The Republic of Wine
“After reading Swallows’ Nests.’ a parade of thoughts thronged my mind. When I was a child, my granddad told me that when rich people sit down to eat, their tables are filled with things like camel’s hooves, bear’s paw, monkey brains, swallow’s nest, and things like that. I’ve seen a camel, and I have no reason to doubt that their big, meaty hooves make for good eating, though I’ve never had the good fortune of tasting one. Once, as a child, I ate a horse’s hoof my second brother secretly cut off of a dead horse and brought home from his production brigade. Of course, we didn’t have a famous chef to prepare it, so my mother just boiled it in water with some salt. There wasn’t much meat on it, so I filled up on the broth. Still, it left a lasting impression, one I invariably bring up with my brother when we’re together at New Year’s, as if the delightful flavor still lay on my tongue. That was in i960, at the beginning of the famine, which is probably why the memory has stayed with me so long.
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