On Saturday night I ate Turducken. It was grotesque, a bulging avian feast. An alien bird, a fowl set of engorged matroyshka dolls. So fatty, so totally American, the Turducken epitomizes conspicuous consumption. After spending eight hours in the oven, the outer layer of turkey was dyed a shiny vermilion by the rashers of streaky bacon which had hardened on top. The bacon fat moistened the turkey, the turkey flavoured the duck, the duck fat spread through the chicken. The parsons nose crystallised into a hardened knob, a savoury lindt ball that the birds' juices exploded from, gushing into my mouth. We tore at the meat, picked it off the bones and doused it with gravy, then basked in a post-Turducken afterglow. I felt food-high, fat and sleepy. Giggling uncontrollably, we could not stop talking about the Turducken. It was medieval, primal, ridiculous. Can you believe we ate that? A turkey with a duck with a chicken in it? The mind reels.
Photos from the lusty Tom Jones inn scene, starring the adorable Albert Finney.