Rabbit Butchery and Butchered French

The end of each semester at culinary school meant that I had to face a terrifying practical exam. The exam unnerved me; we never knew which dish we’d need to prepare, and I was, above all, a planner. This time, I was certain that I’d draw the rabbit with mustard sauce, a classic French dish. I’d delivered a very mediocre rabbit to my chef the week before, and I was determined to understand rabbit butchery before I was forced to perform the task in front of my classmates.

Illustration by Casey Brand, 2020

I waited in line at the butcher shop anxiously, peering over the tiny old woman who stood in front of me to count the number of people that separated me from a horrific linguistic mistake. I preferred the Monoprix over the local market, as I still wasn’t very comfortable speaking French in public. I pursed my lips as I practiced the words, still remembering the time that I’d destroyed the lovely, soft first syllable of “agneau” with a gristly “g” sound. That butcher had questioned me for five minutes before he figured out that all I wanted was a rosy leg of lamb to cook for my friend’s birthday.

I stretched my mouth into a tight smile as the old woman turned to look me up and down before launching into gargled French. I carefully watched her mouth move, hoping to pick out a few words as I nodded along.

I reached the counter and ordered a whole rabbit in clear, confident French, then faltered when faced with a follow-up question. The butcher couldn’t believe that I actually wanted a rabbit untouched by his knife. “Are you sure? Are you sure?” he questioned, unsatisfied with my responses until another woman assured him that I was up to the task. My small stature and round face didn’t inspire much confidence. I hastened home, pleased that I overcame the first obstacle of my task and eager to prove the butcher wrong.

At home, I unwrapped the paper parcel to reveal the rabbit’s reptilian head. Butchery was a tactile skill; notes and illustrations could only teach me so much. I slid my fingers under the flaps of the animal’s abdomen and slipped the organs from inside before picking up a knife. My cuts weren’t exactly sharp and sure, but I felt much more positive about the result than I had before.

I didn’t yet understand how hot oil slips and streams and shimmers when it’s ready to turn pink flesh into hot, crisp crust, so my meat was sometimes frightfully pale. This time, I managed a light tan before plucking the pieces from the pan and starting to build the sauce. This was the easiest part. After just a few minutes, I bathed the rabbit pieces in sauce and transferred the whole dish to my tiny tabletop oven.

It was midnight when I finally sat down to taste the dish. The gentle flavor of the tender rabbit contrasted beautifully with the piquant mustard. While it wasn’t perfect, I was satisfied with my efforts. The next day, I walked into the exam room and listened in disbelief as my chef told me I had to make a simple poached fish, one of the easiest dishes that we had learned to make—and the only one that I had not practiced.