It's also goddamn delicious. It goes very well with a lobster confit. It can be served to great effect with apples, or peaches. It's a luxurious, fatty celebration of flavor. It's terrific on crackers.

That aside: Who but a total bastard would eat this stuff? Sure, many of foie gras' critics wouldn't know fine cuisine if a filet mignon interposed itself between their mouths and their vegan lasagna, but it doesn't render their essential point about animal cruelty any less poignant or accurate.

Ethical decisions confront us in all of life's arenas, whether we're deciding to secretly eat a roommate's Honey Bunches of Oats or creatively speculating on the existence of WMD in Iraq. Perhaps what's needed is a wallet-sized card of possible foie gras eating situations, in descending order of ethical acceptability. It might read something like this.

A DUCK TRIPS ON SOMETHING, MAYBE A SKATEBOARD, AND A BUNCH OF BUTTERED NOODLES POUR DOWN ITS THROAT AND THEN IT HAS A FATAL HEART ATTACK RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU:

It would probably be unethical to let the meat go to waste. Nothing wrong with this foie gras.

YOU ARE AT A PARTY, AND ONE OF THE APPETIZERS HAPPENS TO BE FOIE GRAS...

Since your consumption of the foie gras will not result in the slaughter of additional ducks — your hosts can't retroactively unorder the food — it's probably fine to eat it. And the rules of hospitality dictate that you shouldn't subject your hosts to a condescending lecture about the foie gras, particularly as you pack your cheeks full of it.

...AND SOME OF THE GUESTS ARE TRYING TO GET EVERYONE TO BOYCOTT THE FOIE GRAS TO SEND A MESSAGE TO THE HOSTS:

This is a bit trickier. If you sign onto the boycott, you get points for being righteous. But who is served if the foie gras is simply thrown out or, worse, fed to a household dog who is unlikely to appreciate its culinary merit?

Best to convince the boycotters to deliver a united statement against the general practice of consuming foie gras, with the understanding that the specific batch in question can be consumed so as to not render meaningless the sacrifice of the overfed birds in question.

A FRIEND ORDERS FOIE GRAS IN A RESTAURANT AND OFFERS YOU SOME:

Ask your friend: "You know how they make that, right?" after he or she has ordered. If he or she nods, say: "OK. Just needed to make sure you know. I'd love to split it with you, as long as you've already ordered it." If he or she indicates ignorance, say: "Oh, it's really terrible. Google it. But I'd love to split it with you, as long as you've already ordered it."

YOU, YOURSELF, ORDER THE DELICIOUS-SOUNDING FOIE GRAS WITH LOBSTER CONFIT AT A MEMPHIS HOTEL AFTER A LONG, DEMANDING BUSINESS TRIP:

You've had a hard trip, and you deserve to be rewarded with a little taste of luxury. One thing is definitely known about ducks and geese: They sympathize with the rigors of business travel, and would surely sacrifice one of their number to take the edge off of a hard journey. Just don't let it become a regular practice.

YOU PERSONALLY HUNT DOWN A GOOSE IN THE WILD, STUFF IT FULL OF GRAIN AND MAKE IT WATCH EPISODES OF "EVERYBODY LOVES RAYMOND" UNTIL IT TURNS DELICIOUS:

Ethical thin ice.

Even with this sort of sliding scale available to assist you, the consumption of foie gras may make you the target of hostile do-gooders, both polite and catty, well-informed and fanatic. The best defense: reply by saying, "Ah, but I do not eat ortolan, under any circumstances."

If guilt is a flavor, and it definitely is, then l'ortolan is one of the world's greatest dishes.... The birds must be taken alive; once captured they are either blinded or kept in a lightless box for a month to gorge on millet, grapes, and figs, a technique apparently taken from the decadent cooks of Imperial Rome who called the birds beccafico, or 'fig-pecker'. When they've reached four times their normal size, they're drowned in a snifter of Armagnac.

The tradition of covering one's head while eating the bird was supposedly started by a soft-bellied priest trying to hide his sadistic gluttony from God.

Cooking l'ortolan is simplicity itself. Simply pop them in a high oven for six to eight minutes and serve. The secret is entirely in the eating. First you cover your head with a traditional embroidered cloth. Then place the entire four-ounce bird into your mouth. Only its head should dangle out from between your lips. Bite off the head and discard. L'ortolan should be served immediately; it is meant to be so hot that you must rest it on your tongue while inhaling rapidly through your mouth. This cools the bird, but its real purpose is to force you to allow its ambrosial fat to cascade freely down your throat."

Oh, man, does that sound unethical. With any luck, the story of the ortolan should so thoroughly distract your critics that by the end of the meal, you can all agree to let bygones and bygones, and kind of let the foie gras slip into the background.

Which you really shouldn't have ordered anyway.

Because it's wrong.

And delicious.

— James Norton (jrnorton@flakmag.com)