“I’ll come back on the Friday morning flight, my boy,” Major Peabody informed me as the departure of his flight was announced. “It is my hope as well as my expectation that this will be a most productive hunt.” Exuding optimism, he picked up his carry-on and walked toward the station where he would present his boarding pass. He smiled at me and added: “If the dogs are behaving well and if the birds are flying and if my shooting eye and reflexes have maintained themselves, upon my return, we’ll celebrate with a modest get together at my apartment on Saturday. It will feature hors d’oeuvres of regal quality.”
Just before he walked down the tunnel to the airplane the Major said he hoped the lovely Stephanie and I would be able to attend. Then he told me he had already invited her. He paused for a second or two and, with what I am sure was supposed to look like an afterthought, he added: “When we’ve finished with the hors d’oeuvres, we can all go out to dinner. Does Bookbinder’s sound alright?” Before I could respond, he turned and disappeared down the ramp.
Peabody’s invitations to join him for dinner whenever he returns from one of his hunting forays are one of his standard operating procedures. Such invitations presume I will cover the costs of the dinners. This causes me no concern. I always expect it. His mention of Stephanie and Bookbinders was merely a gentle reminder that I should be financially prepared. It was his statement about the hors d’oeuvres that both startled and worried me.
The Major was on his way to Maine. One of his hunting companions told him the Woodcock migration was underway and the birds were pouring down from Canada. The Major considers the Canadian Woodcock to be illegal immigrants. He dedicates a portion of every autumn to discouraging them from entering the country without proper documentation. He and his 20 ga. Lefever planned to again try to stop them near the border.
The little I know about Woodcock comes from conversations with Major Peabody. In the more elegant restaurants in France, he claims, it is not unusual for the entire bird to be cooked – including the feathers and the insides. What is more, he also tells me it is not unusual for French types to eat the product of such cookery – insides and all. I suspect they don’t eat the feathers, but I may be wrong. Peabody assures me there are people who like the heavily liverish taste of Woodcock and think it is a delicacy. The Major is not one of them.
He once told me the best recipe for the preparation of Woodcock consisted of soaking them for twenty-four hours in a marinade composed of equal parts of garlic, kerosene and rabbit droppings. That marinade, he further explained, will remove only a small part of the bird’s objectionable flavor. This makes it necessary to take an additional step. To protect the environment, the marinated bird should then be buried deeply underground in granite or by using the same methods employed for the disposing of primary atomic waste.
The Woodcock is the one bird Major Peabody will hunt, but will not eat. I’ve never tasted one and I don’t intend to taste one. If Major Peabody won’t eat them, I won’t eat them. Now are you beginning to see the reason for my worry? If Peabody couldn’t afford dinners at Bookbinders, could he afford hors d’oeuvres of regal quality catered to his apartment? Clearly, that question has to be answered in the negative. That meant he was planning to prepare the canapés. I worried that he was going to prepare Woodcock appetizers.
The thought of the Major bringing Woodcock from Maine and forcing me to eat them made no sense at all. Did he want to punish me for some transgression I may have inadvertently committed? No, he suggested I bring the lovely Stephanie with me. Peabody likes the lovely Stephanie. He’d do nothing to injure her. Certainly, he wouldn’t feed her Woodcock appetizers.
Peabody had something else in mind. He was planning some outrage, but I hadn’t a clue of what it might be. I spent two sleepless nights wondering what he had in mind. I spent two more days wondering how I might avoid whatever trap he was setting for me.
I couldn’t simply call in sick. Peabody’s invitation to the lovely Stephanie made it impossible for me to decline. The lovely Stephanie would accept no explanation or excuse if I failed to escort her to the affair. I considered all other alter-natives, including suicide. In desperation, I clung to the hope that Woodcock were not on the Major’s soiree menu, or that the birds would eschew their autumnal migration and stay in Canada, or that the weather would be so bad the Major couldn’t leave the cabin and engage in the hunt.
They were all forlorn hopes.
Peabody returned to Philadelphia on Friday morning. He smiled and waived at me as soon as he entered the terminal. He was carrying a brown corrugated box about as big as three or four good sized dictionaries and almost completely covered with duct tape. It was not a good sign. “I couldn’t trust them to the baggage compartment,” he said as I pessimistically studied the parcel. “Don’t worry, young man,” he continued, “They’re packed in dry ice are should be in a pure and uncorrupted condition.”
“Woodcock,” I ventured, hoping for the best.
“Yes, Woodcock” he answered, “Fresh from the forested lowlands of northern Maine.”
When I heard his answer, for the first time in my life I fully understood the meaning of the term ‘sinking feeling’. When I finished carrying the Major’s baggage and shotgun into his apartment, the last words I heard from him were: “Don’t forget. You and Stephanie. Tomorrow afternoon.” I had little more than twenty four hours to save myself from the horror of eating Woodcock and from the horror of losing the affection of the lovely Stephanie.
* * * * *
Major Peabody answered the knock on his door. “Ah, Stephanie,” he exclaimed, “you look radiant – radiant and wonderful.” Then he turned to me. “And you young man,” he paused, surprised. “You look terrible. Good Heavens man, whatever happened to you?”
“I’ve had shome very bad luck,” I answered through clenched teeth. “My jawsh musht remain immobile for at leasht shix daysh. After driving you home yeshterday, I shlipped in the bathroom and fell againsht the shink. I fracshured my jaw. I had to have it shecurely wired shut.”
Things were going fairly well for me. The lovely Stephanie was filled with sympathy and concern. Phrases like: “Oh, you poor dear” and “Can I do anything for you” fell from her sweet lips. She even offered to change the bandage on my jaw. Of course, I bravely declined. Had she done so, she would have easily seen through the charade. There was neither bruise nor fractured jaw because there had been no accidental fall. My jaws, however, were tightly wired together.
When he was young and a bit naïve, my dentist told me, he was inexperienced in recognizing the snares and pitfall of the world. He was talked into taking a bite of a baked Woodcock. The experience left deep scars upon his psyche. He agreed to aid and abet my plan to avoid eating Woodcock by installing the wiring that caused my cheeks to puff out. It also affected my speech and made it impossible for me to eat solids. He told me he would remove it all in a week. Six days of minor discomfort was a price I was willing to pay. I would be on a liquid diet and might lose a few unwanted pounds, but I wouldn’t have to eat the Woodcock.
“What unfortunate timing,” Peabody said as he led us into his dining room. “The Gourmet Gods must dislike you.”
The Major’s table was adorned with candles and covered with a lace table cloth. On it, chateau bottled red and white wines, wheat crackers, Brie and Camembert, whitefish caviar, a slab of smoked salmon and an entire smoked Pheasant were predominantly displayed. Had my jaw not been wired, it would have dropped. “Major, you old dear,” said the lovely Stephanie and she gave him a peck on the cheek.
“One of Doc Carmichael’s friends is an avoid smoker,” Peabody explained. “I don’t mean cigarettes or cigars,” he said as he knocked an ash from his H. Upmann into a convenient tray. “I mean game,” he said. “He loves to smoke wild game,” and he waved toward the salmon and the pheasant laid out on the table. “He caters fancy weddings and the like. Can you believe it? He likes Woodcock. I traded him a dozen of the vile things for this spread.”
Of course, I couldn’t enjoy the dinner at Bookbinders either.