Wild Cookin'

For any Mainer who’s had to chew through Uncle Clyde’s gift of deer steak, Brad Eden’s venison roast is also hard to swallow—but for a different reason. There’s no way “deer meat” can taste this good.

Animal rights folks, of course, would also find Eden’s slow-cooked masterpiece impossible to swallow, for this reason: The head of the buck, once connected to that succulent shoulder roast, is displayed on the wall of Eden’s den. (You can actually see said buck looking you in the eye as you look over the roast on the stovetop.)

Brad Eden makes no apologies for being a hunter or for enjoying the food that he puts on the table, both from his Maine woods conquests and from his oversized Frankfort garden. As a registered Maine Guide, outdoor life columnist, and editor of an online community of upland bird hunters, he doesn’t bother trying to convert PETA disciples to his way of thinking. He concentrates on wowing his fellow carnivores on the gastronomic glories of wild game.

“Over the years, I’ve learned quite a few tricks for cooking wild game,” Eden says, “but the most important thing is how you handle the animal after you shoot it. The main reason venison or wild bird tastes gamey is that people leave it out in the warm weather too long. They don’t cool it off quick enough.”

Years ago, Eden stopped trying to process his own game (“I did a hack job”) and has a pro take care of it. “Now I have a certified butcher from Newburgh who ages my deer in a walk-in cooler and cuts it up according to my specifications.”

For venison, those specifications mean basically roasts, burgers, and thick steaks. “I haven’t fried a venison steak in years—it just makes them tough.” Instead, he rubs them in oil and garlic and broils them. “They’re delicious.”

Eden’s wife, Jo Ann, who also hunts occasionally, agrees. While she has the corner on a few specialties, like making homemade pie crust, she leaves all the major cooking to her husband of 21 years. “I have to stay out of the kitchen when there’s cooking going on. I have never cooked a major meal in all our married life. If I’m lucky, Brad lets me cook the squash.” He nods and laughs. “It’s awful, but it’s true.”

Tonight, he shows off his skills by serving three kinds of game: wild turkey, ruffed grouse, and venison, all at the table courtesy of Eden and his hunting dogs, Jessi and Jake. “There’s something special about knowing you just didn’t buy it in the store. You have a memory associated with the meal.”

Even a smaller prize, like a ruffed grouse (also called partridge), can conjure up fond recollections. “You look at the date on the package, and it comes back to you. I can remember the day, the beautiful area of the hunt, that my dogs had a particularly good retrieve. You wouldn’t be eating the ruffed grouse tonight if it wasn’t for the dogs.”

The wild turkey, he remembers, was shot with a bow last year. “It’s pretty difficult to get a turkey with a bow, so you don’t forget that. It’s been in the freezer a while.” Still, the turkey tastes moist, and slices remarkably thin. “It slices thin because it’s lean. Farm-raised animals sit around and eat grain all day. These guys run all over the place.”

The exercise habits of wild game have implications for which cuts taste best. As a ground runner, a wild turkey’s legs have its darkest meat, he says, while a migratory bird like the woodcock has dark breast meat due to all the flying it does. Their eating habits color the flavor, too: Ruffed grouse eat apples and grapes out in the wild, so Eden often roasts the meat on a bed of apples, covered with grape jelly, to “bring out the essence of the bird.”

According to Eden, one cardinal rule applies to all wild game: roast slowly. He savors a bite of roast venison, then explains: “These meats are leaner than what you buy at the store, so you have to roast them a long time to get them this tender.”

And tender it is. Though the turkey and ruffed grouse are darned impressive, the evening’s standout is the venison roast—richer and more flavorful than any pot roast your grandmother ever made, without even a molecule of gamey taste.

After dinner, it’s time to enjoy a piece of Jo Ann’s pumpkin pie in “Brad’s den”—a room he shares with three of his four fully-racked mounted deer heads. Why so many? “What am I supposed to do, throw these away? I call ’em the herd.”

“Yeah, and I broke up the herd, didn’t I?” Jo Ann says. She fills in the back story, as one buck eyes her pie. “Brad had all four mounts in here, in this little room, and I said that’s it. Either one of these goes or I go.

“When I came home one day and found one was gone, I was so happy—until I went upstairs. He had put it in the bedroom.”