Actually, they’re not, or at least should not since they’re protected. However, there has been some fuss, some years ago, when it has been known that the former french president Mitterrand had them during a dinner at a friend’s. So, obviously, legal or not, some people still eat them.
At this occasion, many details have been published in the papers about the intricacies of ortolan’s cooking and eating (to each his own…you’ve your presidential blowjobs, we’ve our presidential ortolans). In particular, to properly eat ortolans, one must put a large napkin on one’s head (yes…I’m serious), covering one’s face, so the bird is eaten under the napkin (supposedly to keep the aromas, or somesuch). Since it’s a very little bird, it’s eaten whole, and as ** false god ** said, with the intestines still inside.
So, lacking duck’s shit, you can have ortolan’s shit when visiting france (though you’d better avoid being caught, or you’ll have a hard time explaining your family/coworkers why exactly you were arrested during your vacations…probably better to tell you were caught assaulting old ladies rather than eating bird’s intestines with a napkin on your head)
I realised after posting that I could have given the impression that the average French family were tucking into roast sparrow every Wednesday, which is obviously not the case – thanks for clearing things up. It was the Mitterrand story that I had in mind, but of course even that’s quite old now.
I saw the napkin-over-the-head ceremony on TV here some years ago, but they told us that it was peculiar even then.
This is the most amazing thread. Even though I found the French quotation, I am amazed at this French ceremony of eating small birds with a napkin over one’s head. The French do not cease to amaze me in matters gustatory.
I did it nine years ago in Lyon. I was at a cocktail party the guest of the mayor, who I can’t name now, but I remember as being a nice man with very bad breath. I was there because my first host family in Germany knew a French family, holiday time rolled around, and we went to Lyon. I met a man there who was the president ? of some kind of affineur/culinary adventure society, and he very graciously asked me how I had been enjoying French cuisine. I love French food, but it’s a bit heavy on cream and butter for me, so we chatted about that, and rare things, and then I mentioned ortolans. I’d given him about half a pack of Marlboro and some nips of Maker’s out of my flask, so I guess he was feeling generous. He drew me in, and said " Zis is not done often, and is verry illegal. But tomarrow, you come to mah house, we have some wine, and then, M’sieu, you shall have what we spoke of."
I wasn’t aware of how illegal it was at the time, or what exactly I was getting myself into, but I agreed. The next night, I went with his niece to his house, and met his friends, whom I greeted in my best bad French. We had some wine and aperitifs, some snacky type-things (and some of the best goujons de Gruyere I’ve ever had), and then we went in to dine. We started with a clear soup, some white fish with a vermouth sauce, then the lights were turned up and one of the members of the club brought in a serving dish with these little birds on it. No, strike that. He brought in a dish with a pyramid of canary corpses on it, wafting steam. Everyone oohed and aahed, and my guy (let’s call him Pierre, since that was his name) called me up in front of the platter. He explained the napkin ritual, and that you had to put the entire thing into your mouth and crush it against your palate with your tongue like caviar.
He draped the napkin, I leaned back, and he placed the bird into my mouth. First off, it was too hot, so I almost spit it back out, but managed to hold onto it. Once it had cooled (and I stopped waving my arms, which the other guests found amusing beyond compare) , I proceeded as indicated. It was like eating a small, crisp, bird. Light, fragrant meat, some black truffle butter under the skin, and since they’re traditionally drowned in wine to kill them, liquid dripping down my throat. I remember the intestines as sort of lightly squeaky spaghetti, and the feet and skull were crunchy.
All in all, the combination of flavor, texture and ceremony were one of the most memorable experiences of my life, but when I told a Frenchwoman about it about five years ago, she looked at me as if I’d just offred to urinate on her children. Apparently it’s become VERY illegal, and the little buggers are rare indeed. Would I do it again? Probably not, but at the time I was honored to be asked to participate.
We’ve recently finished about quarter of a turkey, a bird FAR too large to put in your muth, like caviar. There was, I am reasonably certain, no fecal matter anywhere near it.
It was delicious, and I didn’t even have to put a napkin over my head.