No organ in the human body is more romanticized or poeticized than the heart; we have imbued it with the ability to love, to choose, and to guide us, despite the fact that the first descriptor listed in the word’s definition is ‘hollow’. So why is this hollow organ, this glorified pump, such an emotionally charged part of our anatomy? Might word play be responsible? Perhaps the heart that everyone from Shakespeare to Emily Dickinson has waxed eloquent about is not the cardiac muscle of which we speak, but its homonym; “one’s innermost character, feelings, or inclinations”; “the essential or most vital part of something”.
Why am I contemplating such seemingly heavy subject matter on a food and wine blog, one might ask. The experience of eating offal- in addition to grossing many people out- is bound to inspire such considerations. While there are those opposed to eating meat of any kind, most of us just see it as ‘food’. Yes, meat is muscle, but not only are the muscles of quadrupeds and fowl quite distinct from those of our own species, but they are usually broken down into smaller cuts- a burger, say, or a chicken breast hardly accentuates the fact that we’re ingesting fellow mammals. When we enter the realm of offal, which for us foodies is a sacred realm indeed, things get a little sticky. Not only are organs recognizable to us in theory, but often times when they appear on our plate they are- quite literally- recognizable. Yes, we all have a liver, a pancreas, kidneys, a stomach, glands and a heart, but we all have muscles, too. Is it specificity that breeds this moral ambiguity, or the recognition of commonality?
Whatever it is, and however much it makes me think, it didn’t seem to get in the way of me finding myself at Eastern Standard popping rabbit hearts into my mouth. For me, offal is an unfortunate homophone, and I relish every chance I get to sample new and different ‘animal parts’. At Eastern Standard, the menu tempts the adventurous eater by listing ‘Today’s Offal’ under appetizers, and after learning that rabbit hearts were on offer, resistance was futile. They looked innocent enough as they arrived: perfectly bite-sized, dark in color, slightly oblong in shape, and- upon forking one for closer inspection- quite unmistakably heart-shaped. And just so as not to get caught up in grammar again, I don’t mean heart as in a valentine. The flavor had that distinct ‘organy’ thing going on- not quite metallic, not quite gamey, but…for lack a better word, very ‘animal’. It’s certainly not for everyone, but there’s something almost feral tasting about these meats; there’s no disguising the fact that you’re eating a ‘being’ (I’m starting to feel a little Hannibal here…). In texture there was a fair amount of chew to them, but not in a disagreeable way, more to the effect of density and richness. Served sautéed along with similarly shaped and sized baby Brussels sprouts, atop a bed of buttery quinoa and faro, it was both restrained and decadent; the curious juxtaposition of the consummate carnivore fare and stereotypically ‘hippie/health’ foods in one dish was as unexpected and delightful as finding Cruella De Vil in bed with a PETA activist.
And what did we drink with this plateful of contradiction? No, not a Chianti (but thank you for the suggestion, monsieur Lecter). Instead we chose a wine as unique as the fare: a red from the Piemontese region Vallée d'Aoste called ‘La Kiuva’. The seventy-five percent Nebbiolo, in the form of the regional clone Picatendro gave deep cherry fruit, spiciness, and just enough tannin to stand up to the hearts, while the pinot noir blended in lent a smoothness and bright acidity. Overall, it was the ideal mate for the dish; both were rustic and carnal, yet elegant, and, as this entry proves, memorable enough to warrant a second thought, and perhaps a little contemplation…
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