I once read about a rare delicacy that is so totally illegal to catch,
prepare, and serve that some people will pay a fantastic price to sit
and eat it blindfolded to protect their identity.  The delicacy is a
tiny songbird that you eat bones and all, and it is alleged to be the
most surpassingly exquisite of culinary treats.  (Imagine the pressure
on the chef!)

The name as best I can recall it starts with an o (definitely), has
three syllables (probably), and may have an o in each syllable
(possibly).

I am trying to retrieve the name of the songbird because, purely out
of curiosity, I'd like to see if I can find accounts of forbidden
meals that corroborate what I remember reading in the magazine article
many years ago.  The whole experience sounded rather bizarre to me.

I have tried every combination of keywords that I can think of and
have come up with nothing.  I think solving this one may hinge on
something like PinkFreud's memory for obscure words.

So the question is just--what is the name of the bird?

Bonus points for a recipe.

Thanks--
Apteryx

Hello apteryx-ga,

What a fun question! Do you remember the movie Gigi? Do you remember
the scene of the aunts training Gigi to be a courtesan and her lesson
on eating a tiny bird? That’s the bird you’re looking for. It’s called
the ortolan and the article you seem to recall is the one from Esquire
telling of Mitterand’s final meal. I’ve found several articles to help
you jog your memory about this. The recipe is included in some. The
description of the experience of eating the bird is graphic – and
hilarious. Enjoy!

czh

http://www.tiscali.co.uk/reference/dictionaries/animalsplants/data/m0008533.html
ortolan
Songbird belonging to the bunting family, common in Europe and West
Asia, migrating to Africa in the winter. It is about 15 cm/6 in long
and reddish-brown with black streaks on top, pinkish-buff below, and
has an olive-green head and chest and a yellow throat; the female is
paler with small dark streaks on the chest. The nest is built in the
undergrowth, on the ground, or on banks. Long considered a delicacy
among gourmets, it has become rare and is now a protected species.
(Species Emberiza hortulana, family Emberizidae, order Passeriformes.)

http://www.birdcheck.co.uk/main/previewpages/previewpage222.htm
The Ortolan Bunting   Morris's British Birds 1891
Picture of the bird.


http://gameknot.com/fmsg/chess2/1559.shtml
Subject: The World's most disgusting nation
I nominate the FRENCH. You may have different ideas, but first read
the following:

"If guilt is a flavour, and it definitely is, then l'ortolan is one of
the world's greatest dishes. ….
The birds must be taken alive; once captured they are either blinded
or kept in a lightless box for a month to gorge on millet, grapes, and
figs, a technique apparently taken from the decadent cooks of Imperial
Rome who called the birds beccafico, or 'fig-pecker'. When they've
reached four times their normal size, they're drowned in a snifter of
Armagnac.

This sadistic mise en scene has transformed the bird from a symbol of
innocence to an act of gluttony symbolic of the fall from grace. In
Collette's novel Gigi, for instance, the tomboyish main character
prepares for her entry into polite society with lessons in the correct
way to eat lobsters and boiled eggs. When she begins training to be a
courtesan, however, she is said to be 'learning how to eat the
ortolan'. Not that it was only courtesans who indulged. The tradition
of covering one's head while eating the bird was supposedly started by
a soft-bellied priest trying to hide his sadistic gluttony from God.

Cooking l'ortolan is simplicity itself. Simply pop them in a high oven
for six to eight minutes and serve. The secret is entirely in the
eating. First you cover your head with a traditional embroidered
cloth. Then place the entire four-ounce bird into your mouth. Only its
head should dangle out from between your lips. Bite off the head and
discard. L'ortolan should be served immediately; it is meant to be so
hot that you must rest it on your tongue while inhaling rapidly
through your mouth. This cools the bird, but its real purpose is to
force you to allow its ambrosial fat to cascade freely down your
throat.

