The Foie

Desperation for customers was the hunger of the Adamo hotel when I stepped into its lobby this past Friday. After some wheeling and dealing, and I had a room for two nights, including breakfast and dinner, in the tiny Stirling suburb of Bridge of Allan. With breakfast and dinner you ask? Oh yes, I answer. And not some shite set menu either….the gastronomic doors of the kitchen’s abilities were opened before me, and I could choose anything from the menu, three courses in all.

The funny thing about having a dinner plan like mine: you invariably judge what you choose not by what you may be hungry for, but instead, by what kind of deal you could get. Why not go all out, order the 40 dollar lobster dish, right? Instead, with some psychological irony in play, I found myself specifically not wanting to order the most expensive thing, for the sheer purpose of not looking like that guy who automatically orders the most expensive items. But then again, I couldn’t make my order paint me as a sheepish foreigner, right?

So I sought to find a happy balance, and chose an appetizer of foie gras with honey-pickled beets and wild mushrooms, and a pear and pecorino risotto for my main. That way I was able to settle my be-freckled culinary butt-cheeks right down the line between ballsy and bashful. And squeeze.

After a solidly simple amuse of warm broccoli soup with a creamed goat cheese layered on the bottom (visually appealing, and an interesting reversal take on a goat cheese garnish), I was served a slice of foie gras roulade about the size of a hockey puck. I’m going to look into the origins of engorged fowl livers, and who discovered their awesomely sexy taste qualities. I’m sure some of the chemical makeup of the goose and duck help in establishing the amazing flavors, but I can’t help but wonder what human liver would taste like. If Charles Manson had used the liver defense, he might be living in Southern Cali right now, making decent money after opening a forehead-focused tattoo shop on the strip.

I must admit, I was a little taken aback at just how much tasty, cylindrical fat lay before me, with a few crystals of fleur de sel dotting its surface. But I eagerly scooped up a bit, and let my mouth receive it like an old friend.

Sadly, it was not a good friend in return. It looked beautiful, and was properly cooked, but it lacked depth of flavor, of character; it needed salt, plain and simple. Have you ever stuck your hand into water that was at the exact same temperature as your body? For a moment you feel nothing specific like hot or cold, just the basic sensation that there’s something in contact with you? That’s what this was like…I could feel lethargy of unctuous fat along my tongue, but it didn’t sing. It was like going to bed with a beautiful woman, and then the sex is just terrible. When beauty becomes more important than substance, then what is good and true in this world will surely have dissipated.

I finished it all off, of course….it may have needed salt, but I’m not stupid.