It's All in the Game

Philadelphia: Where beastliness is next to godliness

While I was in Philly visiting Emily, I found a meat counter at the Italian market that sold game. Whole geese, elk steaks, alligator fillets, buffalo beef, bones of all varieties for stocks, and sausage galore—anything you could ask for from the wider animal kingdom. The Dallas Cowboys partisan in me hesitates to say that it was enough to convert me to full-fledged Phillophilia—Eagles fans harassed Santa, for chrissakes—but I'm sure I've never seen any meat counter like it.

Before we left, K. and I personally ensured that every employee received a healthy holiday bonus. She'd been talking for a while about cooking a goose, but we couldn't buy one that day; the butcher only kills the goose on order (so you're in fact taking out a hit). Instead, we bought plenty of this, that, and the other. Last night, we made dinner with our spoils: figs wrapped in boar prosciutto, grilled, and treated with drizzled honey; rabbit sausage in bangers and mash; acorn squash with butter and brown sugar; a venison leg roast, marinated in buttermilk and herbs and then larded with frozen bacon nails before being roasted in Warsteiner with leeks, carrots, onions, and celery; and a delicious chestnut chocolate tort. (Firing up the grill in November is very much called for.) Some photos if you're so inclined, but fair warning—my point-and-click and I don't claim any food-photography chops. Check in with Matt Harvey for that.

So! This has been a fun post—I had a good meal and you didn't. But there's a story. Needing wax paper and milk, I stepped over to the nearby R/te A/d, never for a moment deviating mentally from the tasks back at the house: the grill, the gourds, the guests—and these leaves I'm supposed to be picking to use as molds for the chocolate garnish. I was deep in thought when I walked in, and focusing totally when I walked out with goods in hand, having not paid for them. The funny thing is, when you're walking home with loose groceries, even just a few, people will stop to ask you why you're not carrying them in a bag. It's a genuine curiosity. The answer is, "Because I shoplifted these," unless you don't realize what you've done—how's that for scatterbrained? When I did finally realize, I was terrified to turn around, for fear of looking too suspicious, carrying red handed my $5 in stolen groceries. Later, I felt like an ice-cold hardass.

So Bonnie and Clyde join Punk Rock Kitchen. Save room for transgression!