{"id":5568,"date":"2016-01-14T12:25:46","date_gmt":"2016-01-14T12:25:46","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/tchakayiti.com\/home\/?p=5568"},"modified":"2022-10-15T13:35:34","modified_gmt":"2022-10-15T17:35:34","slug":"haitian-boudin-noir-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/tchakayiti.com\/home\/fr\/haitian-boudin-noir-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Boucherie & boudin noir"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Growing up, there was nothing I hated more than our bi-weekly visits to the butcher.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every Tuesday and Friday, on our way home, my dad would park the car on the roadside right in front of the butcher\u2019s small shop where he would spend a good 30 to 45 minutes selecting meat cuts, boudin or giblets<\/a> while we waited in the car, a trip that seemed to last a lifetime according to my internal child clock.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Upon our arrival, we were greeted by pungent smells of freshly butchered cattle, some of which was being smoked while we were there, a process that gave out even bolder smoky smells that stayed with us the entire time. A horde of flies that, just like us, but in a more rushed manner, were ready to make dinner out of the fresh cuts laid out almost everywhere on the butcher\u2019s block, kept us company in the hot car from which I couldn\u2019t wait to get out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Those trips were nightmares to me as I impatiently watched dad talk his way into thick cuts of fresh filet, pork and goat meat, and paid attention to the butchers every move. He would slam his sharp knife into bones and flesh to cut the desired pieces, and put them into thick black plastic bags; bags that I couldn\u2019t stand, for they looked bloodily dirty to me; bags that almost often landed next to me in the car making the rest of the short trip home last longer than it should for I was so anxious to get out of the car and away from the raw meat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Among those bags was often one filled with a long and fresh cut of boudin noir from which my mom and sister would make a feast as soon as they got home while I watched them with a disgusted look on my face. I couldn\u2019t fathom the idea that their palate enjoyed those chunks of Haitian boudin noir that were no other than seasoned cooked pork blood stuffed into the animal\u2019s intestines.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Who in their right mind could enjoy eating cooked blood and intestines that much?!?<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Such was the question I asked my young self for years as the scenario at the butcher\u2019s repeated itself. Week after week, year after year, I sat in the car pouting, waiting for my dad to put an end to my torture and secretly praying that he would not put the bag next to me. I turned my nose up at the boudin each time he brought some home to my mom and siblings for a long time until I finally realized I was voluntarily excluding myself from great Friday feasts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As a teen, I thus slowly trained my palate to like those chunks of well-seasoned cooked pork blood sausages. Most Haitians fry thick slices in a pot of hot oil which turns them black and crispy, but more recently, my family and I discovered that the non-fried version is as good if not tastier. Freshly bought boudin eaten as is has a smooth spreadable texture that is comparable to a rich and creamy pat\u00e9.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Today, with a more mature palate, I can\u2019t help but chuckle when I think of how much I used to hate this delicacy. I now often find myself craving some Haitian boudin and begging my parents to make that stop at the butcher, \u2013 a stop they no longer make as they buy thinner meat cuts directly from the grocery store \u2013 just to pick up some boudin noir.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I imagine some of you are reading this and shaking your head in disbelief. To you, I say, don\u2019t reject our boudin without trying it first. It\u2019s a Haitian tidbit you should definitely allow yourself to sample.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The best advice I can leave you with is not to think too much into what is actually stuffed into those intestines. Simply enjoy the rich and bold flavors of fresh anis and piment bouc that will surely enchant your palate.
