My Ortolan

The French have this bird, called an Ortolan. Funny story: the bird is about the size of a human thumb, and what they do is, they catch them in the wild and put their eyes out. Then they keep them in tiny little cages and and feed them. So they're like veal, only birds. When the time comes, the little bird is drowned in cognac and served. To eat this bird, you put a very large cloth napkin over your head. The story is that you do this to hide from God the shame of what you're about to do, but actually it's to form a little aroma tent. You lean down over your plate with this little dead eyeless bird, and under your napkin you place the entire bird in your mouth and begin to chew.

My understanding is that the bit in the middle - when you're getting the meat and juice that makes any meat enjoyable - is so sublime that the only way anyone can stand it is to deal with the bitter foulness (no pun intended) of the feathers that start and the bones that end the experience of placing this entire creature in your mouth and eating it.

My point is that, while I've never had an Ortolan, I think i have my own version. I like to buy the little "airplane" sized bottles of MacAllan single-malt 12 year-old Scotch at the liquor store. I bring this little bottle of heaven home, and put it in the freezer while thinking about where i was 12 years ago when this bottle first began it's journey to me and its ignominious fate. About an hour later, i take a can of diet coke out of the fridge, open it, and take a very large sip.

Then, i open the little airplane of Scotch that's half my age and pour it into the empty space in my diet coke can.

Then, I enjoy my diet coke.

I feel the need to hide from God when I'm doing this, because it's so good, and evil. So maybe for Christmas, someone can get me a big napkin.