When cool, begin to chew. It should take about 15 minutes to work your
way through the breast and wings, the delicately crackling bones, and
on to the inner organs. Devotees claim they can taste the bird's
entire life as they chew in the darkness: the wheat of Morocco, the
salt air of the Mediterranean, the lavender of Provence. The pea-sized
lungs and heart, saturated with Armagnac from its drowning, are said
to burst in a liqueur-scented flower on the diner's tongue. Enjoy with
a good Bordeaux.

What could be more delicious? Nothing, according to initiates, who
compare the banning of the ortolan to the death of French culture and
continue to eat them at the risk of being fined thousands of pounds.

http://www.th-record.com/1998/04/04-29-98/mitteran.htm
Mitterand's last meal not for the birds 
Dying of cancer, Francois Mitterrand ordered a last meal of oysters,
foie gras, capons and a tiny, yellow-throated songbird that is illegal
to eat and said to embody the soul of France. Esquire writer Michael
Paterniti provides a detailed account of the former French president's
meal on New Year's Eve 1995 in the magazine's May issue. Mitterand
died eight days later. Two-ounce ortolan birds were roasted and served
to 30 people –Mitterrand's friends and family – as he sat at a table
wrapped in blankets, Paterniti reported. Paterniti said he flew to
France after hearing the story of how Mitterrand "had gorged himself
on one last orgiastic feast before he'd died."
He interviewed some of the guests and found a chef willing to recreate
the dinner, right down to the illegal birds, according to the
magazine's publicist, Dan Klores Associates.
Taking cover under a white cloth napkin placed over his head – "which
is meant to heighten the sensual experience by enveloping you in the
aroma of ortolan" – Mitterrand took the illegal delicacy and ate it
whole, bones and all, Paterniti said.

http://homepages.paradise.net.nz/triffid/wotired/holidays49.htm
Reading Between The Lines
In the Devil’s Garden is subtitled A Sinful History of Forbidden Food.
The seven deadly sins are examined in detail and suitable food is
recommended as an accompaniment to each. It’s every foodies delight!
It’s a richly layered culinary treat, stuffed with foody anecdotes. If
ever you wondered about the mysterious effect of theobromine, look no
further than the Marquis de Sade who demanded only two things when
imprisoned in the Bastille: replacements for the mahogany dildos that
he kept breaking while amusing himself, and lots of chocolate. If ever
the attractions of an ortolan have tempted you, read about the last
meal consumed by French President Mitterand where he ate two of the
small songbirds that have been force fed on millet, grapes and figs,
then drowned in Armagnac and roasted in an oven for eight minutes. It
is a crime to buy or hunt them, it is illegal to eat them – but
Mitterand died of cancer a week later. He didn’t care any more.

http://www.grafics.com/glenn/Intro_to_philosophy/Handouts/terrible_eating.htm
Delightful, Delicious, Disgusting
Mitterand=s last meal was recreated and consumed by a curious American
writer, Michael Paterniti. Here is his description of eating ortolan:
Here=s what I taste: Yes, quidbits of meat and organs; the succulent,
tiny strands of flesh between the ribs and tail. I put inside myself
the last flowered bit of air and Armagnac in its lungs, the body of
rainwater and berries. In there, too, is the ocean and Africa and the
dip and plunge in a high wind. And the heart that bursts between my
teeth.
It takes time. I=m forced to chew and chew again and again, for what
seems like three days. And what happens after chewing for this
long--as the mouth full of taste buds and glands does its work--is
that I fall into a trance. I don=t taste anything anymore, cease to
exist as anything but taste itself.
And that=s where I want to stay--but then can=t because the sweetness
of the bird is turning slightly bitter and the bones have announced
themselves. When I think about forcing them down my throat, a wave of
nausea passes through me. And that=s when, with great difficulty, I
swallow everything. [24]

http://www.ecis.com/~alizard/ortolan.html
Ortolan, an offensive taste treat
The French have a delicacy called an ortolan. It's a small brownish
Old
World bunting (so sez the dictionary), that's fattened in a small
cage,
and when the time comes they kill it (somehow), defeather it, and drop
it in a special ortolan frying pan. There, the bird cooks in its own
fat.

