Quail Quandary

I knew they were just too good to be true.

A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon a supply of Canadian quail at, of all places, a local Asian market. Frozen, four to a package, and unbelievably cheap, at least compared to what I’ve seen or paid in the past – if you can even find them!

Since that date, I’ve been fantasizing about a quail dinner, planning and plotting for basically as many friends and family can attend. Pan seared and oven finished, I would fill them with a fruited stuffing with walnuts and dress them in a fruit and red wine reduction glaze. I started accumulating odd ingredients for the meal and appetizers, from veal demi glace to a really nice Camembert I happened upon last week and snapped up at a great price.

I didn’t entertain as much as I intended to over the holidays, so I’ve been itching to go all out. I rounded up some of the usual suspects for a Sunday dinner then called more. Monday the 18th is a holiday, no work, no school, so a late night wouldn’t be out of order. I had my final head count on Monday night and headed out to buy the quail after work on Tuesday.

I eagerly start piling the packages in my arms. Then I really looked at them: they seemed a little too plump and “whole.” I peeked through the cello-wrap and try to see into the birds’ cavities. The neck part of each bird is facing toward the outer rims of each package. A big label from the Canadian farm covers most of the top, so I can’t see into the bird’s “other end.” I start to wonder.

“Are these cleaned?” I ask a random worker stocking a separate freezer case.

He looks, turns the package all around in the same way I did, and says, “I don’t know.”

I go to the butcher’s counter and encounter a language barrier. No biggie, I’ve communicated through more. He “thinks” they’re clean, but can’t be sure. Then he looks, and says, “No.” He calls over a woman who looks at me like I’m nuts. She has a thicker accent than the butcher, but speaks some English. She looks them over, brings them to another worker to caucus, points to me – I think I saw an eye-roll at that point – and returns.

“Not cleaned,” she says. I still don’t want to believe it. How can I pass these up? I’d been fantasizing about a Night at the Opera-type dinner for weeks.

I ask, “Is the liver inside?” A basic question, easy to answer, to get my confirmation.

“Yes!” she says, almost excitedly.

“And the lungs?”

“Yes!”

Turns out, these birds weren’t cleaned. Sure, they were plucked, and as the final man I spoke with said, “Lady, head cut off.”

It’s not the head I’m worried about.

Cleaning the quail would be like doing an autopsy on a sparrow. Sixteen of them. I did consider it, almost at length. I really wanted to make them. They are delicious, impressive and secretly so, so easy to cook. Could I just thaw and eviscerate? Sixteen stomachs, 16 livers, 32 lungs, a football field’s length of intestines. No, I’m not cleaning these things.

Cornish game hens will do, one per person plus spares.

Sunday’s Menu

D’Artagnan paté de foie gras on toast points with cornichons
Warm duxelles over chevre on toast points
Morbier and Tomme de Savoie cheeses; Chevre.
Champagne grapes
Toasted walnuts
Acacia honey
Veuve Cliquot Champagne and Santi Nello Prosecco [Santaniello is my maiden name. I had to get this!]

Roast Cornish game hen with fig and walnut stuffing and a fruit reduction sauce.
Mache salad with a warm sherry vinaigrette and Camembert on Baguette
Roasted mini red and Yukon gold potatoes
Steamed green beans
A red Bordeaux or Margaux [TBD]

Opera Cake and truffles
Tawny Port and coffee.