The partridge is one of the Lord’s great offerings to the mouthal papillae whose responsibility it is to deliver electrical interpretations of the collection of chemicals that make up the bird directly to the pleasure center of the brain.
If you’ve ever applied a nine-volt battery to the apex or median sulcus area of said organ, you have some subjective knowledge that not all electrical impulses are created equal. However, the partridge imparts other things well beyond its flavor that enhance its value:
You will look awesome serving it. “What is that, pheasant? How exciting!”
“That would be correct if I were a mere pleb, but I have in fact sourced and prepared a partridge to offer you a properly snobby experience.”
“How charmingly unique. And what hat the hell is a partridge?”
“I think the best I’m going to do here is “not a pheasant”. Also, you are now my intellectual son. Go clean your room or you will not be eating dinner.”
Now I am, of course, being a total ass here. Most people don't know what a partridge is because, well, why the hell would they? Nobody, and I mean nobody, eats it in the US unless they shoot it for sport. It's simply not on the American menu or palate, and it's an Old World bird that harkens back to the days of the nobility going hunting with their perfect pure-bred dogs, and taking hour-long freeze-frame breaks while an artist paints an idealized portrait of the scene.
Unfortunately, that conversation about what a partridge is manifests to varying degrees with even reasonably experienced specialty meat stores at whose mercy we are to figure out how to get one. Here's the typical conversation I had with at least a dozen specialty markets within an 80-mile radius of my hometown.
Meatist: “Uh..sorry, I didn’t catch that. What are you looking for?”
Translation: “Do me a solid and please answer this question as if I misheard you, but subtly including an additional indication as to what the fuck it is so I can stick to the lie that you don’t speak clearly on the phone rather than admitting I don’t know my business.”
“Partridge. *sigh* Game bird.”
Meatist: “Oh, rightrightrightrightright. Let me go ask if we have any in stock.”
Translation: “Thank you for letting me know what department I can go to in hopes of relieving my ignorance. Also, I guarantee we don’t carry that. Also, I guarantee we don’t know where to get it. Also, this will come in the form of a lie.”
Honestly, that’s all fine. The first thought that went through their head was that I was trying to order a cut of David Cassidy or Danny Bonaduce from the Partridge Family, and it would be hard to figure out where to look anyway. Do I look in the pickle aisle, amongst the braising meat heaps, or head cheese bin? It’s a tough call, especially since head cheese by definition contains unidentified/fiable “meat”.
In the end you’re probably going to have to make a special order—possibly to Scotland but at least the East or West Coast—or get lucky at Christmas because someone ordered it and then never picked it up because they don’t have any more of idea what it really is than the guy at the meat counter. Worst of all thought, it is not uncommon to click on “partridge” on websites for otherwise reputable distributors in the US and still be confronted with a picture of a pheasant.” I don’t know why this is, but extending an extreme benefit of the doubt I think it’s purely a business practicality. Partridge has rich, golden yellow fat and purple flesh that could easily throw off a customer. If they pretend it’s basically a chicken with pink breasts they may actually sell one.
But you did finally get one. That is, if it looks like this:
If it looks like this:
…you got fucked. You called a skeezy strip club featuring former child stars called "The Meat Market" rather than "a meat market", and this is definitely neither organic nor hormone-free. Possibly even a GMO. Do the world a favor and butcher it.
All that being said, the most important thing to remember about partridge is that it’s a delicate and rich-flavored meat. It can be roasted, and I would suggest larding it with bacon or oiling and basting it. Personally, I would break it down in to breasts, legs and thighs, and pan sear and finish in the oven in the usual way. I’ve even seen an excellent recipe where the thighs are deboned, the breasts cut in half, and cooked with some aromatics to make an excellent ravioli filling.
Also, it is one of the few birds that is an absolutely wonderful vehicle for sage—one of the most specialized herbs in existence because of its strength. However, I would never use onions with partridge. The humble shallot is not a snobby alternative, it’s a must or the bird gets overwhelmed.
The other great advantage of breaking it down is that you can make partridge stock. It’s a dark stock that is usually cooked with browned bones, occasionally some tomato paste for body, perhaps white wine if you’re really feeling—please pardon me here—saucy, and the traditional assortment of vegetables. Once you’ve got the stock the real fun can begin. Reduce with some sage and maybe some shallots until it coats the back of a spoon and you’ve got an absolutely killer sauce. Alternatively, make a reinforced broth or consume, and you can put enjoy some agnolotti in brodo. Really, it’s almost impossible to screw up a variation of partridge stock unless you do something obviously stupid. Don’t get creative, just add a few highlights if you want; the stock will stand on its two little birdie feet.
Finally, the partridge is one of the most beautiful and pleasurable of the Earth’s bounty to cook as well as eat. In every stage you want to eat it. Like, every one. It’s just gorgeous pillar to post.
If you have a chance to get it in a restaurant, I say get it unless there’s something stupid crazy on the menu you just have to have, because it’s going to be a rare enough find that if a chef is actually cooking it they probably know what the hell they’re doing. Also, cook it at least once. It doesn’t take a huge amount of coddling in the big picture, and it’s definitely worth it.