By Thomas Lake
There is a hidden restaurant near the south end of Grant Park, in a
tan-painted aluminum warehouse. No silverware, no tablecloths. If the
place had a menu, it would feature colossal rats and quarter-inch
crickets. In the kitchen one morning, a man stood over a red-stained cutting
board, slicing beef from raw bones. He stacked the bones in a plastic
tub. They would be served without fanfare or seasoning to a party of
Asian small-clawed otters for purposes of dental hygiene. This is
easier than brushing their teeth.
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By Bill Addison
The braised rabbit at Miller Union looks homely, as many of the South’s
finest dishes do. Shredded meat, sauteed mushrooms, russet-colored
gravy, and a moat of grits make for an unglamorous collage of earth
tones. But, oh, the taste. Bite after bite, this entree reminds me of
Nat King Cole’s voice: velvety, soothing, timeless. The rabbit is
cooked for two hours with carrots, celery, and fennel in chicken stock
and red wine before being pulled from the bone—a step that helps
squeamish eaters disassociate their meal from the cuteness of bunnies.
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