A good fire from cherry wood and juniper branches

Wood pigeons, guns and chocolate in no particular order

Dec 20, 2023

Paul had shot me two wood pigeons. Quite accurately in fact. Often game birds don’t fare well at the business end of a shotgun.

If you’ve never plucked a wood pigeon before, much like a little duck or a grouse, you’ll find that there are an extraordinary amount of feathers. Not the flight feathers, these remiges are neatly arranged on the wing, architectural, structured and built with purpose. Long plumed quills that generate thrust on the downstroke. At variance to the thick mass of fine downy feathers that keep the birds warm and waterproof. These are the ones that seem to get everywhere.

I have spent many mornings throughout many years, stood at metal benches in the monastic silence of kitchens at full tilt, plucking the feathers from boxes of teal, woodcock, grouse and partridges into large bin bags. Attempting to minimise vast quantities of fluff from landing in the pastry section’s gastro tray of warm liquid tempered chocolate on the other side of a marble partition, potentially ruining Ahmed’s day and also five litres of Valrhona that he’d taken through various temperatures and was now a shining liquid at thirty-two degrees Celsius.

Boxes of game birds, delivered on the feather add hours to a chef’s workload. (They are a complete nightmare if I’m honest, simply one of the biggest pains in the ass that I can think of, except perhaps a couple of sacks of the beautifully sweet but wooden skinned Échalote grise which I would usually reserve for whoever had annoyed me most that week).

If you don’t buy birds on the feather, the problem is, is that they need to be plucked very carefully without tearing holes in the delicate skin. This usually doesn’t happen where butchers are concerned, so it’s often better to do it yourself. Bin bags limit the debris somewhat but you’ll invariably be finding soft fluffy down for the rest of the day in every inconvenient place you might think of.

Tip: Dont consider plucking birds indoors. That’s what the garden is for. And don’t pluck them near Ahmed’s pan of melted chocolate, for he will not be happy.

Here on the farm, I have a spot next to an old wall, tucked away next to some brambles behind the greenhouse, which is the perfect height for me to deplume by hand whatever Paul might have shot that week. He is a giant of a man with a large beard and a love of shooting things. He is a terrifyingly good shot with a twelve gauge shotgun, a hunting rifle and more than likely a blunderbuss I don’t doubt. There is no nonsense with Paul. If you ask for pheasants, he will find some. Mallards, woodpigeons, and hares appear on request. He never accepts money for them despite my trying. I make him sausage rolls instead. He is just pleased to share.

I pulled away the grey and white feathers from the birds, letting them fall quietly into a pile by my feet, the ones that the wind takes will be blown around for a while, though by the next day all that is left will have disappeared in the frosts and the damp. Their crops, pluck and wishbones are removed, with my beautiful handmade, yew-handled field knife, then a loop of string under their backs, tight around the thighs, tied again under the neck, ready for roasting, seasoned with salt and black pepper.

I light a fire using small branches of gnarled cherrywood, ridged with knots and burrs, seasoned from the last year’s pruning. Cherry burns hot and slow, so is a fine wood for cooking with. These fat woodpigeons that I’ve plucked will be sealed in a pan, basted to colour the skin, then a pluche of bay leaves, thyme, marjoram and rosemary, pushed into their necks. Then when I am happy that the temperature of the embers is correct, I’ll top the glowing cinders with freshly cut juniper cuttings, letting it smoulder, hot and resinous, allowing the birds to roast and smoke at the same time for ten or so minutes till their skin is crisp and aromatic, the breast meat a deep rich blood red, rested so it blushes pink when carved. At a different time, in a different place, I’d carve them and chop the carcasses into a jug blender of sticky, reduced pigeon sauce adding a chunk of foie gras terrine before blending to make a rich foie gras and spiced pigeon sauce.

Today just a little pine salt to finish.

I serve the woodpigeon just warm, with a small spoonful of pickled radicchio that we grew in the garden flavoured with ginger and aniseed, the deep purple of the relish matching the colour of the carved meat. A handful of fermented young blackberries add a salted tang to the richness of the meat and offset the sharp sweetness of the vinegar and a spoonful of blackcurrant wood oil.

These are ingredients that I love and understand how to use. The imparting of my knowledge of flavours and simple techniques. The beauty of my work and my love of creativity that I hope somehow respects the life that the birds lived.

And then soon it will be Christmas.

Until then,

William