burns the fire

I just read, or should I say, gobbled the book ‘Heat’ by Bill Buford. This A-list wordsmith left an editing post at the New Yorker to fulfill his fantasy of learning to cook at NYC’s Babbo; the 3-star Italian restaurant of culinary maharishi, Mario Batali. The inside kitchen poop was fun and sharply written (I’m a sucker for a well-braised phrase), but it was the ‘Tuscan Butcher’ section near the end that boiled my blood. Here, Buford dissects his apprenticeship with legendary butcher diva Dario Cecchini (he has a blog!) in all its bloody glory. Suffice it to say, the descriptions of how to slaughter and eviscerate a cow (while singing opera at the top of your lungs), will not leave you unmoved. Indeed, with the deadliest of blades, a few gory chapters shaved the overcooked meat off the shivering bones of my lofty musings about life and death.

That same day, my husband and I went to see some of his family. Over a fine feast on their kitchen island, idle chit-chat turned to butchery and blood, when an Algerian cousin revealed her secret passion and fave animal side-dish (rolling sagely inside its head like two shiny marbles): the dewy brown eyes of a lamb. Boiled. In hot water, with herbs and a little oil. Before you drop the (bulging and terrified, I imagine) eyeballs in the pot, you yank out their inky black pupils- just too bitter on the tongue.

Fortified by my new philosophy of life (look it squarely in the eye), I ask for details. The texture is gelatinous, mmm. My imagination ignites as the word sinks in; jelly-like, gummy, gluey, sticky, viscous. Popping eyeballs in the mouth like candy. Now, chew on that.

For a recipe for Bouzelouf (lamb’s head), click here. The preparing and the devouring of the Lamb’s head (not for vegetarians or the squeamish).