Get Goosed

Artichokes are God’s idea of a cruel joke, and yet we’re continually playing into his hand, as we try desperately to get them into our stomachs by any means possible. In all my years as a chef, I’ve seen few other edible objects in this world that require so much work for so little reward. And then I’m reminded of my story about the Canadian goose. So choke lovers, I’m sorry, but you will have to wait.

When I was working at a restaurant many years ago, the pastry chef hit a Canadian goose on his way to work. Yes, a Canadian goose. Lower on the culinary food chain than pigeon, even. Pigeon can be squab, but Candian goose will always be Canadian goose. But as a Mexican coming from California, this guy saw Canadian goose as “goose,” as in Christmas, as in food. And so I arrive at work one day to find this guy tossing around this inverted pillow with a beak, trying everything to get at it what he thought was a treasure trove of awesome meat inside. He boiled it, roasted it, butane torched it, smacked it with the rolling pin, called it names…everything. Had the ASPCA had known about this, he’d be up on criminal charges, even though the goose was dead already. You know that honk that geese make? Just picture the honk reflex from smacking a dead goose with a rolling pin. HILARIOUS. It’s like a Whoopie cushion with wings.

Several health code (and moral) violations later, the focus of his ire was finally looking more like a poorly constructed football with a beak. Now, as any good Bostonian will know, one of the by-products of our aerial friends to the north is the snow-staining liquid land mines that look a bit like spinach puree on a bad day. Pretty soon, that group also included our pastry chef.

He continued undaunted though, and now free of feather and feces, he hit fat. A lot of it. Of course, we didn’t want to say anything, because this man was determined. And the only way it could’ve provided any more entertainment is if John Madden had shown up to give us a poultry play-by-play.

And yet he soldiered on. It was a matter of principle now, and he didn’t want to lose face. So many hours after taking its last breath, and with about 90% of it in the garbage, the victim of vehicular goosicide ended up as a small strip of leathery meat, disgraced and alone on the plate. I’d like to tell you I tried it, and found that it hadn’t died in vain. I’d really, really like to tell you that.

The pastry chef learned several valuable lessons that day. First, fewer animals die when you bike to work instead of drive. Second, there’s a reason we don’t eat Canadian geese, and it’s not because it’s "un-Americun." And finally, when the electric knife gives up, so should you.

Now, I can’t tell you that pastry chef’s name was Ernie Quinones, and he’s now the chef at the UMass club, because that wouldn’t be nice. So I won’t.