JUST DUCKY

A memorable evening …. Mr. Wonderful and I sat at a candle-lit round table in the gracious, spacious dining room of dear friends at the Johns Island Club here in Vero Beach. Flickering votives, ecru linen placemats and crystal wine goblets brimming with White Haven sauvignon augmented the ambiance as our hostess presented us with Duck a l’Orange, one of Mr. W.’s all-time favorite entrees. 

He nearly fell out of his upholstered chair just looking at the plate. The duck was so tender, it fell off the bone. And the taste? Delicieuse!

Later that evening I cornered my hostess and dear friend Gael in her kitchen and asked, “Where did you find such delicious duck?” She said, “At the little market on A1A, and Val, they are a cinch to cook.”

Driving back to our rental house later that evening, our conversation focused on Gael’s delectable duck. Mr. W. said, “I really want to serve it at our next dinner party.” “But I’ve never made it before,” I pointed out. “Gael says it’s easy peasy,” he replied.

“But that little market has Tiffany prices,” I said to Mr. Still-Has-Maine-Blueberry-Money-From-1952-In-His-Pants-Pocket. “How bad can it be?” he asked. So we invited two couples for the following Wednesday and promised each other NOT to reveal our menu. “Let’s surprise them,” Bob said.

The next day I drove to Tiffany’s, AKA, the little market on A1A, and conferred with the butcher. He assured me, "This duck is amazingly easy to cook. It’s our most popular item. Just defrost and bake in a 350 oven for a little bit, then put them under broiler for several minutes before serving.” I placed a special order for six breasts and didn’t even ask the price. (How bad could it be?)

Two days later, I picked up six frozen duck breast$. Mr. W. cradled the bag tenderly and carried them from the car to the kitchen like he was holding our first newborn grandchild. He gently placed them in the freezer, and then started talking about “the importance” of the l’Orange sauce. “I’m researching that,” I assured him.

The morning of our dinner party, Mr. W. jumped out of bed grinning happily, nearly beside himself with anticipation of the amazing duck dinner he would be savoring that evening. I spent the morning squeezing oranges into a sauce pan, then stirring in honey, rosemary and a dollop of Dijon to create a tangy sauce. I placed serving bowls for the wild rice, fresh broccoli and a tri-lettuce salad on the island. “What a pretty meal this will be,” I thought.

After sipping cocktails and nibbling D’Affinois slathered on Bremners, I invited our guests to the dining room.  “Ta da, friends! We’re having Duck a L’Orange tonight!” You should have seen their faces.  Pure surprise and delight. (I felt just like Martha Stewart before she was sent to jail.)

The first inkling that things weren’t absolutely terrific was when I noticed Ken sawing his duck drumstick with a knife … unsuccessfully. Then he grabbed the leg with both hands and attempted to wrench it loose. I surreptitiously glanced around the table and noticed everyone was quietly chopping away at or tug-o-warring with or hacking up the duck. Bob’s face was inconsolable.

“What happened?” he whispered across the table. 

I had no idea what he was talking about until I tried to slice into my duck breast. A chain saw wouldn’t have penetrated the skin. Those duck breasts were tougher than a dog’s rawhide chewy toy and, if you managed to extricate a thin sliver of flesh, it was like gnawing on cardboard. 

Okay: self reflection here. Perhaps I should have tested the duck on us first. (Smart hostesses do that.) Maybe I just got a bad batch of duck breast. (I heard on the QT that someone else had served duck at their dinner party and it was tougher than nails.) The sauce was actually tangy, the broccoli was crisp, the wild rice (THANK GOD FOR THE WILD RICE) was fine. 

So how bad could it be?  We’ve been whistling “Rubber Ducky” for a week.