A Bunny for Your Thoughts

I first experienced rabbit as a horrified student at Cambridge University, when I was living across the street from the outdoor city market. There they were, bunnies, hung from hooks, and I thought “What heathens, these people.” Then I left for a few weeks in France and Switzerland, and of course, there was more of the same, and for all of the fresh, fur-on rabbits I saw in the markets in the Alps, you’d have thought that bunny was the state bird of the Berner Oberland. Then, I came home to New York, and one evening while strolling past Ottomanelli on Bleecker Street, I spied them again, hanging in the shop window.

I decided it was a conspiracy, like the time that my grandmother served me calves brain a week after I saw Young Frankenstein.

It was a few years before I had my first bunny, so to speak, at a now-defunct West Village restaurant, where it was listed on the menu as civet, and came braised in red wine and rosemary which overpowered it to the point that it tasted exactly like coq au vin (with rosemary), which is neither what I wanted nor ordered. But whenever and wherever it showed up, I tried it: all over New York (usually in the winter); in a small restaurant in Pienza, where it was fashioned into a ragu and tossed with pappardelle; somewhere else (I can’t remember the location) where it was smothered under a layer of strong herbs, black olives, and preserved lemons, blanketed beneath an unrecognizable cheese that had the consistency of a shaved umbrella handle, and then baked. All of which led me to the conclusion that rabbit was so strong and overpowering that it had to be tempered and teased into being edible, like an aging bluefish.

Not true.

Rabbit is tender, succulent, exceptionally lean (so much so that the saddle can cook far faster than the balance of the bunny, which is what happened to me the first time I tried to make it), and flavorful in a slightly sweet, very mildly and pleasantly gamey way. Unless you live near a great farmer’s market or know an old-fashioned butcher, it can be hard to come by and is often expensive, especially if you compare the price of a locally procured, fresh “meat” rabbit to your basic organic chicken. I justify the purchase by eating it very infrequently, and taking very good care of it when I do.

Despite its leanness, rabbit seems to naturally be a cold-weather dish for some reason, and when Susan and I were stuck in the house the other day during a raging snowstorm and realized that we had a rabbit in the fridge, I grabbed my copy of David Tanis’s remarkable A Platter of Figs, which has in it a simple, phenomenally good recipe for oven baked rabbit in mustard sauce, which is a kind of riff on traditional Lapin a la Moutarde only with a very small amount of bacon in it. What I didn’t have nor had the time to make (it has to stand for at least twelve hours) was creme fraiche, which is a key ingredient in the dish (both David’s and in the traditional version); I did, however, have some very good quality sour cream, buttermilk, and regular cream, with which I managed to make a sort of mock creme fraiche which, when combined with Dijon mustard, worked perfectly. No sage either, but plenty of thyme. I don’t know David, but he seems from what I’ve heard of him to be a sort of mellow guy with a tendency towards producing exuberantly simple dishes, and I’d like to think he would have approved. (Maybe.)

The result? Remarkable. The house smelled like there was a French grandmother locked in the kitchen all day, and the dog, my partner, and our three cats refused to stop staring at the stove. What can you do with rabbit leftovers? Make rabbit risotto with wild mushrooms. And yes, I followed David’s suggestion, and roasted the kidneys together with the dish, and they were, as he promised they would be, luscious (and I’m not an offal kind of gal).

Rabbit is one of those elusive dishes that, as Tanis says, has never quite caught on in the United States for reasons that I don’t understand, apart from the fact that some of us like to keep them as pets. Some people like to keep fish as pets too, but you generally don’t see them passing up a tuna salad sandwich because of it.

Whatever the reason, I implore you; try it. You’ll like it.

(adapted from A Platter of Figs, by David Tanis)

Tender, earthy, and fragrant, this dish was perfect served for dinner on a very snowy night, with little more than some roasted root vegetables, a green salad, and an inexpensive and uncomplicated bottle of Rhone. Leftovers were pulled off the bone, shredded, and folded into a simple risotto. Note: I like my rabbit quite mustardy, so the proportions here have been altered substantially from the original recipe.

Serves 4, or 2 with leftovers

1 rabbit, cut into 6 pieces (cut the saddle into 2 pieces, the front legs into two pieces, and the back legs into 2 pieces)

salt and pepper, to taste

1/4 pound unsmoked bacon, sliced into lardons

1/4 cup good quality sour cream

1 tablespoon buttermilk

1 tablespoon heavy cream

1/2 cup Dijon mustard

1 teaspoon yellow mustard seeds

2 tablespoons fresh thyme leaves

6 garlic cloves, sliced

2 Bay leaves

1. Place the rabbit in a large bowl and sprinkle with salt and pepper, and add the lardons. In a separate, small bowl, combine the sour cream, buttermilk, heavy cream, Dijon mustard, and mustard seeds, and whisk together until uniformly blended. Using a pastry spatula, scoop the cream mixture into the bowl, add the thyme leaves, garlic cloves, and Bay, and using your hands, toss the rabbit in the sauce so that each piece is well-coated. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap and set aside for an hour, unrefrigerated (or overnight, in the fridge).

2. Bring the rabbit to room temperature (if chilled) and preheat oven to 400 degrees F. Place the rabbit in a heatproof clay baking dish, and top with any remaining marinade. Roast for thirty minutes, basting frequently, then turn; roast for another thirty minutes, continue basting, and then turn again. Crank the heat up to broil, and continue to cook for another few minutes, until the rabbit is golden brown. Serve immediately, with the sauce.