For several decades, the French have been obsessing over a small bird that weighs less than an ounce. Hunters consider it the king of all wildfowl; great chefs deem it the caviar of birds. However, in 1999 it became a protected species, and hunting it is now illegal. Since then, hunters have turned into poachers, chefs have become outlaws, and all have found themselves entangled in a complex web of public policy and bird conservation initiatives.

The ortolan bunting, or simply ortolan, is part of the bunting family, a migratory passerine family of birds that can travel more than 4,300 miles south in order to spend a tranquil summer in Mauritania, Mali, or more likely, Guinea. Starting around August 15 in the Landes department of France, hunters set up in clearings in the countryside in anticipation of the birds' (estimated ) 40 days of migration. They take position in fallow fields or vineyards, and install bird traps called matoles.

The object of desire in question went from being a dish that was found on the menus of some of the world's best restaurants to a dish that is criminal to serve.

In his book, Darroze argues for a clean environment, a milieu in which animals live full lives. He supports natural human predation, one that exists without harming endangered species. But he does admit that he long ago gave up the matoles, because hunting ortolans—or merely being in possession of one—is against the law, and the fines are steep.

"The ortolan had an impact on my life, because I aspire to total freedom in the rural world—freedom of action and freedom of thought," Darroze wrote. "The ortolan is really a symbol of this wonderful thing that is the rural environment. It's the idea of a predatory human that holds the greatest respect for this animal. It's like bullfighting with the toro: The ortolan is your partner in a dance of the tastebuds."

The ortolan is the best kind of fat there is. It's a bulimic bird that you place in a cage 8 inches high, in the dark, with unlimited food and drink for 18 to 24 days.

In the early 2000s, Alain Darroze—a major figure in southwestern French gastronomy, who was once the head chef at the Élysée Palace—wrote a book titled Touch' pas mon Ortolan (Hands Off My Ortolan). It teaches you how to appreciate the dish, but is also a pro-nature manifesto.

This traditional hunt was allegedly started by the Romans across the South of France, and continued for centuries. To catch the small bird, patience is required—one prepares for the hunt all year. First, you have to breed "calling birds," which are placed near the trap so that they sing and attract the buntings passing through. The traps themselves also require care; they are artisanal objects held together by an iron wire. The ortolans venture inside, lured by the grains of millet that hunters sprinkle under each trap. After they are caught, the preparation of ortolan is almost as involved as the capture.

Once captured, you still have to fatten the bird. "The ortolan is the best kind of fat there is. It's a bulimic bird that you place in a cage 8 inches high, in the dark, with unlimited food and drink for 18 to 24 days," Darroze wrote. "His ass gets larger, heavier, and the bird doubles in volume. You then kill it by barely holding it in your hands. Once feathered, it is cooked for 20 minutes in the oven."

All kinds of fantasies surround the act of eating an ortolan, mostly because of the rare and famous photos of diners with a napkin on their heads as they hover over their plate. The images seem to have leaked from a secret society or some shady underground subculture. In reality, the tradition is to eat the bird during a meal with a few friends and a good bottle of wine. The folklore of the napkin atop the head is just there to restrain the smoke coming off the bird. The ortolan is generally served sizzling—it's said to be "singing"—and covered with a bit of Armagnac.

You put the entire thing in your mouth, and suck on it—it's hot, so you make faces, and let it melt slowly, while the grease pours onto your fingers. From the rump to the neck, you eat everything, including the liver and the innards. All that should be left in your plate is the bird's head.

Circus Politicus

The "Benarit" (which means "well fed" in the Gascon language, and is another name for the ortolan) is a culinary orgasm that has been served on every table, from the fancy to the ordinary, since Antiquity. Darroze remembers how in the 60s ortolan was on the menu at his grandfather's restaurant, Chez Darroze. "I served some at one of my guest houses, where President Mitterrand and his brother-in-law, Roger Hanin, visited. They loved it and were like naughty little kids who wanted to disobey. The Landes department had adopted him; people called him 'Uncle.' I think Mitterrand must have thought, 'Shit, even I, the president, can't have any?' I remember that at the end of the meal, Roger had come to see me, looking a bit ashamed, and said, 'If you see Brigitte Bardot, please don't say anything about this, okay?'"

People cry out against animal suffering while their kids eat at cafeterias managed by huge corporations, ingesting chicken from China that costs 1 euro per kilo and is stuffed with antibiotics.

Once recent morning, I met with chef Alain Dutournier steps away from the Place Vendôme, at the Carré des Feuillants, which has two Michelin stars. The day before, Dutournier had attended a colloquium at the Senate on the subject of humans and animals. The ortolan and other species were central to the discussions.