Regarding quail, I think the trickiest step for most people in the cooking process is slightly increasing the temperature by removing them from the poultry department freezer and placing them in the cart. The average format in which quail are delivered to the public involves completely removing their cavity bones (ribcage, etc.), flattening them out, and vacuum packing so they appear very much like a used, bird-shaped prophylactic that had been shot into the bag off an elephant’s trunk. Although they appear completely destroyed to the novice, in reality this unfortunate flaccidity is an incredibly useful state for the poor little things.
If you have a really good grocery store or a positively average Asian market nearby you should be able to find quail in their unedited state, provided you take that to mean having its head and feet lopped off, all of its feathers plucked out, and its entrails pulled out through its crotch. I certainly prefer them this way because I can break them down however I want, however, they are very small creatures and this can be intimidating.
Fortunately, it is a great convenience that the physiology of a quail is simply that of a tiny chicken. In fact, the joints and basic skeleton for all birds are identical, and if you went back in time you could probably break down a Pteranodon provided you had a sharp rock and a lot of determination. Actually, the Pteranodon might even be a little easier to deal with since it doesn’t have a wishbone, but on the other hand you’d have to use your entire studio apartment cave as an oven. Easier to carve at the table, but served with dirt gravy. I suppose it’s a fair trade-off since the saucière wouldn’t arrive in that area of the New World until the French colonized the Mississippi River Basin in the 17th century.
In contrast, their diminutive size is precisely what makes the quail so wonderful. Of all the birds, it’s probably the most versatile. Quail are well-proportioned for roasting whole, and unlike most birds a true stuffing doesn’t come with a high likelihood of—to quote WebMD—having to wait ”several months before your bowel habits are entirely normal” because of salmonella poisoning. Generally speaking, anything you can do with a chicken you can do with a quail, and a whole lot more.
I’ve seen quail served every way from delicately poached rosy breasts to a whole damn bird deep fried on the end of a stick dangling around like Shirley Temple skewered from crotch to curls into a Good Ship Lollipop. They can be broiled, roasted, fricasseed, grilled, stuffed, de-boned and rolled into a roulade, and a billion other things. They can have their backbone removed and butterflied whole, or broken down into their constituent parts to equally satisfying effect. The only thing that they could be said to lack is something common to all the smaller game fowl: fat. Because they spend a large portion of their life in water, ducks are smothered in the stuff, but pheasants, partridges and especially quails are little roadrunners that spend their days picking bugs out of the dirt. The obvious solution to this is to use the fifth element of the meat world, or quintessence if you prefer: Bac-fuck-on. When in doubt, wrap it in bacon, and for the love of god, if you hear anyone in the house even mention health punch them in the face as hard as you can and get back to wrapping your Christmas presents. That person sucks and should die.
Sorry to splay off, but I hate that shit. I don't ask for much, but when I'm obviously right in the fucking middle cooking, don't walk past and start asking me to edit things unless you want me to scream "Donny, you're out of you're element!" and throw a pan of hot fat into your eyeballs.
Yes. You do deserve to die. And when you do, I hope you burn in hell.
Anyway.
As it so happens quails highly prefer to run away from things and usually only fly when they freak out. When they do they tend to shoot straight up in the air, and that’s one of the reasons they’re among the most popular game birds to hunt. Quail hunting is conducted in the following way:
1. When not in use, your shotgun should be pointed up and safetied.
2. Follow your dogs until one of them points at some brush where the quail are.
3. Approach your dog from behind, make sure you check for your partner, your dogs, your stuff, and anyone or anything in the general area you don’t want to accidentally shoot.
4. Send in the dog, and only shoot when the birds are high to ensure you don’t hit any of the aforementioned things.
5. Never...ever...let your gun barrel cross the midpoint between you and your partner until all weapons are secure.
For obvious reasons.
I mention this because, in 2006, Vice President Dick Cheney was involved in a quail hunting incident in which he accidentally shot Harry Wittington in the face with 12 gauge pellets, and caused him to have a heart attack from some combination of the single pellet that lodged within an inch of his 78-year-old heart, and the shock of the Vice President of the United States of America shooting him in the goddamn face.
Here is the hunting etiquette employed by Mr. Dick Cheney on that day:
1. When not in use, your shotgun should be pointed horizontally to ensure your somewhere-from-none-to-fourth-beer-since-lunch-depending-on-who-the-police-asked is safetied.
2. Wander around in the field until one of your dogs gets so bored it sits down and points its snout into its own crotch.
3. Stumble over your dog.
4. As you crash into the undergrowth and an animal identifiable as a quail, if and only if your definition of “quail” is “something that made me say ‘Oh shit!’’, shoots out of the brush in front of you and hurtles over your shoulder, whip around as fast as possible while excitedly fumbling with equally feeble results to fire a shotgun at what is ostensibly the last surviving Ivory-billed Woodpecker—presumed extinct until the surfacing of possible evidence just a few months earlier—skimming the ground like a Tomahawk cruise missile, and attempt to catch a three-quarters empty beer bottle as it flies through the air silhouetted by the blinding rays of the noonday sun.
5. Never...ever...let your hunting party cross the midpoints upon which you are standing between them and the dying codger until all stories are secure.
For obvious reasons.
So that’s quail and/or any game bird hunting. Now to the two most delicious variations I have ever had.
Last year I ate at Bouchon, a sort of younger cousin restaurant of the French Laundry in Youtville, CO, and the special of the day was whole stuffed quail with creamy corn and a side of truffled risotto. As the server was describing it I had to put my hands and napkin over my lap to avoid an awkward and embarrassing moment. I asked her to repeat it, even though I heard her perfectly well the first time.
