Guinea fowl

A tiny white head with a small red wattle hanging from its beak was peeking into our tent. It whistled softly. I laughed. A guinea fowl.

While Lawrence had given her the uncut version of his divorce, she had stolidly munched her way through a vast plate of guinea fowl stuffed with foie gras, boulangère potatoes and a wigwam of French beans.

To the right is a long table housing a mouth-watering buffet of roast duck on platters, surrounded by smaller plates of guinea fowl, French bread, cold meats, and egg segments.

The waiter reappeared with plates of guinea fowl, baked with pancetta and apples.

And it is not a little ſurpriſing that the Guinea fowls, which are real natives of the country, and are ſoon domeſticated, ſhould be neglected by them; for it is never ſeen tame but in poſſeſſion of the Whites, or of thoſe who adopt their manners.

The Guinea fowls assimilate perfectly with the common species, in habits and in kinds of food; but have this peculiarity, that the cocks and hens are so nearly alike, it is difficult to distinguish them.

In the Bonnoit’s felicitous dining room, over duck pâtés, frogs’ legs, écrevisses on lettuce like trout just caught and lying in green grass, pommes de terre dauphinoises, mussel soup, Guinea fowl, girolles avec sauce à la crème, quenelles de brochet, poached-egg salad, or lapin braisée, the skippers exchange superstitions of their own.

A tornado hit Tomahawk in ’89, but took only a pen full of Guinea fowl and the steeple off the Lutheran church.