are considered to be a gourmet delight. The French are capable of all sorts of outrages.”
“There have to be better ways to bake Woodcock,” the young man persisted.
“There are, of course, many modern recipes that use only the breasts of Woodcock,” Carmichael admitted. The young man brightened up perceptibly. “But,” the doctor warned, “they call for such additions as wine, chicken soup, onion, garlic, dill, celery seed and the like. The purpose of adding such strong condiment, I am sure, is to remove the terribly strong liverish taste of the bird. However, I am unable to find a single recipe in which that objective has been achieved. If you insist on experimenting, I can recommend only one recipe.”
“And that one is…?” the young man asked.
“To improve the taste of Woodcock, soak them in kerosene for three days and then throw them away,” the doctor’s answered. The young man looked confused. “You look confused,” Carmichael said. “Let me explain it this way. You appear to be impressed by the intelligence of our hunting dogs?” It was a question, not a statement, and the young man vigorously nodded his head.
“You certainly must have noticed none of our dogs will retrieve a dead Woodcock. Dogs will hunt them and point them and find their highly camouflaged corpses hidden in the forest leaves, but very, very few of them will put a dead Woodcock in its mouth. Are you as smart as a hunting dog?”
“If they taste so bad, why do you shoot them?” the young man asked.
“A legitimate question, my boy,” Carmichael said. “There are good reasons for such behavior. First, wing shooting that zigzag flyer is a challenge. I’m sure Dickens had the Woodcock in mind when he named one of his Oliver Twist characters ‘the Artful Dodger’. Second, the dog has worked hard. His displays of joy and enthusiasm at successfully exposing the Woodcocks’ hiding places are always obvious. If you don’t put the bird in your game pouch, you will be showing contempt for the animal’s excellent work. A gentleman will never disappoint a good bird dog.
“Of course, as soon as the dog returns to the hunt, your companions will expect you to heave the Woodcock as far into the bush as possible. I am told the hunters of Upper Michigan practice throwing facsimile Woodcock as part of their preparation for the autumnal hunting season.”
It was apparent that Carmichael had no compunction against disappointing a neophyte bird hunter. The young man, now somewhat crestfallen, looked down at his prizes. Then he slowly nodded his head and, somewhat reluctantly said: “I suppose I should throw them away.”
“Oh, no,” Major Peabody quickly interjected. “Oh, no! Don’t do that. It would be terribly wasteful. In spite of what Doc Carmichael tells you, if properly handled, those Woodcock can produce an excellent dinner.”
Now I was confused. Peabody had often advised me: “Never, never, no, never ever try to eat a Woodcock”.
* * * * *
I’ll admit I accepted Major Peabody’s dinner invitation with mixed feelings. On the one hand, his solemn promise and firm insistence that he provide the meal led me to believe I would not (as was customary) have to pay for the dinner. On the other hand, I suspected he might be trying to do me grave gustatory injury by feeding me Woodcock.
As we entered Bookbinder’s two days later, the matre’d immediately ushered us to a table saying: “Mr. Devereaux is waiting for you.” A small man with hair, thin and thinning, arose and extended a loosely gripping hand. He was all smiles and exclaimed “Ah, Major Peabody, so good to meet you and…” He looked at me, paused and finally finished the sentence with “… and you, too.” Peabody had forgotten to introduce me, an oversight for which I am thankful.
As we sat, Devereaux was sincere when he said: “I can’t thank you enough for giving me those wonderful Woodcock and that so very interesting 17th century recipe - and just in the nick of time, too. My Gourmet Club will be meeting at my apartment next week. I do hope you’ll reconsider and join us. You may bring your friend,” he added, eyeing me speculatively.
“Very kind of you, Devereaux,” the Major answered. “I love Woodcock baked in the ancient way, but, as I told you, I’m so allergic to them that I’d break out into large orange and purple spots if I ever took so much as one tiny taste.”
“And I must be in San Diego - all next week - and maybe the following week, too,” I hastily added, finally understanding how the Major managed to get rid of the Woodcock and, at the same time, con some stranger into paying for his and my dinner at Bookbinders.
Yes, as the Major had told us, if properly handled, Woodcock can produce an excellent meal.
Fiction is Stranger than Truth
We were in a cabin on the First South Branch of the Oconto River. It was the last day of November. The deer hunting season had ended and it was legal for hunters to again carry a shotgun into the woods and look for Ruffed Grouse. I spent an uncomfortable night in that cabin, waiting for midnight when I could give Major Nathaniel Peabody his monthly Spendthrift Trust remittance.
It was cold. It was very cold. The bunk assigned to me was the furthest from a potbellied wood-burning stove and I knew it would somehow be completely out of the heating business when I experienced my regular early morning call of nature.
It has always been my desire and my plan to live in a nice condo in Philadelphia and, when Pennsylvania winters became unbearable, in a nice condo in Florida. Both places have central heating and air-conditioning. They are civilized. It has never been my desire or plan to be trapped into wearing heavy woolen clothing and, on the first day of each month, having to personally deliver Major Peabody’s checks, regardless of whatever part of the uncivilized world in which he might decide to station himself.
I’ll admit I was not a happy camper and I complained about the cold weather. I was immediately confronted by a chorus of “You don’t know what cold is” from the assembled bird hunters. There followed a series of comments all beginning with … “I can remember when it was so cold that…” Some of those comments (like the one referring to a brass monkey) were so extreme I began to think they weren’t telling me the truth.
Major Peabody, of course, joined in with the rest of them. He told me duck hunters will get up at four in the morning during those almost sunless December days, get into leaky skiffs, paddle through two foot waves that turn to ice when they run over the boat’s deck and then, in sub-zero temperatures, sit for hours in a blind while gale force winds whistle around them, hoping a duck will fly past them.
That was simply too much for me. I could conceive of no one being that stupid. I gave the Major a look of mammoth disbelief and gave voice to the thought that he was not only stretching the truth, but treating it in a most Cavalier fashion. Peabody called me aside and quietly chastised me for hinting he had told an untruth.
“In hunting camps,” he told me, “the truthfulness of a companion’s statements should always receive the full benefit of the doubt. Even a man’s lack of accurate memory or a possibly unintended misstatement,” Peabody explained, “should be gently corrected, not referred to as a lie or be subjected to flat challenge. Such an act,” he warned me, “would be considered as socially unacceptable within any closely knit fraternity of men who regularly hunt together.”
“For instance,” Peabody told me. “Steve - the fellow who owns the place – you’ve heard him say he makes the best Bloody Mary in the galaxy?”
