THE contraption looks innocent enough, all gleaming silver dome and delicately wrought legs, decorated with pretty Rococo swirls. A vast screw protrudes from the top, its handle shaped like a ship’s wheel, giving the impression of a particularly ornate nutcracker. Or a juicer, designed for Marie Antoinette. But rather than plump walnuts or luscious oranges, this machine craves only one thing: bones—and lots of them. For this is a tool more suited to a medieval torture chamber than a lady’s boudoir—an antique duck press, hand-cranked to crush sinew, bone and cartilage alike, squeezing out every last drop of fat, juice and blood.
And it’s sitting beside my table at Otto’s, Gray’s Inn Road, London WC1 (), where the eponymous Otto Tepasse, whippet thin and elegantly attired,