[:fr]Lorsque j\u2019\u00e9tais enfant, mon p\u00e8re s\u2019arr\u00eatait sur une base hebdomadaire le mardi ou le vendredi chez le boucher, visites que je d\u00e9testais. Il y passait un temps fou qui semblait interminable \u00e0 l\u2019enfant que j\u2019\u00e9tais qui ne pouvait qu\u2019attendre impatiemment la livraison de la commande de viande, d’abats<\/a> ou de boudin du jour.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tout de cet environnement me d\u00e9plaisait. Nous \u00e9tions accueillis par la forte odeur de chair fraiche et fum\u00e9e qui nous emplissait les narines. Une horde de mouches, venues comme nous se procurer leur festin du jour, nous tenait aussi compagnie \u00e0 l\u2019int\u00e9rieur autant qu\u2019\u00e0 l\u2019ext\u00e9rieur de la voiture gar\u00e9e le long de la route devant la boucherie.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nul besoin de vous expliquer plus en d\u00e9tails que ces visites \u00e9taient un v\u00e9ritable cauchemar. J\u2019observais de mauvais gr\u00e9 mon p\u00e8re blaguant avec le boucher et pointant du doigt ou d\u2019un signe de t\u00eate les morceaux de viande de porc, de b\u0153uf ou de cabri qui lui convenaient, et le boucher enfon\u00e7ant \u00e0 coups secs sa machette dans la chair de l\u2019animal pour en extraire de gros morceaux de viande qu\u2019il pla\u00e7ait dans des sachets en plastiques, sachets que j\u2019avais en horreur car \u00e0 mes yeux ils \u00e9taient tous t\u00e2ch\u00e9s de sang ; sachets dont j\u2019h\u00e9ritais souvent pour mon malheur car mon p\u00e8re les pla\u00e7ait \u00e0 mes pieds ce qui rendait le reste du trajet insupportable. Je faisais des efforts surhumains pour \u00e9viter tout contact avec le sachet de viande crue dont je ne pouvais attendre de m\u2019\u00e9loigner.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Les victuailles obtenues du boucher incluaient souvent un morceau de boudin noir dont raffolaient ma m\u00e8re et ma s\u0153ur qui en faisaient un festin \u00e0 notre arriv\u00e9e \u00e0 la maison sous mon regard d\u00e9go\u00fbt\u00e9. A l\u2019\u00e9poque, je n\u2019arrivais pas \u00e0 me faire \u00e0 l\u2019id\u00e9e qu\u2019elles puissent manger le boudin noir qui n\u2019est autre que du sang de porc cuit \u00e9pic\u00e9 emboss\u00e9 dans des boyaux.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Aucun \u00eatre sens\u00e9 ne pouvait autant aimer du sang et des intestins cuits!<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Enfin, c\u2019est ce que je pensais \u00e0 ce jeune \u00e2ge o\u00f9 je subissais les visites chez le boucher.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

J\u2019ai longtemps boud\u00e9 notre boudin ha\u00eftien jusqu\u2019au jour o\u00f9, prise de curiosit\u00e9 et fatigu\u00e9e de me sentir exclue de ces festins familiaux, je mis de c\u00f4t\u00e9 mes id\u00e9es pr\u00e9con\u00e7ues pour en go\u00fbter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Durant mon adolescence, j\u2019exer\u00e7ai ainsi mon palais \u00e0 appr\u00e9cier le boudin de porc si bien \u00e9pic\u00e9 que la majorit\u00e9 des ha\u00eftiens font frire en tranches \u00e9paisses qui noircissent et deviennent croustillantes dans l\u2019huile chaude.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Aujourd\u2019hui, je dis fi\u00e8rement que je figure parmi ces \u00eatre insens\u00e9s qui aiment tant le boudin noir qu\u2019ils en mangent parfois tel quel sans le frire. Nous avons effectivement d\u00e9couvert au fil des ans que le boudin frais est aussi bon sinon plus savoureux que le boudin frit. Consomm\u00e9 tel quel, notre boudin a une texture onctueuse comparable \u00e0 celle d\u2019un p\u00e2t\u00e9 riche et cr\u00e9meux ou m\u00eame d\u2019un fromage, comme dirait ma m\u00e8re.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

J\u2019aime tant notre boudin qu\u2019il m\u2019arrive parfois d\u2019en avoir une folle envie et de supplier mes parents, qui ne s\u2019arr\u00eatent plus chez le boucher, de faire une visite \u00e0 la boucherie d\u2019antan pour s\u2019en procurer un morceau.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Qui aurait cru que des ann\u00e9es plus tard je d\u00e9velopperais un go\u00fbt pour cette pr\u00e9paration ? Petite, j\u2019aurais certainement \u00e9t\u00e9 la derni\u00e8re \u00e0 le croire. J\u2019imagine aussi que certains d\u2019entre vous ont un peu de difficult\u00e9 \u00e0 se laisser convaincre de go\u00fbter \u00e0 notre boudin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A ceux-l\u00e0 je dis simplement qu\u2019il s\u2019agit d\u2019une sp\u00e9cialit\u00e9 ha\u00eftienne que vous devriez prendre la chance d\u2019essayer. Dites-vous simplement qu\u2019il s\u2019agit d\u2019un morceau de p\u00e2t\u00e9 (ou pourquoi pas de fromage) \u00e9pic\u00e9 et agr\u00e9ment\u00e9 de piment bouc.
