brown and any water vapor that gathers will cause you to steam, a very different colour. Walk away again. Resist toying with it. When it's deep brown, flip it, until all sides are deep brown. Defat the pan if needed and reduce heat to as low as it will go, switching hobs if need be. Add back rabbit, some split green olives (crack them with a heavy water-glass, to remove the stones or pits, just like I did, a few pictures back), a touch of red pepper (you're going for balance, not heat), half a bottle of dry white wine (in Lecce we use la verdeca, the region's white), half your thyme, cover and gently, gently simmer until the fattest piece is opaque at the bone, or 20 minutes or so (exact times are fiction as rabbit's age affects over-all weight, thus, cooking time). Add the rest of the thyme and toss. Careful with the salt too, as both your olives and rabbit bring their own. Brining increases your fudge factor, tremendously. I've never had this rabbit that wasn't juicy and if I'm on my game, occassionally, a piercing fork will cause it to squirt. Plate, going for height if you want (use a big plate, tongs to stack it and you'll have your friends clapping like eager seals). Serve with more verdeca or even a rosato, such as one based on negroamaro, your next favourite Italian grape.