When eaten, you pick the bird up by its beak and then you shove the
whole thing in your mouth and bite. You eat feet, skull, eyes,
intestines, intestinal contents, bunghole...everything but the beak,
which you put back in the now-empty ortolan frying pan (in which the
bird was served).

http://www.sundayherald.com/25926
'Occasionally someone would tear off a monkey's arm to make a bit of
soup'
Cooking l'ortolan is simplicity itself. Simply pop them in a high oven
for six to eight minutes and serve. The secret is entirely in the
eating. First you cover your head with a traditional embroidered
cloth. Then place the entire four-ounce bird into your mouth. Only its
head should dangle out from between your lips. Bite off the head and
discard. L'ortolan should be served immediately; it is meant to be so
hot that you must rest it on your tongue while inhaling rapidly
through your mouth. This cools the bird, but its real purpose is to
force you to allow its ambrosial fat to cascade freely down your
throat.

http://www.tomsmarket.com/Archives/October_2001/october_29_2001.htm
The following is an excerpt from an article from Esquire Magazine,
dated May 1998, by Michael Paterniti. It describes the last great meal
of the late French President Francois Mitterrand.




SEARCH STRATEGY
ortolan
ortolan gigi
ortolan "last meal"
ortolan recipe

Merci beaucoup, czh!  As rileybirder says, that's a lot for $3.13--but
all I asked for my $3.13 was the name of the bird, which it seems you
could have given off the top of your head.  I thought it might turn
out that way.  My memory of the word was close but not close enough;
you got the bull's eye.  I saw Gigi centuries ago, but I never would
have thought to start there for this answer.

All that extra information is what makes GA researchers so amazing and
GA such a class operation.  Here's a tip of my hat--and my palm.

The aricle I read was not about Mitterand.  It was published under a
pseudonym in one of the magazines in my parents' household (Atlantic,
maybe? certainly not Esquire, not under my father's conservative roof)
when I was a young adult, which was a while ago now.  It described a
dozen salivating gourmets sitting in blind, incognito silence awaiting
this legendary morsel and recounted the author's struggle with
conscience over his or her participation in this savagely dainty
ritual.  In the end, appetite won out over conscience, as it usually
does.  Conscience is for afterwards.  I think the article served as a
guilt-expiating crocodile-tears confessional of the sort that makes
others want to try the same sin before wringing their hands.

What an interesting story.  Quite a bit of facts for $3.13.  Great job czh-ga!

Thanks apteryx-ga for your comments and generous tip. Yes, the name of
the bird came to me immediately and then I couldn't resist following
the stories. I had vaguely recalled reading about a French politician
who had the bird for a last meal. The additional description of the
story you remember is tanatlizing and I know I'm going to end up
searching for it. This was a truly fun question. Thanks again.
czh

Hi, Apteryx

I thought that you would like to know that the Hotel Libertel
Austerlitz (in Paris) is famous for its ortolan cuisine.

Should you be interested, you will be required to wear a mask.

I shall be there (masked of course) around the end of July.

The Masked One

Mon ami masqué,

Ah, you have anticipated me, I see.

As for the masks, I was thinking of having a matched set made up in
Belgian lace.  Please allow me to have one set aside for you with my
compliments.

À bientôt,
Apteryx

Hi, Apteryx

What a great idea having a matched set!

Last night, I didn't get a wink of sleep wondering how one could
possibly recognise someone else at the same masked event.

So, as we say in France, 'Pas de probleme!'

J'attendrai le diner masque!

(Sorry but I don't know how to introduce accents

é

Oops ....

For some reason I posted the Comment before putting in the accents,
which I now know how.

éééééééééééééé

Bryan

Well, we might be blindfolded and led in separately--not sure how this
part works.  (Hope it does not involve a poster-size picture of a
donkey.)  Maybe we'll need a secret word.

Apteryx

A Secret Word, of course!

Let's use your Credit Card Number (the Platinum one with the $500,000
facility) ... but please post it in two parts.

Then in a third post, send the Expiry Date, the CVV (from the back),
and the PIN number.

