![]() ![]() So you’re talking about this on the phone with a friend back in States. All the other usages - for the bird (a type of crane), the fish, the dragonfly, the geological spires we call hoodoos - all somehow refer to the qualities of said young woman of noble birth, a damsel. Demoiselle is an old-fashioned term for a young woman or girl of noble descent. But no duck carcass no ho.Ī Francophone search, you discover, results in a similar list. There is no proper entry for “demoiselle” on Anglophone Wikipedia, only a list of links to what the word might apply to: a bird, a horse race, a river, an insect, an aircraft, a fish, the name of an obscure British play, a Native American resistance leader against the French colonization of America. Sort of like being at home in front of this roaring fireplace while all of France takes a snow holiday.īut what you vaguely remember is someone saying once (perhaps while your eyes were closed) that the title of this Cubist painting, the one with a bunch of naked women wearing African masks, has a scandalous overtone because it implied that the women were “ladies of the night.” So that’s what you thought all those years - that “demoiselle” was French for “ho.” What’s up with that? The dark room and the drone of the projector was a formula for naptime. No doubt your university art history lectures were always after lunch. But of course you know how to make soup already.) While the carcasses are simmering, build a fire and turn your thoughts to the only other reference to “demoiselles” you are familiar with: the title of that Picasso painting. (Consult the recipe below if you don’t know how to make soup. So, after fishtailing home, first you must trim out the little tenderloins that cling to the breastbone. View of Nérac, France, in the snow (photo by the author for Hyperallergic)īut you want soup, not a pile of crispy bones (because snow). People don’t talk about it in polite company but everybody knows about it. It is a crude but maddeningly delicious dish. Imagine them saying to each other “N’est pas chaud,” and laughing (#because-beaucoup-du-vin). Imagine Van Gogh’s “Potato Eaters,” except that there’s a pile of grilled duck carcasses instead of potatoes and everyone at the table is happy. Then a platter of them is served as an informal family meal - sort of like a plate of ribs or a crawfish boil - to be eaten by hand. If you were a good Gascon, you would know that demoiselles are traditionally grilled over an open fire until the bones are crispy. You reward Julie, the butcheress, for her determination to show up when it is not warm with the purchases of two duck carcasses. ![]() You have grown in the butcher’s esteem for even knowing to ask (even if you don’t know how to ask). These duck frames are kept in a box behind the butcher counter. Inevitably, after the duck is broken down - the precious liver (foie gras) is harvested, the legs are preserved as confit, the magret (boneless breast) is trimmed off for grilling or curing - what is left is an appendage-free duck skeleton with some delectable bits of meat still clinging to it. It’s also traditionally the time of year that the fat ducks are slaughtered. It’s winter and this is Gascony, duck country. You’ve grown accustomed to that puzzled look from the French, but after a moment she breaks into a broad smile and confirms, “Ouais, les demoiselles?”
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