Nearly 10 years ago I was still sort of a vegetarian. Well, actually , not really. I had started eating fish again because being a strict vegetarian in France is just so impractical if you're living anywhere other than Paris. And, despite what some of you might think, I am practical, on occasion.
I was working in Nantes at the Chamber of Commerce, a lot of hours. On fridays I rarely had time to go home for lunch so I often ate in a little brasserie nearby. They always had fish on fridays (Catholic country). But one friday, I didn't want the fish. It was one of those really boney fish, more effort to eat than I was willing to make. The other special of the day was confit de canard. I grew up in a family of hunters (don't analyze that please) and had fond (and delicious) memories of duck, not confit, but still. And it was poultry, not meat meat (doubled intentionally). So I got the duck. And a glass of thick dark red wine, the kind I like most.
And I ate the duck. Oh my. The perfectly crispy skin, the most incredibly tender meat, the whole thing just melted in my mouth. It was amazing, that thigh that had soaked in duck fat for months, being infused and penetrated by flavor and fat. It was the perfect welcome home.