Happy New Year! Foie Gras Now, Lentils Tomorrow
- Sylvia Fonalka
- Dec 31, 2025
- 5 min read
Updated: Jan 1
St. Sylvestre deserves a little theatre and absolutely no restraint.
So we ended the year the only way that felt honest: with foie gras (fwah grah), a silky, rich specialty food product made of the liver of a duck or goose, and very much not an everyday pleasure. It’s a this-moment-matters kind of ingredient. One quiet toast, one decadent bite, and the year slipped away exactly as it should:
on a high note.
Naturally, this was only the warm-up. We still have a New Year’s Eve party to attend, surrounded by Hungarian friends and the full spectrum of Hungarian excess: too much food, too much wine and pálinka (not for me), loud opinions, louder laughter, and a heroic disregard for tomorrow morning. What happens after that is anyone’s guess, but history suggests it will involve second helpings, questionable dancing, and at least one story we’ll all agree never happened.
Back to the birds’ liver, shall we.
This particular indulgence had a backstory. I have two grown children. Well, mostly grown. One is technically still 18, but both now live far away at university, communicating mainly via text messages and student-budget spreadsheets.
When they asked what I wanted for Christmas, I answered calmly, reasonably, without drama: foie gras. Or any of its noble offshoots: mousse, terrine, pâté. I’m adaptable. And since they’re in Québec, arguably duck-and-goose-liver capital of this continent, the request didn’t feel excessive. You can barely swing a baguette there without hitting a duck (confit).
Of course, their mother had just requested a luxury item that comes with footnotes, opinions, and a full moral appendix. Foie gras is loved, banned, regulated, protested, defended, and endlessly debated at dinner tables worldwide. Today, it’s legally produced in only a handful of places: France, bien sûr, Hungary, Spain, Bulgaria, parts of Belgium, and a few spots beyond Europe, including China and Québec. Standards vary. Opinions fly. No one stays neutral.
Which is precisely why it belonged on the table for St. Sylvestre.
The final night of the year calls for something indulgent: something reserved, intentional, and a little bit daring. A slice of foie gras, savoured slowly, and the simple pleasure of ending the year with a luxury saved for moments that truly feel worth it.
And here’s the part that really got me: despite living on a student budget (aka ramen economics), they still managed to buy their mother a foie gras mousse and a pâté with foie. Not a kilo, not a scandal, just two very thoughtful, very French-Canadian little luxuries.
Is it delicious? Yes.
Is it controversial? Absolutely.
Is it the kind of gift that says "We love you, but please don’t ask us again until we graduate"? Entirely.
No resolutions today. Just good bread, sweet wine, and one final, bite of indulgence before the year ends: foie gras for lunch.
Which brings me back to the beginning.
Growing up, my grandparents had a farm, and once a year, at least, we had foie gras straight from the bird. No ceremony, no explanation, just the quiet understanding that this was something special. Looking back, that’s probably where my decadent palate was born, whether my arteries agreed or not.
Add a glass of late-harvest wine, honeyed, golden, sweet, and you’re set. Some people are raised on apple slices and discipline. Others on foie gras and dessert wine. Briefly.
By January 2, we’re back to lentils, plain yogurt, and moral reckoning. Balance is important.
Wine Pairing with Foie Gras: The Art of Glorious Excess
Wine Pairing with Foie Gras: Because Excess Deserves Structure
Foie gras is not a food that whispers, it demands a wine that can keep up, preferably without blinking.
First Rule: This Is Not a Job for "Something Light"
If you’re thinking, "I’ll just open a crisp white," pause. Foie gras has the texture of softened butter and the confidence of a 19th-century aristocrat. It does not want refreshment. It wants contrast, sweetness, acidity, and a wine that knows what it’s doing.
The Classic Power Couple: Foie Gras & Sweet Wine
Enter late-harvest wines: Tokaji Aszú from Hungary and Sauternes from France. Their magic comes from noble rot, (Botrytis cinerea), which shrivels the grapes and concentrates their sugars, turning excess into elegance.
These wines were practically invented for foie gras, possibly by someone who thought, "What if indulgence… but more?"
The magic lies in the tension: The foie gras - rich, fatty, luxurious. The wine - sweet but sharp, honeyed yet acidic. Together, they cancel out each other’s excesses like two elegant people who know when to stop talking.
Tokaji Aszú: The Intellectual Choice
Tokaji is for people who like their indulgence served with a tiny academic lecture on the side. Yes, it’s sweet, but it’s also spicy, zippy, and strangely disciplined, the kind of wine that tastes like dessert but behaves like it has a PhD.
Oremus Winery, Tokaj, Hungary
Pair it with foie gras and things escalate quickly. Suddenly everyone’s saying words like balance and length, nodding wisely, as if this was always meant to be a serious conversation and not just an excuse to eat rich pâté. The sweetness flatters, the acidity keeps it all in check, and nobody feels even a little bit embarrassed.
And yes, I’m Hungarian, so I’m contractually obligated to mention Tokaji. It grows on ancient volcanic soil, which explains why beneath all that honeyed apricot and spice there’s a faint smoky, mineral edge. Decadent? Absolutely. But also proudly, irresistibly Hungarian.
Sauternes: The Show-Off
Draped in honey, apricot, saffron, and an unmistakable sense of inherited vines, it arrives with the quiet assurance of something raised on limestone soils with a hint of gravel, sand, silt, and clay. This is a white wine from the Bordeaux region of France that speaks of old parcels, low yields, and families who have been arguing about pruning since Napoleon.
Its sweetness flirts shamelessly with the richness, the acidity slices through the fat with surgical elegance, and suddenly everyone starts speaking in half-sentences: "texture… balance… très noble." This isn’t a pairing; it’s a well-rehearsed relationship that’s been going on since before revolutions were fashionable.
Call it excessive but necessary edible aristocracy.
Dry Wine? Bold, But Risky
Yes, dry wines can work: Alsace Pinot Gris, aged Riesling. Also, Champagne, but this is advanced territory. If sweet wine is the ballroom dance, champagne is improv jazz: rebellious and exhilarating. The bubbles cut the fat, the acidity keeps things lively, and suddenly foie gras feels less like a moral dilemma and more like a celebration.
Final Rule:
If the foie gras feels affordable, upgrade the wine.
If the foie gras wasn’t expensive enough, simply add a more expensive bottle.
Balance restored.
In Conclusion
Wine pairing with foie gras isn’t about restraint. It’s about intentional excess. Choose a wine that can stand up, push back, and maybe even steal a little attention. Foie gras can handle it.
After all, this is not a Tuesday salad.
This is a moment.
Happy New Year, CHEERS 🥂
Happy sipping and savouring!
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