[:]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Growing up, there was nothing I hated more than our bi-weekly visits to the butcher. Every Tuesday and Friday, on our way home, my dad would park the car on the roadside right in front of the butcher\u2019s small shop where he would spend a good 30 to 45 minutes selecting meat cuts, boudin or giblets while we waited in the car, a trip that seemed to last a lifetime according to my internal child clock. Upon our arrival, we were greeted by pungent smells of freshly butchered cattle, some of which was being smoked while we were there, a process that gave out even bolder smoky smells that stayed with us the entire time. A horde of flies that, just like us, but in a more rushed manner, were ready to make dinner out of the fresh cuts laid out almost everywhere on the butcher\u2019s block, kept us company in the hot car from which I couldn\u2019t wait to get out. Those trips were nightmares to me as I impatiently watched dad talk his way into thick cuts of fresh filet, pork and goat meat, and paid attention to the butchers every move. He would slam his sharp knife into bones and flesh to cut the desired pieces, and put them into thick black plastic bags; bags that I couldn\u2019t stand, for they looked bloodily dirty to me; bags that almost often landed next to me in the car making the rest of the short trip home last longer than it should for I was so anxious to get out of the car and away from the raw meat. Among those bags was often one filled with a long and fresh cut of boudin noir from which my mom and sister would make a feast as soon as they got home while I watched them with a disgusted look on my face. I couldn\u2019t fathom the idea that their palate enjoyed those chunks of Haitian boudin noir that were no other than seasoned cooked pork blood stuffed into the animal\u2019s intestines. Who in their right mind could enjoy eating cooked blood and intestines that much?!? Such was the question I asked my young self for years as the scenario at the butcher\u2019s repeated itself. Week after week, year after year, I sat in the car pouting, waiting for my dad to put an end to my torture and secretly praying that he would not put the bag next to me. I turned my nose up at the boudin each time he brought some home to my mom and siblings for a long time until I finally realized I was voluntarily excluding myself from great Friday feasts. As a teen, I thus slowly trained my palate to like those chunks of well-seasoned cooked pork blood sausages. Most Haitians fry thick slices in a pot of hot oil which turns them black and crispy, but more recently, my family and I discovered that the non-fried version is as good if not tastier. Freshly bought boudin eaten as is has a smooth spreadable texture that is comparable to a rich and creamy pat\u00e9. Today, with a more mature palate, I can\u2019t help but chuckle when I think of how much I used to hate this delicacy. I now often find myself craving some Haitian boudin and begging my parents to make that stop at the butcher, \u2013 a stop they no longer make as they buy thinner meat cuts directly from the grocery store \u2013 just to pick up some boudin noir. I imagine some of you are reading this and shaking your head in disbelief. To you, I say, don\u2019t reject our boudin without trying it first. It\u2019s a Haitian tidbit you should definitely allow yourself to sample. The best advice I can leave you with is not to think too much into what is actually stuffed into those intestines. Simply enjoy the rich and bold flavors of fresh anis and piment bouc that will surely enchant your palate.[:fr]Lorsque j\u2019\u00e9tais enfant, mon p\u00e8re s\u2019arr\u00eatait sur une base hebdomadaire le mardi ou le vendredi chez le boucher, visites que je d\u00e9testais. Il y passait un temps fou qui semblait interminable \u00e0 l\u2019enfant que j\u2019\u00e9tais qui ne pouvait qu\u2019attendre impatiemment la livraison de la commande de viande, d’abats ou de boudin du jour. Tout de cet environnement me d\u00e9plaisait. Nous \u00e9tions accueillis par la forte odeur de chair fraiche et fum\u00e9e qui nous emplissait les narines. Une horde de mouches, venues comme nous se procurer leur festin du jour, nous tenait aussi compagnie \u00e0 l\u2019int\u00e9rieur autant qu\u2019\u00e0 l\u2019ext\u00e9rieur de la voiture gar\u00e9e le long de la route devant la boucherie. Nul besoin de vous expliquer plus en d\u00e9tails que ces visites \u00e9taient un v\u00e9ritable cauchemar. J\u2019observais de mauvais gr\u00e9 mon p\u00e8re blaguant avec le boucher et pointant du doigt ou d\u2019un signe de t\u00eate les morceaux de viande de porc, de b\u0153uf ou de cabri qui lui convenaient, et le boucher enfon\u00e7ant \u00e0 coups secs sa machette dans la chair de l\u2019animal pour en extraire de gros morceaux de viande qu\u2019il pla\u00e7ait dans des sachets en plastiques, sachets que j\u2019avais en horreur car \u00e0 mes yeux ils \u00e9taient tous t\u00e2ch\u00e9s de sang ; sachets dont j\u2019h\u00e9ritais souvent pour mon malheur car mon p\u00e8re les pla\u00e7ait \u00e0 mes pieds ce qui rendait le reste du trajet insupportable. Je faisais des efforts surhumains pour \u00e9viter tout contact avec le sachet de viande crue dont je ne pouvais attendre de m\u2019\u00e9loigner. Les victuailles obtenues du boucher incluaient souvent un morceau de boudin noir dont raffolaient ma m\u00e8re et ma s\u0153ur qui en faisaient un festin \u00e0 notre arriv\u00e9e \u00e0 la maison sous mon regard d\u00e9go\u00fbt\u00e9. A l\u2019\u00e9poque, je n\u2019arrivais pas \u00e0 me faire \u00e0 l\u2019id\u00e9e qu\u2019elles puissent manger le boudin noir qui n\u2019est autre que du sang de porc cuit \u00e9pic\u00e9 emboss\u00e9 dans des boyaux. Aucun \u00eatre sens\u00e9 ne pouvait autant aimer du sang et des intestins cuits! Enfin, c\u2019est ce que je pensais \u00e0<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1464,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"wprm-recipe-roundup-name":"","wprm-recipe-roundup-description":"","spay_email":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":""},"categories":[1401,1413,1427],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5568","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-amuse-gueule","category-culture-fr","category-viande"],"yoast_head":"\nBoudin noir, a Haitian staple, an acquired taste<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"A story about visits to the butcher and boudin noir, a Haitian food specialty that I learned to appreciate through the years.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/tchakayiti.com\/home\/fr\/haitian-boudin-noir-2\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Boudin noir, a Haitian staple, an acquired taste\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"A story about visits to the butcher and boudin noir, a Haitian food specialty that I learned to appreciate through the years.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/tchakayiti.com\/home\/fr\/haitian-boudin-noir-2\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"Tchakayiti - 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