It's a primordial thing. We've been roasting our food over a flame for years. Smoke has twisted in our hair ever since we chimps came down from the trees. The scent of it, in other words, takes us back. We are, of course, the only beasts to cook our food. It's what separates us (so we like to think) from the animals. We cook it on stoves, in ovens and air fryers, and some of us, those who have hours to invest in the prep of something delicious to eat, head to Lowe's and buy ourselves a Big Green Egg.
But I can't be bothered with all that. I'd much rather the Shaved Duck Smokehouse cook my supper because, somehow, with the help of two huge silvery smokers, this neighborhood restaurant in Tower Grove East has harnessed that most ephemeral ingredient, bottled it and is putting it — so to speak — on toast.
So, I wondered last Thursday, why weren't more people here for this kitchen's burnt ends, for its luxuriant, fatty meats run through with that taste we viscerally crave? Why were only two tables filled? I theorized a little and decided it might have something to do with a pending liquor license, which the Shaved Duck has been in the queue to get for months on end. Something tells me that if the booze were flowing, the hoards would be here; there'd be a line around the block for a taste of this kitchen's way with smoke.
The restaurant has new owners: James Heredia, Joshua Powlishta and Adam Kaufman took over from Ally Nesbit, who was forced to close the business in 2022 after a pipe burst. This threesome (who also inherited Nesbit's recipes) knocked out a wall, opened up the place and brought it back to life after a year of closure. It feels like a nice spot to be, although — like a living room without its carpet — the acoustics are a little off. I'm not sure how you fix that. Booze maybe. Candles might also be good. Instead of those, each table has a couple of whopper squeeze bottles of homemade sauce.
Our two happened to be bourbon and root beer (there are seven in all). My trouble, my life's conundrum, is that I'm always wanting the flavor of habanero, but not so much the heat. Yes, I'll peck out a few drops to enliven a pot of beans, but I want that elusive taste — the more well-behaved back-goût of those furious little peppers. I finally found it when another bottle arrived. It was charmingly yellow, charmingly made with mangoes. "Don't worry, it's not that hot," said our server, who also happened to be Heredia. I put a dot on a finger, tasted it, then — having decided it was the most lovely condiment in all the world — wondered about asking for a bowl, and a spoon.
I love it when confit's on the menu. It feels like a good sign to me. With roots in Gascogne, this specialty speaks to care, a respect for a centuries-old, days-long curing process. You don't find it any-old-where. The leg arrived, a perfectly crispy, fat-braised crook, pinky and tender beneath its skin. Duck is an intense meat, and this was. "It tastes alive," said my 17-year-old companion. "Gamey," I corrected. "We say gamey when we talk about duck." It's true, this probably isn't the meat for teenage boys, though it forks nice and easy into juicy shreds, and the pickled red onions on the side are twanged by fennel seed.
But boys do like burgers. Sadly, the Shaved Duck's "Big Mac" (formed with brisket into two patties) was dry. (Could a single patty and a little less time on the "Foreman" fix this?) Boys also are fond of mac and cheese, as long as it's Kraft. This mac and cheese, however, bowled my date over. I left him there and polished off the bowl. Scattered with crumbs, creamy and rich, it's so unlike Kraft, it's funny.
The smoked pulled pork sandwich was interesting. I want to say "pure" rather than "plain;" I'd rather say "untouched" than "naked." My son just said, "I wish I could have taken the flavor in the duck and given it to the pork." I think he's after my job. However, after a few poots of the 7 Chili Cherry sauce bottle, and with the addition of crunchy pickles, the sandwich was plain and simply and smokily delicious.
It was nice, as well, to find gumbo on the menu. Jeweled with corn and little shrimps, scallops and okra, its flavor is deep and seafoody. Shrimp appeared again on a pillow of herby jalapeño cheddar grits and had an excellent snap. I am unqualified to talk about the creamed corn; I have never met that loose soup before.
Sorry to go on, but has anyone not yet heard about the Shaved Duck's marvelous burnt ends? Has the news of these sweet, chubby little slabs yet to reach the ears of any (wo)man or beast in this town? Here are some more descriptors: treacly, devilishly unctuous; bonfire-ishly fumed; and — as described by the wordsmith across from me — "frickin' beast." My son happened to be talking about the sandwich version. Since time began, there may rarely have been a better "bun" than this. Or trope.
Perhaps, once the booze gets going, the Shaved Duck will be able to lower its prices a bit. It seems to me they're a little high for a place so snugly embedded in a neighborhood, all by itself. It surely would wish to be a no-brainer for dinner — a Cheers-ish fallback when all we have in the freezer is a Stone Age Tombstone. The word is, the license may be only weeks away. And then, as Heredia suggested, it will be all systems go.
Inspired, and thinking about my trip to Lowe's this weekend, I tried my best to peel some tips from Heredia. "So what exactly do you do to make these burnt ends so ..." It was no good. He was already shaking his head, zipping a finger across his lips. End of story.
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