I ordered roast duck for dinner last night and what a treat it was. Most of my life I regarded duck with a certain disdain. I couldn’t see why such a fuss was made over roast duck. I thought the very little meat that accompanied each cut was hardly worth the effort. Skin and fat I never liked at all and managed to avoid so not much was left. But I watched many devotees of the dish indulge themselves with gusto and relish ending a meal of roast duck with such an air of satisfaction as though they had achieved a remarkable feat. I couldn’t see it.
But last night was different: you might say I had an epiphany. The dish I ordered was roast duck served on a green leaf and accompanied by strips of a white vegetable that gave balance to the taste and texture of duck. This time I picked up each morsel with my chopsticks, attacked the crispy yet succulent skin still clinging to a layer of fat with anticipation of a gustatory reward. The skin has to be chewed and chewed in order to squeeze out the juice which delivers a remarkable and complex taste. Now I look forward to each mouthful of the skin and the release of that juicy elixir the chewing brings. I can hardly believe myself that I look forward to the eating of skin and fat, the meat of the roast duck is secondary but not negligible.
Why the change? Before my wife died I took meals for granted. Shopping and cooking and thinking up spices and other condiments to make food interesting was my wife’s job. She liked eating, that’s what motivated her, and I was just a beneficiary. I didn’t invest any time or effort into the food production in our home. Oh, yes, I helped out, of course, in minor ways like setting the table or clearing the table afterwards. I was good at making the tea or coffee too. I thought I brought a special something to the end of the repast like making sure the hot water was hot enough, little touches of that nature. Since I have a sweet tooth I usually prepared a slice of cake or a bit of chocolate to top off the dinner.
Nowadays, in my widowerhood, I have the whole business of meals on my shoulders. I miss my departed wife for lots of reasons, but the responsibility of feeding myself ranks high on the list. I can prepare dinners at home from the stuff I buy at the supermarkets or at Rite-Aid. Too often, however, I am reduced to opening a can of soup, usually a last minute solution. I much prefer eating out with friends. As my son, Gregory, often reminds me “companion” means breaking bread with others. I need the company as much as the food and having them both at the same time is the best of all. So I’ve become uncannily clever about nudging my friends to meet me at restaurants where they seem happy, most of the time, to foot the bill; I don’t protest too much. And we do enjoy each other’s company. The roast duck dinner is in a category of its own for the manager of the Chinese restaurant where I so enjoyed roast duck is my “student.” I instruct him in the history of Chinese painting in exchange for meals at any time at his establishment. I’m not sure who has the better deal but neither one of us is raising that question. For the time being, at least, I have partially solved the problem of feeding myself in a socially comforting environment. Under these circumstances roast duck is particularly delicious. (2/14/09)