Liver Let Die

Liver--like truffles, marrow, and caviar--is one of those flavors that takes some time and numerous attempts to appreciate, but when the mind finally adjusts it creates a craving center that may never be satisfied. Last weekend I found myself stalking the meat section of the local Albertsons, desperate for the deep, primal taste of liver, about a half step away from the scene in Rosemary's Baby where Mia Farrow catches herself in the mirror with the bloody organ juices dripping down her chin.

My romance with liver began as a flirtation with liverwurst, the kind that comes in the chubby tubes at the grocery store. My college roommate and I would huddle over the counter late at night and smear the stuff on crackers with a slice of tomato. The liver taste was mild and cut with spices and cream and fat. Then came the occasional foie gras in a fancy restaurant, seared and glazed with cherry reduction. This dish is so special, we call it by its french name and not the plain, vaguely medical term "liver."

Now I prefer the simpler, truer stuff. Chicken livers are good. Sweet, delicate little nuggets, a smooth deep red, salted and peppered and sauteed in butter or rubbed first in some coarse brown mustard.

You can eat them as they are or slice thin and spread on extra-crisp toast. Sautee a shallot or a small onion and some garlic and mash them into the livers with a squirt of mustard and some fresh parsley.

A pint of the stuff shouldn't set you back more than a couple of dollars for the organic ones--in fact, many butchers throw them out, so ask sweetly and you may have a free dinner on your hands.