Carnivorous intent

I've been testing recipes in the last few days, getting ready for Robert's return from his bridge orgy in Tennessee.

One of them involved duck confit, available cryo-packed at Fausto's. Tough job, but somebody has to eat it.

I ran into Jimmy, the former mayor whose grandfather founded the store, and he noticed the leg/thighs in my basket and sidled into a Q-and-A about broiling, doneness. . . .

He'd never cooked one, though he's sold mant hundreds. I told him about the classic method of getting them ready to store -- slow cook bathed in duck fat, then stored in a basement in the fat for months (it's a great old way to save a season's harvest), and finally crisped under a broiling fire.

On a good day in France, I told him, I wanted to kill a duck a day for livers, breasts, legs, thighs. . . .

Tonight's, I made with fresh garlic cloves (again, thanks, Jimmy), and only four people stopped at the gate to ask what made those wonderful smells.