Seeing a Man About a Bunny

Years ago, I was sitting in a West Village restaurant with my mother and stepfather—I think it was called Joanne’s, and it was down a flight of stairs on the ground floor of a brownstone—and for reasons that I don’t understand, I ordered rabbit.

My mother and Buddy looked at each other, and then at me, over their menus.

“Are you trying to be funny–?” my mother said. “I mean, why not a chicken?”

“It’s the same thing–” Buddy said, quietly, taking a sip of wine. “Tastes just like chicken.” He looked at the server, who shrugged.

“Exactly my point,” she said. “You always have to be different. AND it’s a rodent! My kid is going to eat a rodent?” She looked around the restaurant, trying to gain support from on-lookers.

It was the late 1980s, the height of PETA’s anti-fur crusade in Manhattan, and my implacable mother was keenly aware that at any moment, she could step outside pretty much anywhere in New York, and be splattered with red paint. So clearly the thing to do, she decided, was to stridently march around the city wearing as much fur as she possibly could haul around on her back at any given time.

“I’ll show THEM,” she’d say, bedecked from tip to tail in sable, fox, mink, fisher, muskrat, squirrel, and sometimes, rabbit. So I couldn’t really figure out why the act of my eating one would throw her into one of her more animated fits of hysterical pique.

“You don’t eat squirrel, do you?” she bleated at me, as the server walked away. And while I told her that no, I didn’t, I probably could, and that in certain parts of the country (not Central Park, I assured her), people did, and do. Because really, if you’re going to go to the trouble of hunting one down for its fur, you might as well show the little beast some respect and make a nice braise.

About twenty minutes later, our server showed up with a basket of bread for me, and the luscious, butter-tender rabbit—a sort of mock civet—stewed in red wine, Burgundian-style. The aroma of thyme curled up and around me, and the thick and velvety sauce enveloped the bunny, the pearl onions, and the mushrooms so completely that every time I took a bite, I’d end up with a sort of grown up, winey version of a milk mustache. I ate in silence while my mother and Buddy watched; when I was done, he reached over, took a piece of bread out of the basket in front of me, and sopped up every last drop of sauce on my plate. He became an instant convert.

Americans, led by my mother, are very late to the rabbit warren—probably because some of us keep them as pets, unlike squirrels. They’re undeniably cute, and then there’s that small Easter bunny problem, which makes the act of braising one a little bit like roasting Santa on a spit. But over time, they’ve started to creep hesitantly into higher end markets and butcher shops; my French and Italian friends tell me that they’re absolutely commonplace in those countries (just like chicken, one said), and I’ve been to small Italian supermarkets in tiny, remote towns where you can get the whole bunny, head attached, for a virtual pittance.

But here, when you find them, they can be a fortune; we’ve paid up to $30 for one three and a half pound Thumper, which limits our eating this delectable, low-fat, tender white meat animal to very rare occasions. And in the past, when I’ve made it, I’ve made it a la moutarde—coated with a layer of mustard creme and herbs—and it’s been good, but always a bit on the tough side. It’s been fine, but not great, and has always left me a little squeamish about spending so much money on something that winds up being just okay.

So imagine my surprise when, a few weeks ago, we found a seriously cut-rate bunny at our local market. I mean, seriously cut-rate, like less than a cheap chicken (which I won’t go near). I was on the fence about buying it, but it came from a very well-known company whose products I adore and trust implicitly. I bought it, and promptly froze it until our usual Friday night what are we going to cook this weekend conversation.

I got up early on Saturday morning and jointed the rabbit into six pieces (front legs, back legs, saddle, split in half), sprinkled it with little more than salt and pepper, a few smashed garlic cloves, some torn sage leaves, a handful of thyme sprigs, and a glug of red wine vinegar. (I’ve been on something of an Ada Boni tear lately, and it never really occurred to me to marinate anything in red wine vinegar, which she seems to do quite a lot.) It sat, covered, in the fridge for a few hours while we ran around doing errands. Once we returned home, we let it stand at room temperature for an hour or so, browned the pieces in hot olive oil, poured the marinade back in along with some white vermouth, vegetable stock, a few squirts of triple tomato paste, some minced preserved lemon, chopped capers, and a handful of more thyme sprigs. It braised for about forty-five minutes or so, and when I lifted the lid off the cast iron sauteuse I cooked it in, my cat, Charlotte—otherwise mild-mannered and well-behaved—was drooling, and looked like she was unsuccessfully trying to swallow shoe laces.

My mother called a little bit before we ate dinner, which we had with roasted potatoes and leeks that had overwintered nicely in the garden.

“What are you having?” she asked.

“Rabbit,” I told her, hearing her stage-whispered gasp of disapproval on the other end of the line. “It smells outrageously good in here—even Charlotte is drooling.”

“Of course she is—You’re cooking a r-o-d-e-n-t,” she said slowly, almost phonetically, like I was a foreigner asking for directions in another language.

Braised Rabbit with Preserved Lemon, Capers, and Herbs

It may seem like overkill to include both preserved lemon and capers in this dish, but it isn’t; small amounts of each do a lot to pump up the flavor while off-setting the rabbit’s natural sweetness. If you’ve never cut up a rabbit before, or feel uncomfortable doing it, ask your butcher to joint it into six pieces, and to make sure to retain the kidneys (which will be on the underside of the saddle) and liver; they’re outrageously delicious and flavorful.

Serves 2 with leftovers

1 3-1/2 pound rabbit, cut into six pieces

salt and black pepper, to taste

3-4 fresh sage leaves, torn

4 sprigs fresh thyme, divided

3 tablespoons minced garlic, divided

3 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil, divided

pinch red pepper flakes

3 tablespoons good quality red wine vinegar

4 tablespoons white vermouth, divided

1/2 cup vegetable stock

1 tablespoon triple tomato paste concentrate (the Italian kind, in the tube)

1/4 preserved lemon rind, diced

4 caper berries, minced

2 sprigs fresh rosemary

 

Place the rabbit in a ceramic baking dish, and season liberally with salt and pepper on all sides. Add the sage leaves and 2 of the thyme sprigs; half of the garlic; one tablespoon of olive oil; red pepper flakes; vinegar; and 2 tablespoons of the white vermouth. Toss well, cover, and refrigerate for up to four hours.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Bring the rabbit to room temperature, remove from the marinade (reserve it), pat it dry, and set it aside. In a large, heavyweight skillet set over a medium flame, heat the remaining 2 tablespoons of olive oil until shimmering. Add the remaining thyme sprigs and garlic, and when the garlic begins to turn golden, add the rabbit to the pan. Brown for approximately six minutes; turn, and add the reserved marinade, the balance of the white vermouth, the vegetable stock, the tomato paste, preserved lemon rind, minced caper berries, and rosemary (the braising liquid should come up the sides of the pan about a third of the way). Raise the heat, bring to a boil for five minutes, cover, and place in the oven for 45 minutes, turning the rabbit several times. The finished rabbit should be tender but not falling apart.

Serve with its sauce and a chunk of fresh, warm bread.

 

 

Tagged as: Ada Boni, civet, lapin a la moutarde, Rabbit