Bon Vivant Plat du Jour
Becoming a bon vivant is hard work. It requires both a discriminating palate
and an open mind. Having a bon vivant opportunity forkfully thrust in my
face, I ate a snail -- the first one out of curiosity, and then a second
because the first was so tasty. Getting the slime factor out of my open mind
was difficult, but the garlic and butter sauce took care of my skeptical
palate. Washing it down with a big slurp of French chardonnay completed the
experience. Eating snails is easier done than said.

The next day I noticed that the snails in my garden had decimated my yellow
marigolds, leaving only green stems and a trail of slime in their wake. I
went on a hunt for the garden interlopers, a search and destroy mission.
Finally, I found three fattened villains lounging arrogantly in the shade as
they digested my flowers. Usually, I pick up the perpetrators and launch
snail bombs into the street. Or, I euthanize them with poison and let the
ants eat escargot. But today, on my quest to be a bon vivant, I had a
fascinating idea. Stop looking at snails like garden pests. Instead, view them
as gourmet treats!

As a bon vivant I can concoct a delicious garlic/butter/wine sauce. I need
only obtain snail meat to make the tasty appetizer I'd enjoyed over the
weekend. This of course led me to a gourmet cooking book that has directions
on making all sorts delicacies suited to my newly-educated tastes. Every
recipe in the book takes at least a week to create, and uses a minimum of
forty-five ingredients.

Step one:  Clean and starve the snails for four days.

I bring the marigold marauders indoors to my radiantly clean bon vivant
kitchen. Taking them to the sink, I try to wash them gently. The snails want
no part of this and prefer to go inside their shells, making cleaning
difficult. I'm afraid that I've drowned them after scrubbing with my mushroom
brush and then fully immersing them. But they are still alive, now cleaned,
and ready to be starved. This might take longer than four days, because they
are so bloated on my marigolds.

After four days they look thirsty -- not hungry.

Step two:  Kill the snails by immersion in boiling water for three minutes.

Tossing the snails into a busy thoroughfare, or poisoning them, seems kinder
to me. While I'm pondering whether to plunge them into boiling liquid or not,
I decide that I will first scan them into my computer.  I arrange them
artfully on the scanner's glass surface, and then click on the "preview"
button. As the hot light of the scanner rays sweeps under their stomach-foot,
they start to move...and slime. While aware that a true bon vivant would be
merciless in a quest to examine the nature of his delicacy, I feel extremely
queasy -- especially when I hear one of the snail's shell lightly crack under
the weight of the scanner lid.

Step three: Remove the snail's shell.

No way! Just hearing the shell crack was enough to turn me away from the life
of a bon vivant! There must be another way to deal effectively with this
sticky situation and not lose my rising bon vivant status. I return to the
recipe on page 2,876 of my cookbook for ideas.

Step four: Simmer snails in court bouillon for one and one-half hours.

I remove the trio of slightly mutilated mollusks from my scanner, take them
back outside to the garden where they belong, and gently sprinkle Corry's
Slug & Snail Death over their cracked shells. The snails stop moving almost
immediately, and look very peaceful and pretty in their natural surroundings.
I take a deep breath and wonder, can a bon vivant be a vegetarian?

Step five: Return snails to thoroughly cleaned shells with garlic and/or
butter.

A bon vivant would consider adding these ingredients and serving the snails
to the ants, paired perhaps with a sweet wine, or a side of marmalade.
Instead, I add a garnish of yellow marigold and allow all my backyard carrion
creatures to share in this gourmet feast. Escargot, at this moment, does not
seem at all appetizing to me. The words "cruel and unusual" keep
regurgitating in my mind as I return the cookbook to its dusty shelf.

Later, my husband Tom walks by the computer scanner and, seeing the lid
slightly raised, asks me if the snails are still in there. A bon vivant would
tell the truth while sipping a glass of slightly-chilled Montrachet. Feeling
amoral, I lie. "Yeah, they're still alive, so what?" He wrinkles his nose and
says, "Ewww" and silently scurries away not wanting to disturb an artistic
work in progress. Much later, when he wants to put a book on top of the scanner,
he re-inquires as to the snails' whereabouts. "Still, there" I say, further proving
that I am not a bon vivant because I can easily lie twice within three hours.

Still, the tiny bon vivant part of me is left to digest my Snail Plat du Jour.

Appetizer:
I lament the fate of any creature that must carry his home upon his back from
birth to death. Being homeless takes on a new meaning for me, so does paying
my mortgage.

Main Course:
I recognize this puny, slimy, creature as the ultimate embodiment of the
virtue patience. Slowly he makes his way along uncharted ground, overcoming
(or eating) any obstacles that block his path. A snail is never mad at
anybody or anything. Am I mistaking patience and forbearance for complacency?

Dessert:
The virtuous snail's pace is rewarded with intimate, knowledge of garlic,
butter, and wine. Compared to the struggle of survival on the streets this is
certainly an enviable fate.

A bon vivant can learn a lot from escargot without ever eating them again.
 

Copyright © 2002 Susan Mountain.