Rabbit potpie should be on your menu.

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About a year ago, I was out for dinner with two friends at King, a tiny restaurant in Manhattan’s West Village that has a limited daily menu featuring dishes inspired by southern France and Italy. There, among the handful of main courses, was my dream: a rabbit potpie, sized for a single person. I never turn down a potpie—I still crave the frozen Swanson’s chicken potpies I had as a kid when my parents went out and left me and my brother at home. And with rabbit? Another thing I never turn down but rarely encounter. The first time was 13 years ago, in Florence, where I had it fried in an unassuming family-style place with bright lighting; this spring, I saw it on a menu at Luca, a modern Italian spot in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, where I like to go with my parents, and ordered the rabbit ragù. Some people consider rabbit too gamy, but I have experienced it only as tender meat that is sweeter and more delicate than chicken. Yet, for all my love, I had never cooked one. So I decided to give myself the gift of rabbit potpie, prepared and cooked by me, for my family’s Christmas dinner this year.

There were a few hurdles to overcome. First, the recipe. You can find lots of recipes for anything, even rabbit stew or potpie, on any number of ad-laden random websites. But I wanted the recipe from King. Luckily for me, the restaurant just published a beautiful cookbook, which features not only the recipe for the potpie (scaled up for a group) but pages and pages about rabbit, from how to butcher one to how to fry it in the Tuscan style. The second step was finding the rabbit. I knew I would need two rabbits, because I wanted to do a test run before Christmas, but I didn’t want to make two trips this month to a specialty butcher, which is exceptionally busy. I decided to order two frozen young rabbits from D’Artagnan. I wasn’t new to D’Artagnan’s products—I’ve sent my dad the frozen salmon for his birthday and even, one year, ordered him the cassoulet kit—so I knew that the rabbit would be good. I was able to schedule the delivery for a day I knew I would be home, and I threw in some precooked frozen octopus for good measure.

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Perhaps the biggest hurdle to clear would be my teenage daughter, who did not outright reject the idea of rabbit but brought her signature skepticism to my plan. (She had been 9 months old in Tuscany and did not remember trying the fried rabbit, which I masticated and fed to her like a baby bird.) For most of her life, her palate was … limited. During the pandemic, when we couldn’t find Amy’s frozen cheese pizzas, I was in a panic about what to alternate with her penne and broccoli. But nothing stays the same, especially with kids, and now she’s adventurous almost to a fault. (She ordered sea urchin risotto at a place in our neighborhood the other night; not a hit, but she tried.)

I decided to do my rabbit test run on a Saturday while she was at a debate competition, to be free of any potential running commentary about my work, which included butchering my defrosted creature. I regularly cut up whole chickens—I always have one in my freezer, either to roast in the simple Marcella Hazan style or to cut up and do with olives and vinegar à la Alison Roman—and I’ve never been shy about working with raw meat or poultry, even if I lack precision.

The rabbit was a little different. What a small, vulnerable creature!

Hillary Frey

I followed the very helpful visual instructions in the King cookbook and started by basically spatchcocking it. I was surprised to find the little heart inside, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t have a moment of thinking: Oh, poor bunny!

Hillary Frey

From there, it was easy. Much, much easier than cutting up a chicken. I used kitchen shears to cut the rabbit into six parts: hind and front legs, plus the saddle and spine. From there, I followed the braise recipe from King. It is ridiculously easy, like most braises: carrot, red onion, celery, lots of herbs in a bouquet garni, white wine, stock. It doesn’t take a ridiculously long time either. Once my rabbit was browned, I let it braise in the oven for 90 minutes.

Hillary Frey

I took it out to cool and planned to shred the meat, turning it into a ragù, and keeping it in the refrigerator for a few days until I knew that my daughter would be elsewhere at dinnertime. But when she came home from her long day of debating tariffs with other middle schoolers (she did great!), the first thing she said when she walked in the door was: “What smells so good?”

I told her about my experiment, and she asked to try the rabbit. I got a soup spoon and separated out a few pieces from the broth. She sniffed, she glowered slightly, she ate it. Her eyes opened wide. “Mmm, can we have this for dinner?”

Hillary Frey

We had a short debate over what to serve it on—she disapproves of flat noodles like pappardelle, so I boiled a bag of egg noodles—and I popped open a bag of supermarket kale Caesar salad for the side. I did have some leftover ragù, but there’s no question that one rabbit offers five servings in my family, even over pasta. (The recipe suggests 10.) What can I say: We love rabbit!

Now the debate is whether to make it with pasta again for Christmas, perhaps as a middle course, or do my fantasy potpie. My daughter says she doesn’t like potpies, but I wonder if it’s worth trying. I might get that surprise “mmm” one more time. And I have the perfect recipe.