I ordered it, and I think she might have detected the slight waver in my voice but I don't really care. I like food so much it basically felt like I was negotiating with a brothel owner over which extremely hot all-you-can-eat-with-black-truffles-thrown-into-the-bargain-just-because girl could be purchased for the low, low price of $35. I happily traded two former presidents and an economist, who' ironically, a terrible shot, for it so as to stuff my own body cavity with it as quickly as possible, and in the meantime requested another napkin.
The quail was of the deboned cavity variety as described at the beginning, although knowing Thomas Keller it was probably hand selected from its luxury accommodations in his coup across the road and after cleaning it had a masseuse massage the rib cage out. It was stuffed with a moussing of ham, finely diced parsley, black truffle dust, and then the entire thing was deep fried with a crisp coating until it was golden, golden, oh my god golden and delicious. This was atop a creamed corn from the French Laundry’s garden across the street, and the black truffle risotto just took the whole experience to a level of absurdity that shamed every meal I’ve had but for the French Laundry itself. At first I didn't even realize it was for me because the plate in front of me was already absurd, and when I asked if it went to the wrong table the server actually laughed because the whole thing was basically a joke. A delicious joke, but seriously? There's not a hospital for miles.
I passed any and all sensical landmarks both physically and psychologically to get it into my body, and as bad as I felt afterwords it was totally fucking worth it. I made the recipe as follows:
Get your average hollowed quail, and make the chicken mousse for the pig trotter omitting mushrooms and herbs. Salt and pepper liberally, add parsley, finely diced ham, and if you’ve got it, either some truffle dust or a single drop of truffle oil. Maybe two. No more.
Take the little guy and stuff him until he looks like a normal quail again. Truss the front and back to keep it neat, and refrigerate for at least an hour. In the meantime, heat oil to something like 375-400 degrees. Take the quail out and prep in the usual manner: flour bird, egg, and then lightly roll in seasoned fresh bread crumbs (fresh is critical) with salt, pepper, and perhaps a little diced parsley. In it goes and watch until it’s the rich, golden color of half-reduced demi-glace. I can’t rightly remember for how long, but the technique to use is called "stand there watching it and don't fuck it up." If you do that it should come out fine.
This beautiful little bastard needs to go on a plate with something of your choice that is unrepentantly bad for you, and you need to be prepared to eat one apiece with your friends. I personally thought the creamed corn (read, cheese) was delicious with a few wild mushrooms for fun, and if you dare, a dish of risotto so creamy and truffly it’s bordering on embarrassing to eat in public.
Then take a long, long nap in a rope hammock and watch the sun go down as you drift off with a nice, overfilled glass of champagne.
The next recipe is purely my own.
Maxing out what can be achieved with an entire quail takes some time and knife skills. It’s a relatively small dish as it’s one of several courses.
Four people, four whole quails, i.e. not the elephant trunk condom. Remove the breasts with skin and the legs, then use the remaining carcasses to make quail stock. You can vary things as you see fit, but do use a little tomato paste to add richness seeing as how quail stock is generally mild.
Take the legs and confit. Fortunately, because they are so small they only take about four hours. Then set those aside. Yeah, you’re four hours and, depending on how awesome you are with a knife, four to forty minutes into this, but it’s not like I didn’t warn you.
Remove the skin from half the breasts, gently pan fry with shallots, herbs, and whatever else you feel like adding. Just make sure it’s not too liquid-heavy, because you are going to blitz the shit out all of it to make tortellini filling. Hopefully you have a food processor that can handle small amounts of things. Mine was barely able to hit everything, and the last time I made duck liver mousse I had to take it out and bash it to paste in a mortar and pestle while cursing god. All that for a tiny about of snack food.
Make tortellini. If you didn’t figure that out you’re a pretty dense fucker. That’s about it. I made a broth from the stock and added parsnips, and it was fine. Of course, it’s your face hole. Quickly pan fry the breasts and confit legs for about a minute a side in the oil from the confit, and arrange two legs, a breast and the tortellini to a bowl with some broth and parsnips. The only thing it doesn’t use, and for the record only because I couldn't find them, is the one last thing about the quail I have left to mention.
Quail eggs are the nuts, and I'm only half kidding.They’re each about the size of a smallish pair of testicles and shaped approximately the same way. The only thing I can’t confirm is if balls are speckled, but I really, really don’t want to. Most often the eggs are fried and put on top of tartare, and generally speaking they are used whenever something suitably cute and eggy is going on the plate. I’ve seen people balk at a dish solely because of the quail egg, and frankly that’s pretty stupid. It’s an egg. You were one once too, so grow up and eat the unfertilized hopes and dreams of the world’s cutest game bird. The sadness makes them all the better.
Next up, Part 3: Partridge
Arts and Culture, Food: The Game Birds—The Quail
Arts and Culture, Food: The Game Birds—An Introduction
Arts and Culture, Food: Odd Food—Escargot
Arts and Culture, Food: Odd Food—The Oxtail
Arts and Culture, Food: Odd Food—My Fridge Full of Crap
Arts and Culture, Food: Odd Food—The Compost Bin
Arts and Culture, Food: Odd Food—Pig Trotter pt. 3
Arts and Culture, Food: Odd Food—Pig Trotter pt. 2
Arts and Culture, Food: Odd Food—Pig Trotter pt. 1
Arts and Culture, Food: Odd Food—Squid Ink
Arts and Culture, Food: Odd Food—The Octopus