A taste of the Wild West, for those who can stomach it
By Patricia Leigh Brown
Internatinal Herald Tribune

VIRGINIA CITY, Nevada: The judges gathered around the pool table at the
Union Brewery Saloon, their palates attuned despite thick nicotine haze.
They were here to assess the taste, texture, appearance and creative
flair of a not-for-the-faint-of-heart culinary tradition known as the
mountain oyster — the Wild West on a plate.

Of all the country's gastronomic competitions, perhaps none compare to
the challenge facing the harried chefs assembled here in a parking lot
for the 18th annual International Comstock Mountain Oyster Fry.
Classically dipped in cornmeal and then fried, or artfully concealed in
scrambled eggs, bordelaise sauce or sushi, these oysters were not of the
Chesapeake or bluepoint variety but, rather, a cornerstone of Western
ranching culture involving testicles from gelded lambs and calves.

"It takes a strong stomach," said Nicki Wilson, 33, an office manager
for a towing company who has an oyster taco recipe laced with tequila,
cumin and cayenne.

The cooking of testicles — also known as calf fries or lamb fries — is a
living tradition on ranches throughout rural Nevada and the
Intermountain West down through Central Texas (the annual fry here is
nicknamed the "testicle festival").

This feat of derring-do harks back to the days when every part of an
animal was used, and settlers by necessity "had a rather investigative
spirit when it came to food," said Cathy Luchetti, the author of "Home
on the Range: A Culinary History of the American West."

Liz Chabot, 77, who grew up on a ranch near Paradise Valley, Nevada,
described the delicacy as "a taste like none other," and recalled how
the fries were thrown into the fire at branding time, pulled out with a
stick and then peeled and eaten like a fresh fig.

"They couldn't get them done fast enough," Ms. Chabot said by telephone.
"Generally, after a mountain oyster feed, there were no leftovers. It
was a celebration with family and friends. Of course, it wasn't a social
event for the calves."

Although animal rights groups decry the castrating of cattle, pigs and
sheep as cruel, it is a common agricultural practice intended to make
males more manageable and their meat tender.

The oyster fry continues to be a communal ritual where physical distance
is a fact of life — an excuse for men who have spent the day wrestling,
branding and vaccinating 400-pound, or 180-kilogram, calves "to sit
under the trees, eat and tell stories," said Carolyn Dufurrena, a school
principal who lives on a ranch outside Winnemucca, Nevada, and is the
co-author of "Sharing Fencelines: Three Friends Write from Nevada's
Sagebrush Corner."

The oysters are sometimes saved and served as hor d'oeuvres at wedding
receptions, Ms. Dufurrena said.

The tradition in Nevada is strongly associated with the Basque
sheepherders who came to Nevada in significant numbers in the late 19th
century. The yellowed pages of many a family cookbook include recipes
for "bildoch pesta," lamb fest or lamb party, with the ingredients —
much to the consternation of outsiders — sometimes obtained with the
teeth.

"It's a Basque comfort food," said Lisa Aguirre, 54, a descendant from
Reno who was waiting for the oyster tasting to begin.

"Everybody is going to tell you they taste like chicken," Ms. Aguirre
added. "That's a lie."

Known as the freewheeling saloon town on the long-running television
series "Bonanza," Virginia City sprang up from the silver riches of the
nearby Comstock lode and has gone through booms and busts. Yet it
remains remarkably intact, right down to the wooden sidewalks. But its
historic link to mountain oyster ranching culture is tangential at best:
rich miners imported the genuine item from San Francisco, iced and
carried by rail over the Sierra, said Guy Rocha, the director emeritus
of the Nevada state archives.

He described Virginia City as a place that had attracted nonconformists
who came to "live out their cowboy outlaw fantasies."

Hundreds of local gourmands drive the steep, winding grade from nearby
Reno and Carson City to do their own judging. Seven teams of up to four
chefs each have two hours to prepare dishes using 20 pounds of the
jiggling raw ingredient (flown in from Australia this year).

Ms. Wilson's oyster taco emerged victorious in the "overall taste"
category, winning a huge tiered trophy with angels and a golden sheep.

Among the competition was a Virginia City version of "cowboy sushi" by a
past champion, Brandi Lee, a graphic artist.

Mountain oyster chefs face the peculiar challenge of getting the
squeamish to try their dishes.

Sometimes even the chefs themselves cannot work up the courage. "I don't
eat them," Ms. Wilson, the award-winner, admitted. "It's very sad."