The Case of the Missing Duck Bones

The biggest scandal in the neighborhood of my youth concerned a duck carcass. My sister Anna, then a teenager, had prepared canard a l’orange for a potluck held at the home of a neighbor: the dish was exquisite, and with it she cemented her reputation as the finest cook on the block.

Once the party was over and we began gathering our serving dishes, our family discovered the duck carcass missing. We had anticipated a rich stock from the meat and bones, knowing it would add complexity to cassoulet or soften the bite of asparagus soup. But the serving dish on which my dad had carved Anna's culinary masterpiece was empty. Puzzled and disappointed, we carried it home.

The Berkeley, California, neighborhood where we grew up lies a few blocks from Chez Panisse and the specialty food shops surrounding Alice Waters' restaurant. Over the years, the influence of the Gourmet Ghetto permeated the surrounding neighborhood, and many of us became fanatical about food.

In our family of six, with two working parents, my siblings and I each cooked one night a week. We four kids were unabashed disciples of the culinary craze and attempted, with varying success, such dishes as bacon-wrapped grilled sweetbreads, handmade pasta, and squid and leeks in red wine. During dinner, the chef would face a critique from siblings and parents on how better to cut up a chicken or when to add garlic to a stir-fry. Learning to cook a sumptuous dish was nearly as valued as bringing home a good report card.

While our household carried the gastronomical torch (prompting one visitor to remark, the morning before a party, "The Ericksons are cooking, and all is well with the world"), our neighbors vied for runner-up, and dinner parties were a competitive business. Every Sunday morning, up and down the street, aspiring chefs were poring over the food sections of The New York Times and The San Francisco Chronicle and stashing recipes for future parties. At block parties we dined on coq au vin, wild mushroom ragout, and home-baked sourdough bread.

Naturally, much of the neighborhood gossip concerned cooking and food, and soon after the duck party, the grapevine told us where the carcass had gone. Another neighbor at the potluck had bagged it while the rest of us were finishing a chocolate hazelnut torte. He spirited it home and prepared the stock, which now filled his freezer.

My father confronted him. Our neighbor admitted taking the carcass but asserted that, as a leftover, the spent duck was as much his as anyone's. The two of them, both lawyers, argued about it for months. The stock, alas, is long gone.

* * *

Duck a l'orange is a surprisingly simple dish. It consists of a duck, roasted, and a sugary orange sauce. The fatty, gamy meat balances the sweetness of the sauce, and the entire dish is a guilty pleasure.

The most difficult part of the dish is handling the duck -- both roasting and carving it. While roast duck is the most tempting meat I have encountered, I rarely cook it. The bird is so fatty, and cooked at such high heat, that the duck fat liquefies and ascends to coat the walls and ceiling of the kitchen. If you don't have a well-ventilated stove (which I don't), make sure to crank up a fan and open all the windows. It also helps to trim as much fat as possible from the duck before consigning it to the oven.

When it comes time to carve the bird, you'll find that although it has already given its life, the duck doesn't easily give in to the cook. The joints stick together stubbornly, and tendons pull the meat tight against the bone. Use patience, a very sharp carving knife, and lots of red wine for your guests.

Duck a l'Orange

Adapted from Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking

-4 oranges

-1 5-pound duck

-3 tablespoons sugar

-1/4 cup red wine vinegar

-2 cups duck stock

-2 tablespoons arrowroot blended with 3 tablespoons port

-1/2 cup port

-2 or 3 tablespoons orange liqueur

-lemon juice

-2 tablespoons softened butter

Remove the peel from the oranges and julienne; simmer the orange peels in a quart of water for 15 minutes.

Wash the duck inside and out and season with salt and pepper. Place 1/3 of the orange peels in the cavity of the duck and truss it.

Set the duck on a rack and in an oven preheated to 425 degrees. Roast for 15 minutes, then lower the heat to 350. The duck should take about 1-1/2 hours; you'll know it's done when you prick the thigh and the juices that run out are faintly pink.

While the duck is roasting, boil the sugar and vinegar until they form a dark brown syrup -- this will take several minutes. Remove the syrup from the heat and add 1/2 cup of duck stock. Place it back on the heat, on simmer, stirring while adding the rest of the stock. Whisk in the arrowroot mixture and stir in the remaining orange peels. Simmer 3 to 4 minutes.

Cut the peeled oranges into segments.

When the duck is finished, remove it from the rack and set it on a platter. Return it to the oven (but leave the heat off).

Drain nearly all the fat from the roasting pan; add the port and boil the liquid down until it is 2 to 3 tablespoons. Strain port into the simmering stock mixture. Stir in the liqueur and add lemon juice if needed to cut the sweetness. Whisk in the butter.

Place the orange sections around the duck, pour the sauce over all, and serve.

This piece first appeared in the Daily Gullet on May 14, 2004 http://forums.egullet.org/index.php?act=home