A Liver Runs Through It — Page 2

Foie gras has joined Chilean sea bass, swordfish and Caspian caviar amongst the verboten for the Prius set, not for reasons of endangerment, but rather for perceived cruelty. What struck me as I read the available literature on the subject was the lack of first-hand information. Most people offering an opinion, on either side of the issue, appear not to have set foot anywhere near a foie gras production facility.

It’s safe to say that the foie reared in Québec is exemplary; indeed, many Canadian and American chefs who have worked with the three main products (Sonoma, Hudson Valley and Québécois) consider it the best foie product on the continent. I had the opportunity to inspect two foie gras de canard farms in Québec and was even allowed into the inner sanctum—the gavage sheds—which, for reasons of disease control and political sensitivity, are usually off limits.

The first farm, south of Montreal, was a fairly large-scale commercial operation that is licensed to export its product extra-provincially and into the U.S. (and in fact supplies many eastern seaboard American restaurants). It was an unfettered production line with all stages of the process carried out in a carefully controlled environment. Diet, heat, humidity and light were fastidiously calibrated and constantly monitored by computer. It was also a scrupulously clean operation; the main fear being, because of the close quarters, a systemic outbreak of disease.

As the ducklings matured toward gavage, their pre-migratory instinct to gorge was seemingly tricked into action (no matter the time of year—I was there on St. Jean-Baptiste Day in late June) via the steady diminution of light and heat (imitating shorter autumn days), and diet deprivation followed by a spate of abundant feed. Deprivation, feed; deprivation, feed. The gavage stage (heavily air-conditioned and humidified) was clinical but expertly managed (the speed of the technique is not learned overnight) from a mechanically forced machine that follows the operator, although the ducks were held in restrictive individual pens in a shed the size of a small warehouse.

The actual gavage took just a few seconds. The shed was cold and wet, and the ducks were certainly not running to be fed—they couldn’t budge. The pens were suspended above frequently flushed concrete floors; the shed smelled as you might expect.

Although the ducks did not appear to protest the gavage, which was swift and expert, there is simply no way—short of inviting Dr. Doolittle to the party—of knowing. (A little like being at the dentist with wadding and a rubber dam in your mouth when he asks you the quality check question). But neither did we see any evidence of animals squealing or otherwise behaving in an obviously distressed manner.

Although I asked on more than one occasion, the precise (mainly corn) composition of the diet for the ducks is closely guarded; it would be unfair to speculate what, if any, medications might or might not be added to their feed. But it was obvious even to an outsider that bacterial or viral disease could be commercially lethal in this type of closed facility.

What struck me most about this operation, though, was the very large size of the finished liver. At more than 600 grams, it distends below the animal’s ribcage and has an exterior appearance, prior to the trip to the abbatoir, not unlike that of a human hernia poking through abdominal skin. This is the portion of the liver most likely to be damaged or bruised (et voila!—pâté). All of the parts of the duck carcass were packaged and sold, in large part to restaurants: the foie, trimmed breasts, legs en confit, pâté, and the carcass for stock.

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