For added security, then send your Social Security Number, your full
address, doB, Passport Number and any other information that I can use
to make sure that I am not dining with someone who has stolen your
identity.

We can't be too careful. 

Have I missed anything?

See you soon.

Bryan

That's a marvelous idea, Bryan, and I'd be happy to if I hadn't
already given it to that nice young man from Nigeria who wrote to me a
couple of days ago.  I'm afraid I'm having a little problem with
access just at the moment.

But I was actually thinking of a word of recognition that we could
introduce into casual conversation so that no one else would guess it
was a signal.  The phrase "eristic amphiboly" springs to mind.  What
do you think?

Apteryx

Hi, Apteryx

Well, yes, "eristic amphiboly" is one possibility but as, it is
actually on the menu, I think that it is rather too obvious for this
occasion.

And, after you've had a few snifters and you start slurring your
speech, I seriously doubt if you would be able to slurp out the phrase
coherently.

No, really, I think that using some Credit Card info is the best bet
and I wonder if your Husband or your Son might oblige?

Looking forward to our Gourmet Dinner

Bryan

Bryan,

Perhaps I'll just sneak up and surprise you!  I expect I'll know you
by the sack of sugar lumps and the "I <heart> Daisy" T-shirt.  And, of
course, by your name.

Now you'll have to wonder about every woman you meet who happens to be
wearing a mask . . .

Apteryx

Hi, Apteryx

ALL women wear masks: they look different EVERY day; sometimes TWO or
THREE times a day.

This makes life VERY difficult for us men.

But interesting.

Tell me the same is not true of men.  I say the composition differs
but the result is the same.

A.

Hi, Again, Apt (Please forgive the familiarity)

My younger daughter (Samantha) came round earlier and she was telling
me of her visit to a show at the Royal Albert Hall on Sunday.

(That was where Jimmy Stewart had to locate the assassin in 'The Man
Who Knew Too Much', whilst Doris Day sang 'Que Sera, Sera' -
Remember?)

She went with a friend whose daughter was appearing as one of a troup
of dancers but, as they all wore wigs and heavy makeup, even her
mother couldn't recognise her.

Now, I worry about our Gourmet Dinner.

B,

Dear Bryan,

If you're looking for a nickname for our mutual friend Apteryx, "Apt"
seems rather abrupt and uncute.

I suggest "Tryxie." ;-)

~Pink

Tryxie?

Yes, I rather like the sound of that!

Many thanks, Pink.

But, before rushing into print, I shall await some word from the good lady herself.

Funny creatures, women. As a man, you never really get to know them
and what might be fine today can be unforgiveable tomorrow.

Can I tempt you to don a mask and partake of M Mitterand's farewell feast?

I am quite sure that you would look gorgeous in either a Red or a Pink
Mask. Which would you prefer?

All the Best

Big B

Bryan & Pinky,

Lately I've been getting a surprise of some kind just about every time
I sign on--thanks in large measure to you.  Now I find that I'm to
have a nickname.  The idea has never crossed my mind.  But I'm
charmed!

"Apt" is most complimentary, thank you, but I must confess that
"Tryxie" is warmer.  Besides, it would be hard for anyone called
Tryxie to be stuffy or pretentious or to worry overmuch about her
dignity, and those are weak spots I do have to guard against.  So I
say that if you two were to do me the honor of conferring an
affectionate nickname, I would be pleased to accept your collective
choice.

Best wishes,
Tryxie

Hi, Tryxie

For it is hereby decreed that henceforth such shall be your name.

Perhaps it will also serve as the secret password for the upcoming
dinner when we eat the forbidden delicacy?

I hope that you don't mind my having invited Pinky to join us?

Can you please take care of the extra mask? I think that you already
know the material and colour required.

All the best

Big B

(By the way, your new name suits you to a 'T')

Bryan,

Thank you!  I am perfectly delighted that you have invited our good
friend Pinky to join us, and I am sure I can arrange to have something
in Belgian lace dyed with rose petals just to suit her.

