The Chef made these at the restaurant the other afternoon. I walked in with cups of coffee — milky and sugary for him; straight black for me — and saw them by the window.
“What’s that?” I shouted, hoping he could hear me over the searing noises in the kitchen.
“Duck confit. Or, at least, it will be.”
I leaned my head down and smelled. Oh my. Warmth, garlic, the pungency of rosemary and sweet herby scent of thyme. Coriander seeds. I hadn’t expect that.
Duck confit — gluten-free. I wanted some.
“Patience,” he said.
I’m not always good at that. I want the resplendency of what I see before me, in me, right now. But I didn’t complain. I waited.
He made the duck confit for a special party. Apparently, it was fantastic. Men were moaning in the dining room. But I still haven’t eaten any. There were not a single bite left over.
Soon, he says. Soon.
(Then again, I can’t complain. He is in the kitchen as I write this, on his day off, making us salads with butter lettuce, cranberries, shaved parmesan, and champagne vinaigrette. Also, the veal goulash is bubbling in the oven. Yeah. I know.)