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The Hunter’s Table: The Three Quail I’ve Known

By Jesse Griffiths

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Let me tell you about the three wild quail I’ve killed.

The first was on a dove hunt. We found that walking vast croton-dotted fields interspersed with live oaks was a good way to flush midday doves resting in the trees. On our walk, a covey of quail rose and then settled back down under a large oak.

Recovered from the whirring shock of the flush, the three of us made for them. When they popped up again, they did so randomly and in disparate directions. We were only able to bring one down. I’m pretty sure I shot it, but I also get to craft the story how I like since I’m the one retelling it.

The single quail added to the variety already going on the grill that night. It was superb, even among the high-quality company of doves, teal, and a whitetail backstrap.

The second and the third wild quail were also a byproduct of another hunt. This time, we were after the hard-to-describe chachalaca, a unique game bird species relegated to the southernmost counties in Texas near the Mexican border.

A cold front had the subtropical chachalacas quiet and scarce, but once again, a covey of bobwhites offered the only sport we would see that unlucky weekend. As they flushed, I got a rare double, as did my friend Miguel. The guy in the middle zeroed out, bitterly blaming a gun malfunction. These are the three wild quail I’ve killed and eaten.

I’ve also experienced quail in three very different ways.

The very first quail I ever consumed were with my grandmother, Daisy, many years ago. So long ago, in fact, that I had a loose tooth when we visited the fanciest restaurant in my hometown of Denton, Texas, fancifully named Milano’s.

I was immediately attracted to the most exotic and expensive item on the menu: a brace of quail. That day I learned that I loved to eat quail, and also that a “brace” means two. I lost the tooth from chewing on the bony little birds. They were unlike anything I’d ever eaten.

I’ve since eaten hundreds of farm-raised quail. I’ve cooked or been involved in the cooking of many thousands of them. My restaurant on the east side of Austin, Texas, serves them nightly, and they’ve been on my menu, in some form, for 17 years now. I have a grill that can fit 72 quail on it in neat little rows.

I first met Todd, my quail source, in 2006, when I was scouring farmers’ markets for ingredients. At the time, he was selling a few dozen farm-raised quail at the Saturday market. He now raises 40,000 a week, and we’re still friends. Tomorrow, I’ll place an order with Todd for four cases of quail, or 96 birds. They will come semi-boneless, vacuum sealed, and frozen in handy little four bird packs. They will be delicious.

Aside from my culinary duties, I sometimes work on a ranch in deep south Texas. The landowner of this thorny, verdant, and harshly beautiful place loves to talk about quail. His memories rarely involve the hunt, but rather the gathered family, the horses, the fine guns, the dinner Mama put together on long, outdoor tables covered with fine linen, bottles of wine, liver pâté and, of course, quail. He’s never told me this story without using the word genteel. “It was genteel,” he says, making eye contact to register the import.

Ask anyone who knows why quail populations have become so tenuous in our area, and you’ll get a variety of answers: fire ants, loss of habitat, aflatoxin, eyeworms, feral hogs, raptors, even roadrunners. The former ranch manager thought roadrunners would catch and kill quail, and perhaps they do sometimes. Another friend, an actual biologist and quail specialist, says this is probably not the issue.

Personally, as a non-biologist and person of average intellect, I think it might be a blend of these reasons, but that doesn’t really matter; they’ve simply been in decline here and in much of the rest of Texas.

Across the road from the ranch there’s a stocked quail operation where disoriented, pen-raised birds are released hours - maybe even minutes - before the dogs and hunters arrive to the field in expensive trucks with coolers full of cheap beer. In full disclosure, I have participated in one of these hunts, wooed by the excitement, the dogs, and the promise of a quail dinner... and also because I wasn’t paying for it.

On our side of the road, I have witnessed a bit of population growth in the past few years, likely aided by the nostalgic landowner’s habitat improvements that are fueled by his longing for the romance of his Daddy’s time. Just the other day, he told me we we’re going to hunt the quail on his property soon, maybe next year, maybe the year after, when they’re “good.”

I probably won’t go shoot penraised birds again. The wild birds are safe from me, too. As much as the rancher promises, I think we both know that the conversation is keeping the idea of the hunt alive, and we will continue to talk about it, silently acknowledging that a real wild quail hunt is not likely in our future, but we can hope for our kids. Maybe they will learn to love quail and develop traditions of their own.

For now, it seems that the three quail I know - the wild, the stocked, and the farmed - will have to represent the entire muddled relationship I have with these gorgeous, vulnerable, tasty, and sporty birds.

Maybe something will change, but for now I’ll have to remember the feeling I had when I bent down to pick up the first wild quail that made it into my gamebag, and later into my pan. Its unmistakable flesh, dense from wild living in a dangerous place, resembled the farmed birds I’m so familiar with, but was scented by the Texas brush and weather.

For now, I’ll enjoy the convenient quail, pine for the full experience of hunting and eating wild birds, and also know that I might only ever really know those three quail.

Grilled Quail with Grapes and Onions

Jesse Griffiths is the co-owner and chef of Dai Due, a restaurant in Austin, Texas. He is the head instructor at the New School of Traditional Cookery, a program that teaches hunting and cooking from start to finish. Griffiths is the author of three books on wild game and fish cooking: Afield, The Hog Book (a 2022 James Beard Award Winner), and The Turkey Book. He lives, hunts, fishes, and picks berries all around central Texas.

This recipe originally appeared in the Summer 2024 issue of Quail Forever Journal. If you enjoyed it and would like to see more delicious recipes in the pages of the magazine, become a Quail Forever member today!