HOWEVAH--Apteryx might be inclined to savor exquisite forbidden
dainties, but Tryxie would be more than happy with a baguette, some
brie, and a bunch of grapes.  Besides, Tryxie can't keep her mouth
shut for 15 minutes at a time.

Tryx
(a great believer in the power of names)

Bryan,

This thread has now reached the point where, in the holy name of bad
puns, I can now ask, 'How's Tryx?'

May I humbly suggest that you wend your way to Paris via the city of Barcelona?

There you will be able to obtain a couple of delightful masques from a
gentleman at the shopping arcade at Port Vell. You'll find him just
inside the entrance nearest to the statue of Christopher Columbus. I
bought two masques from him myself a couple of days ago and couldn't
be happier with them.

Poe

Hi, Tryxie

Frivolity is definitely not allowed which is why I phrase my stuff so carefully.

I did, in fact, first meet the G****eBOT whilst hiking in New Mexico
(where else) but, when I offered him a few sugar lumps, I soon had him
eating out of my hand. I now look after him when his owners sneak off
for a few days.

The description that you gave is so amazingly accurate that I suspect
you have access to some inside information, but I cannot say more
because I am pledged to secrecy.

Big B

Hi, Poe

'Now what was an Englishman doing in Barcelona?' I ask myself.

I suspect that you may have lived in the United States too long,
because your sense of European geography is decidely weak: travelling
from Hove to Paris is just a short hop by plane .... Going via
Barcelona? No way!

I suspect that you are trying to get an invite to the Forbidden Feast ...

Am I right? 

Bryan

This Englishman was in Barcelona to sample obscene amounts of seafood,
Bryan. Paris may be the right place for l'ortolan but for tentacles
it's Barcy.

By American standards of distance, Hove and Paris are so close
together that they may as well be the same place. Sure, there's that
little stream in the way, but there's a subway. You could pop out for
a walk after elevenses and be in Paris for lunch.

However, being an Englishman in England, my English sense of geography
is a little more accurate than that. Adding the Barcelona dogleg would
but Brighton your day. Leave first thing from Gatwick and you still
ortolan in Paris with plenty of time to adjust your bow tie before
dinner.

I would dearly love to sample such a forbidden delicacy with you both,
but while two's company, three is a crowd, especially in a restaurant
named for the battle of Austerlitz. Regardless, I will be on the other
side of the pond in July anyway. Maybe I could drop in on Pink on the
day in question and raise a glass in tribute. Bon appetit!

Tryxie

An awful thought!

Supposing that the gendarmes raid our forbidden feast and that we are
all thrown in the Bastille pending a rendezvous avec Mme Guillotine
...

Would the GaGalaxy survive the sudden loss of so many of its
Researchers and Questioners?

Or, do you suppose that the Scarlet Pimpernel might ride to our rescue?

I do hope so.

Worried

Mon dieu, worried Bryan, you caused me a moment of deep panic.

But on cooler reflection, I have three well-considered suggestions to offer:

(1) If we do face la guillotine, voilá, we simply request the same
last meal as was served to M. Mitterand.  The French are good sports
and ultimate stylists and will oblige.

(2) If Leslie Howard is coming to rescue us, I will hold out for that
and consider it well worth the risk.  He is one of my all-time
favorite screen idols.  Marguerite did not deserve him, nor, of
course, did Scarlett.

(3) If all else fails, we wail piteously on our knees for the right to
say one final au revoir to our friends in the GA community, without
whose help and support we wouldn't even be in this fix.  They kindly
bring us a computer and an Internet hookup, and, as quick as we can,
we sign on and type a question:  "WHAT DO WE DO NOW?? Need answer
before dawn tomorrow, Paris time. $200. Generous tip guaranteed for
successful response."  I am sure that our friends won't let us down. 
They will have LOTS of helpful suggestions.  Won't PinkFreud and Poe
be right on top of it from their table in downtown Tulsa?

OR you can just join me on a shady bench in the Jardin des Plantes for
the brie and baguette and save the rest of the adventure for another
lifetime.

Tryxie