Last winter, four of us went out for dinner at a local restaurant known for all of the things restaurants want to be known for these days: locally-sourced food; a menu that is somewhat French/ somewhat Californian; veggies, cheeses, meat and fish with descriptions that include capitalized, proper noun-y, names. The menu items read more like someone’s contact list than things to eat.
Two of us decided on the duck entrée. Roast duck, pan-seared duck breast, duck confit – I tend to order duck when I find it on a menu. I’m no duck novice. When our entrees arrived, we started to enjoy our dishes. For the two duck-eaters though, it was more like we attempted to enjoy our dinner – as neither of us could successfully cut through what was obviously very undercooked duck.
Since the four of us go to this place fairly often, the restaurant manager knew us quite well. I motioned for her to come over and said, “This duck is pretty raw. It’s hard to cut, and frankly, I don’t think poultry should be served so raw.” Continue reading Rubber Ducky….