The Dainty Dot

I grew up on a farm. A real, working farm—one where my parents and us kids poured everything we had into coaxing things to grow from the soil, and cared for our 4-legged and feathered creatures until they were fat enough to fill our chest freezers. On a farm like this, you were clucking back at a chicken one day, and basting it the next.

The big guys—the beef and pork animals—we kept penned up, either in the barn or in the field next to it. Chickens, too, were kept in the barn lest some malevolent creature pay them a visit. The ducks, however, were allowed to roam outside the barn and through our yard. Why? Not sure, really. They weren’t a flight risk—quite literally. They could fly up to the lower branches of a tree if their lives were in peril. But, as for wanting to leave the farm, that was just plain silly—they were quite happy where they were.

Also, the ducks were really more of an accident than a part of our farm’s business model. We happened to find them—a half-dozen little ducklings—trapped in some viney, brambly undergrowth one day near our grandmother’s bungalow. It was a bit of a mystery how they ended up there, especially so when they matured and it turned out they were Muscovy ducks and not some random water fowl. That’s right, we were eating Muscovy duck in the 1970s, long before it became the culinary king.

As will happen when genders mix, we found viable duck eggs, incubated them, and had a nice little gangs of Muscovys wandering our yard for many years.

Now, one summer my mother wished to add a goose to the duck gang. We had never had a goose before, not in the barn nor on our plates. Goose for Christmas, Mom said. A little gosling was added to the bunch.

My mother named her Willeeta. As in, “We’ll eat her.”

Despite the moniker, we never had a chance to eat Willeeta. The curious goose, who was full of personality and quite a delight to have roaming the yard, met her end not by means of an axe. One day we were repaving our driveway with asphalt, and little Willeeta decided to have herself a taste of the hot and gooey black stuff. Within minutes she was foaming at the bill and not long after she was gone.

We never did eat Willeeta. The irony. And, we never did raise another goose and never had goose on our table.

Fast forward 30-some years to last Friday night. Jennifer and I stop in at The Gallows, the fairly new restaurant in the South End. The menu is meat-heavy, and not eating red meat, we’ve not made it a priority to dine there. There’s a bit of a Middle Ages feel to the menu, with mead and boar and such on listings. Drinks with dark-sounding names. Apps called “boards” and served up on small cutting boards. Wenches behind the bar. Men in furs bringing out the meals. Okay, I jest, but you get the idea.

So, considering the story of Willeeta, you’ll understand that when the boards of the day were detailed to us, the goose board did have an appeal to me. Goose prepared three ways: pate, sliced cured breast, and something I didn’t quite catch the name of but it was a type of confit (but drier). Jennifer didn’t feel the same draw as I did to this goose board—having had a horrible experience with duck once, she stays away from fowl other than chicken. But, after relating the Willeeta story to our server, she gladly served up a small serving of the goose three ways. Pate: not for me. Sliced cured breast: very good. the confit-like dish: delicious. Would I have good again? Yes, but hold the pate.

Jennifer and I did share the Ploughman’s Board, which was fish three ways. Smoked salmon – awesome. Cured trout – awesome. And some sort of lobster and red pepper pate was the best of the bunch. Was it lobster or tuna? I don’t recall, but whatever it was, I’ll gladly order it again. The board was accompanied with (not enough) hearty sourdough, a nice robust mustard and something that tasted like the beginnings of tartar sauce but was way more mayo-ey than I think they intended. Stick with the mustard.

As I said, we only really stopped in to check out the atmosphere, grab a drink and quickly peruse the bar menu. We were pleasantly surprised at the non-red meat opportunities, both on the apps and the main entrees. Next time, we’ll do a bit more dining and let you know how it goes.

Tagged: farm tales, goose, seafood, South End, The Gallows