The Evil Temptation of Foie Gras

Yes, it's true. I am pure evil. I am evil incarnate. I should kick orphaned puppies as I pass them in the street on my way to the Republican rally.

My name is Condiment Grrl and I LOVE Foie Gras.

For those of you who don't know, Foie Gras, read up on it on Wikipedia, here. It's the diseased, engorged liver of a goose or duck. See? Evil.


But oh so good.


I remember distinctly the first time I had Foie Gras with a foodie friend who I shall ever after refer to as Trapeze Girl, because that's what she used to do. We were in a restaurant in San Francisco that was called something like Woodland, under an overpass toward the Mission district. I took a bite of a dish that was placed in front of us, unsure of its contents, but knowing it was something meaty with a savory sauce. And it was the most delicious, buttery meaty thing I had ever had. It's like they took all the beautiful songs about fat that have ever been written and distilled only the purest, sweetest notes.

I heart it.

How did we even order it since the very idea of it would have repulsed me? Did a fallen angel whisper it in my ear on his way to his Cannibals Anonymous meeting?

I only let myself have Foie Gras once or twice a year because I do have the tiniest shred of a Good Angel still sitting on my shoulder saying "Condiment Grrrrrlllll...think of the Geesies and Duckies...."

And that's what I was doing when I watched Anthony Bourdain investigate a Foie Gras producer in the Hudson Valley for his ironic Holiday special. He, too, had the same conflict that I had about the rumored horribleness of life for the Geese involved. He went to a producer called Dartagnan and toured the farm. The Geese did look moderately happy in their shelter. And the woman who owned the premises emphasized that happier Geese make better Foie Gras, so they really do try and make these Geesies short life happy. Not only that, but the force feeding doesn't hurt them; it only lasts a minute and, they have separate throats for food and air, so it doesn't choke them. Then a veteranarian came on and said that the Geese for Dartagnan probably have happier lives than Geese in the wild who are probably devoured by starving Orphan Puppies being fattened up for a Republican fundraiser.

So, you see, the moral of this story is that good begats good. And Foie Gras rules. And I really really really want to try the French Kisses from the Dartagnan website; what's not to love about prunes marinated with French Brandy then stuffed with Foie Gras mousse?

OK, I'm drooling on my keyboard.

Yes, I'm evil.

Condiment Grrl

The return of Condiment Grrl and the Fritessaus!

First up, I must apologize for my blogging deliquency. My day job sent me away on a key mission overseas to the land of bounteous mayonnaise, marijuana and bicycles -- the Netherlands.

Please note, for those of you from said place of employment who may browse here, that I engaged in only two of the three national pasttimes listed above -- bicycles and mayonnaise. Although the mayonnaise (or fritessaus) is rich enough that it should be against the law.

I have a series of blog posts planned for this week, each of which explore a different condiment aspect of my trip abroad. But today I wanted to focus on the thing that added 4 pounds to my weight during my travels -- fritessaus.

Exhibit A (actually, the only exhibit so I don't know what you call that)

Of course, I barely took any photos of the sights, just lots of photos of the condiments. I should have been an important photojournalist, except for that whole I suck at photography thing. So, I was blown away by two things in this aisle at the Super de boer:

- The amazing variety of fritessauses

- The giantness of the fritessaus jugs. They're HUGE.

It's like, how much fritessaus can one nation go through? Every single meal I had there, it didn't matter what kind of restaurant, the waitress would place a bowl of french fries in the center of the table and next to it, a little pot of fritessaus.

And let me explain a little bit about fritessaus. At first taste, the creaminess and texture remind you of mayonnaise, but the flavor is richer, deeper. I couldn't tell you what made it different, what the flavor was, but I can say that it was like they took the best of what makes mayonnaise taste good and kicked it up a notch. It was so good, that even when I knew I was waiting for some yummy carpaccio (man, they love their raw meat over there) or some crispy kipfilet (chicken), I would find my hand buried in the fries, then swiping again and again through the fritessaus.

I know many of you are thinking, "Well, was her hand acting of its own accord?" And the answer my friends is "Yes." Maybe it was the blue skies, the canals, the cobblestones, but it was a hunger beyond reason that drew me to the fritessaus. And though it is my hands that commit the crime, my thighs are the innocent bystanders that pay the price.

Another interesting fact -- there are barely any overweight or fat people in Holland. Really, hardly any, even with the apparent consumption of jugs and jugs of fritesaus. A clue might be what I referenced in my first paragraph - bicycles. Lots and lots and lots of bicycles that people ride everywhere. And the walking through places like the photo below.

So, my thighs could get moving and help serve the time the hand caused with fritessaus consumption. And now, here's a photo of the city I was in, Eindhoven.

More later on the international condiment situation.

Condiment Grrl