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Food

I Ate Centaur Meat with Drake in the Alps

I've followed rapper Drake to Equus 1— the famous centaur-centric restaurant in Aix-les-Bains—to find out how centaur meat has shaped his life and career.

I'm sitting in a restaurant overlooking Lac du Bourget in Aix-les-Bains, a quaint town nestled in the foothills of the French Alps, and Drake is gently swirling a Côte-Rôtie Syrah that's older than my first Nintendo. He pauses for a moment, takes a sip, and sets the glass back down on the table, gazing out at the lake.

"I first ate centaur on the set of Degrassi," Drake tells me. I've followed him here to Equus 1— the famous centaur-centric restaurant helmed by acclaimed chef M.F. L'Epinard—as he's traversed the Alps on his sold-out tour to a variety of venues, from a chalet in the mountains of Graübunden to a converted smallpox hospital in Geneva.

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Now in France, we're here for the centaur.

I ask Drake if he has reservations about eating an animal that is—at least technically—half-horse, half-man. "Centaurs, to me, are the perfect animal," he says, ducking the question. "When I was growing up—after I got out of hockey but when I was filming for CTV—my family was dirt-poor. Sometimes all we could afford was centaur and Timbits, and it sustained us. Centaur still came in a tin back then."

In addition to ordering one of the most expensive wines on the menu, Drake has prefaced our meal with an enormous portion of Beluga caviar (and Equus 1's stoic, complimentary amuse-bouche of a single poached Danish clam in a haze of fern smoke). The rest of the meal is out of our hands: we go with the tasting menu, which has a nose-to-tail approach to centaur cuisine. We've heard rumors that the second course of headcheese incorporates centaur nose, while the bristly tail is burned into an ash that will find its way into the dessert.

Centaur has only reached gourmet ingredient status in the last five years, even though centaurs have been a genetic possibility since the early 1990s, when their flesh was considered something of a butcher's cut. In fact, not unlike the monkfish or the Chilean sea bass, it was only through marketing and a push by the right chefs that centaurs went from being an additive in canned Bolognese sauces to the star of the culinary show at places like Equus 1. Unlike jackalope or the ill-fated pig-ranha project—few can forget that fateful day when the bloodthirsty animals got loose in a Florida retirement home—centaur has managed to transcend its status as a product of the factory farming industry and become a much sought-after ingredient.

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Before meeting up with Drake, I toured the local centaur farm from which our dinner would be sourced. Jacques Verrón, the owner and operator of Ferme Verrón, guided me along the fence of the massive field where his centaurs run free, gorging themselves on wild black walnuts and hemp protein shakes until they ultimately head to slaughter.

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"Many people … do have concerns about eating centaur," Verrón told me hesitantly, as we watched two adult males gallop side by side in the distance, nuzzling each other with clear affection. "But it's like the argument about foie gras—it's simply a matter of education. It's not terribly different from eating a pig, in terms of the animals' intelligence. And our level of care here is exceptional."

I try to keep that in mind as our first course arrives: a small, neat square of seared centaur belly in a cherry-tarragon jus. Drake nibbles on his fastidiously, then sighs.

"It wasn't as easy as people think, to assimilate into the rap world after being on a show like Degrassi," he says. "Lil Wayne, for example—he's from New Orleans. He's had contacts in the hood, in the rap game, since he was 12 years old. I always had to prove myself a little bit more, being a child actor, it's hard to get taken seriously."

We barely have time to rest our forks before we're offered the next course: the fabled headcheese, a gelatinous terrine resting on a thick, black, seeded bread.

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"That looks like a dude's nose. Like, a dude. Even in Canada, we never ate that part," Drake says, chewing gingerly. "I know L'Epinard knows what he's doing, though. He's the man. I mean, if Jay-Z's down… " (The rap mogul was spotted at Equus 1 the previous month, feasting on centaur tartare and drinking Krug Clos du Mesnil 2003 by the case.)

Like noma's live langoustine, there's something all-too-real about coming face to face with a centaur nostril—the hole from an ill-advised piercing still visible. But the juicy, oddly porcine flavor of the sweet meat speaks for itself.

"My mom would cook it into soups, grind it up and put it in burgers and sauces," he tells me as the third course arrives: a snow pea salad with foraged herbs and crispy centaur skin, nipples intact. "Even after Jimmy was a well-established character on the show, I was not getting paid my worth, know what I mean? We were just getting by the best we can. But it's still a trip to see it here, like this. Food is like the rap game—roles shift all the time. You can be at the bottom, then you're on the top. It's fickle."

Our fourth course of centaur sweetbreads arrives on a sizzling slab of hot stone. The sweetbreads are outwardly crispy, with a soft, pillowy, mousse-like center. Drake cleans his plate in seconds.

"Playing in Europe, it's a different audience here. People are on a more sophisticated level," he explains to me. "But I feel like I'm on a more sophisticated level now than ever before. Maybe things are supposed to be this way."

Our server, Gaston, places the last dish in front of us: centaur blood panna cotta, with specks of ash and granulated mascarpone. We each take a bite, and nod in agreement of its genius.

Drake's driver is waiting outside with his Maybach, and it's hard to believe that we've been at Equus 1 for nearly two hours. He rises from the table and steps outside to take a call. "Just hold on," he told me. And with that, we're going home.

Happy April Fools' Day, MUNCHIES fans.