The day my
partner met
the family, my
brother was
squatting on the
floor next to the
bin chewing on
the remains of
a lamb leg, his
lips shiny with
animal grease.W
hen I first met my
partner, I hid it, of
course. It was only when
he was out watering the
orchids or flossing his teeth that I could
do it – quickly, furtively. But even
then I was outed fairly early on. After
volunteering to make pea and ham soup,
I was caught in flagrante delicto with the
ham hock. Oh the shock. The shame.
The gristle.
Let me state my truth: I’m an avid
eater of meat on the bone. And when
I say avid, I mean I go at it like Henry
VIII cross-bred with a Neanderthal. It’s
not just the meat: it’s the cartilage, the
tendon, the bone, the marrow. There’s
nothing I won’t tackle. Cutlery, you
venture? It’s just not effective for those
hard-to-reach crevices. Inevitably I’m
left despairing at all the wasted meat
that I know could be hoovered up in
one fell suck.
Eating meat off the bone is ugly; it
can’t be prettied up or Photoshopped.
There’s no greater dilemma than being
presented with a quail leg at a cocktail
party and trying to do it justice while
holding a drink and a clutch and
discussing #MeToo. (Looking angry
at the patriarchy is hard with a femur
lodged between your front teeth.)But in the privacy of your own home
and the safety of your least-elasticised
tracksuit pants, going hard at a bone-in
morsel is a deeply satisfying experience.
Ask any hyena.
Meat close to the bone is slipperier,
more succulent, more flavoursome. It’s
the best meat. So what if I hail from
a long line of bone suckers? (Mother
more flatteringly describes us as
“hands on”.) The day my
partner met the family, my
brother was squatting on
the floor next to the bin
chewing on the remains
of a lamb leg, his lips
shiny with animal grease.
Then there’s the way
Dad “carves” a chicken.
While others slice slowly
and methodically, Dad
dons pink washing-up
gloves (for heat protection)
and starts ripping it apart.
Blobs of chicken juice,
gelatine and fat fly in all
directions as we hover like
hungry lion cubs, preparing to pounce
on any scrap that might come our way.
Naturally, some meat makes it into his trap
as he goes (third-degree burns guaranteed);
he then surveys the pile of chicken and –
like a bouquet-tossing bride – launches
a mini drumstick at a lucky bystander.
Many people feel that eating meat
off the bone offers a low return on
investment, or that chewing on a carcass
is somehow primitive. My partner is
in the latter camp. He says it’s the noise
that drives him to the edge. It’s about
nurture not nature, isn’t it? Bone foods
were an alien concept to him growing
up – his mother lovingly tweezered the
bones out of his tinned fish until he
was well into his 30s.I can see some logic in slicing through
chicken breast with sharpened metal – you
keep your hands clean and enjoy a solid
meat-to-effort ratio – nor does lust blind
me to the risk that bone foods present. I’ve
had bone fragments wedge themselves in
my oesophagus, requiring hasty dislodging
(the trick is to eat a rolled-up piece of
bread with peanut butter, which isn’t easy
to prepare when you’re suffering sudden-
onset brain hypoxia). But
I can only conclude that
there’s a fine line between
pleasure and pain. And
we’re all allowed to get
our hands a little dirty.
My partner is very
accepting of my primal
ways, and our differences
work well. When we roast
a chicken, I have a leg, he
has a breast, and the next
night is a happy repeat.
The third night, I enjoy
two wings and other
carcass bits while he eats
a cheddar sandwich in the
other room with his headphones on. I
no longer need excuse myself and head
to the opposite end of the house to gnaw
on a bone; it is he who is the refugee. I’m
out – not of the closet, but the butler’s
pantry – and I stand by my right to eat
a chicken leg proud. And loud. ●ILLUSTRATION BILLIE JUSTICE THOMSON
GOURMET TRAVELLER 87