Double the Meat, Hold the Shame

Scott Gold just adores meat. He loves to eat it, prepare it, learn about it, talk about it, conceptualize it, ponder its significance, and - naturally - he loves to write about it. In fact, Scott's adoration for cooked flesh is so unflagging and so deep that he decided to dedicate an entire book to it. The Shameless Carnivore: A Manifesto for Meat Lovers is Scott's first published work and narrates his adventure eating through 31 different hides in as many days.

Knowing the premise of Shameless and the varied palette of animal carcass that Scott had consumed during his research and since, I was not sure what to expect when I requested that he teach me a recipe using an unusual meat. As I have newly re-entered the world of carnivorism, I was a bit nervous - terrified really - that Scott was going to show up at my door with one of the more exotic cuts that he had tried. Frankly, I completely lack both the culinary daring and the steely bowels to attempt a meal of offal, bull's penis, or deep-fried balls as Scott so courageously has done. To my relief, he did not choose to make me sheep's eyes or butchered squirrel, instead Scott chose to make me one of his favorite animals: goat.

Scott arrived at my door fifteen minutes late, flustered, and with just over four pounds of freshly butchered goat in tow. A native New Orleanian and resident of Greenpoint, Brooklyn, his studio lacked the proper amenities (like a kitchen) to cook such a hunk of meat, so it was necessary to do the cooking lesson at my house.

As I opened the door to my apartment building, Scott followed me hurriedly up the stairs saying repeatedly that we had to get started right away. When we reached the kitchen, Scott threw the bag of bloody meat onto the counter. It landed with a heavy and fleshy thud that made me cringe. Every time I eat animal, I have to forcibly prevent myself from dwelling on the fact that I am eating something that was once alive, and I feel pangs of nausea and guilt when I think about it too much. Eying the bag of meat on the counter, I couldn't help but remember the many hours I spent in Mississippi petting my ex-boyfriend's parents' goats. My hesitance toward the impending meal only increased when Scott produced a bag of hacked-up bones and held it in my face. "Look at this!" He said excitedly, "Maybe if we have time we can cook these down and suck out the marrow!" I wondered if Scott noticed my face whiten. Scott put the bones in my refrigerator and said, “Or maybe I’ll just keep those for stock.” My heart lightened.

Removing an assortment of ingredients from his backpack, Scott – in Bill Piersol style – disclaimed the meal he was about to make, “I wish we had a long time to cook, especially because Frank said this meat came from an older goat." The Frank Scott was referring to is Frank Ottomanelli of Ottomanelli & Sons Prime Meat Market - a venerable butcher in the West Village. Scott had called Frank the day before we cooked to order the goat. At least it was fresh and local.

Scott produced a large knife housed in a special plastic case from his bag. “I brought my knife just in case.” I was glad he did – I just moved and right now only have one knife that can barely cut through the flesh of a tomato. “I love this knife. It’s a Shun. Eight inch.” As Scott handed me an onion to chop, I asked him if the utensil had been a gift. “In fact, it was, but I picked it out. Why?” “Well,” I said, “I find that almost every kitchen accessory that I own was given to me by my mom… she figured out a long time ago not to buy me clothing or, really, anything else. That’s how I’ve ended up with things like a ravioli cutter, a hand blender, Le Creuset pots, and that whistling ceramic bird that let’s me know when my pies are done. Some are more useful than others…”

Scott was so concentrated on getting the dish going that he only responded with a distracted “Oh.” No chit chat. After a minute or two of silence I asked Scott when had first tried goat. “Have you checked out the book?” He asked. Guiltily, I shook my head no. He continued, “The first time I had goat was when I first got started on the book,” he said as he heated butter and olive oil a large pot. As he spoke, I made quick work of three garlic cloves. “I was on my way to a barbecue and I just happened to see goat being sold at a stand and I decided to buy some; it was great! Why aren’t people more gaga over goat? It’s every bit as delicious as lamb.”


Scott added the onions to the heated fat and stirred them with a large wooden spoon. The kitchen began to fill with the appetizing aroma of the cooking vegetable. After a few minutes he added the minced garlic and previously prepped and chopped rosemary and parsley. He removed the goat from its plastic sack and cleaved it in two, returning one half to the bag and sticking it in my refrigerator. “Wow, this looks really nice! It’s lovely, rosy, lamb-like… Mmmm!” Scott exclaimed as he began removing the silver skin from the meat. He cut the meat again in two, and passed me a half. As we worked to remove the tough fascia from the meat, I asked Scott if food had always been a passion for him.


“Always, always,” he replied, “I’m a New Orleanian, darling! Food is the passion of the city. A very big part of my life growing up. I didn’t even notice until I left!” Before Shameless, Scott explained to me that he never really cooked much, but that researching for the book was like a culinary awakening for him – one in which he relied heavily on his mother’s extensive knowledge of food to make successful recipes.

Scott stirred the onions and then added the meat. The goat smelled almost identically to lamb, but slightly more pungent. Leaning his head near the top of the pot, Scott took giant whiff of the rising steam. “Smells good!” I walked over to the stove, looked in the pan, and took a deep breath. That lamby gamey aroma reminded me of the meal that I had made with Michele Amar (who, incidentally introduced me to Scott), and it indeed smelled delicious. Like a yoga exercise, my meat-eating-induced guilt dissipated as I exhaled.


“Have you had goat before?” Scott asked. When I replied no, his face lit up. “Great! Goat virgin! You’re going to LOVE it!” Scott not only was about to be present for my first bite of goat, but he also happened to have the luck to watch me eat my first burger - cooked medium rare and smothered in Gruyere and sauteed wild mushrooms - in over a decade (at DuMont Burger and it was, put simply, fucking awesome). He told me he was proud to be a part of my meat-eating history.

We talked family while we waited for the meat to sufficiently braise. Interestingly, Scott has a brother who is a devout Buddhist, and, as you can imagine, he does not much appreciate Scott's carnivorous pursuits. Contrarily, the opposite has ocurred in my family - when I told my mom that I was eating meat again, I could practically hear her smiling on the other end of the phone. No more searching for vegetarian turkey substitutes and meat-free recipes at holiday dinners.

After about 10 minutes, the meat was a deep beige-brown color and highly odorous – signs that the meat was done braising. Scott poured a cup of water and a dash of wine into the pot and then glooped in some tomato paste. Since he is also a self-proclaimed “acid freak” he also added the juice of two lemons and a dash of bourbon (I guess that's the New Orleanian in him). I commented to Scott that the name of this dish should be lemon-bourbon goat. Writing it now, that sounds like something TGI Fridays would make up to attract local populations in the Caribbean or Central America or in another goat-loving nation.


Looking at his watch, Scott said, “Ok, so now it’s about 10 to 8, at about 9:15 this will be done.” He laughed nervously – he seemed very concerned to be taking up so much of my time. “Do you have somewhere to go?” I asked him and he shook his head. “Then let’s drink some beers and hang out on the roof – I’m not going anywhere either.” As soon as I said the word “beer,” Scott seemed to relax. I produced a couple of brews from the fridge and we headed up to the outdoors while we waited for the stew to stew.

For part two, click here.