The mighty ducks - Aurora duck farm caters to global market, but is also taking flight closer to home

About 14,000 ducks are waddling around in an Aurora barn two storeys high and as big as a football field. Every week or two, they meet their fate, and the barn is packed with new recruits.

This barn is just one corner of the sprawling King Cole Ducks complex. King Cole is Canada's largest duck farm and it's right in our backyard.

Who knew? Duck is not exactly on the average consumer's radar. In fact, if Canadians are consuming only 6 ounces (170 grams) per capita a year, who's eating it all?

"So many people out there haven't even tried to cook a duck," says sales and marketing manager Patti Thompson.

King Cole is fighting the "fear factor" surrounding the preparation of duck by doing more of the work for us. It markets roast duck halves, confit legs and frozen duck à l'orange.

The hopeful motto on its business cards: "You've got to try the duck!"

Meanwhile, King Cole is winging it in destinations as diverse as Tahiti, Kuwait, Bermuda, France and Brazil. Cruise ships are grabbing sous-vide duck. The Chinese are buying up duck feet and wings and tongues (a banquet delicacy). In Japan, they can't get enough of the maple-smoked breast, which tastes like ham.

Asians here in the GTA are fond of the fresh whole birds, heads and all. "As the Asian community grew, our business grew," Thompson says.

That still leaves duck for local supermarkets, butcher shops, delis and restaurant buyers. But it's an uphill sales battle. Canadians may perceive duck as too fatty or bony, or too expensive. A fresh King Cole duck retails for about $15, cooked halves for $9.99, confit legs for $4 each.

King Cole processes more than 2 million ducks a year. A two-storey, 28,000-square-foot barn is one temporary home for the "all in, all out birds" headed to the slaughterhouse. Do they sense their fate? These ducks are strangely quiet in comparison to the cacophony at the hatchery, a bumpy bus ride away on country roads.

A group of food professionals has packed the bus for a rare peek at the operation. King Cole never gives public tours.

Once upon a time, King Cole raised 300,000 ducks outside. Now, with the spectre of avian influenza, the ducks never leave the barns. Staff and equipment generally stay put for the day.

Warnings are posted near gates: "Biosecurity measures are in force." "No trespassing." "Surveillance cameras."

Anyone who has been on another poultry farm or had contact with exotic birds such as parrots or parakeets within the previous five days is banned.

"It really changed how we operated as a company," says Jackie Fisher, head of the breeder and baby duck division.

The bus pulls to a stop and the wheels are sprayed with disinfectant. We see huge barns that house the birds at different ages and stages, but not a single duck. A distant quacking, however, wafts through the air like white noise.

The quacking waxes and wanes as we approach a barn. Inside, a sea of ducks undulates and parts for photographer Christopher Campbell. He is gowned in coveralls, his feet in plastic booties, head covered by a hair net.

The 2,700 residents peck at red feeding bowls and nibble at water pipes fitted with nipples. One occasionally plops into a wooden nesting box and lays an egg.

Like all King Cole ducks, these are the Pekin breed, white with grey-brown markings and yellow beaks. They are plump, bellies threatening to scrape the ground. With their jackets of fat, Pekins are known for their succulence and roastability. The birds weigh about 7 pounds (3 kilograms), Fisher says.

The breeder barns are the first-class lodgings. These ducks are not headed to the slaughterhouse. It's their business to lay eggs – 10,000 to 12,000 a day. The eggs are hatched, not sold. There isn't much of a market for duck eggs.

The lady ducks are making the incessant noise. It is said that the males don't quack properly. Maybe they can't get a quack in edgewise. Maybe they are too tired. There's one male per five females here and all the eggs have to be fertilized.

"They're very easy to look after," Fisher says of her charges. "They're creatures of habit."

She has been known to sit in a nesting box to check out the comfort. The barns are climate- controlled and the lights are on timers. No antibiotics are used unless a bird is sick. For food safety reasons, the ducks are tracked from birth to death. Life is stress-free. On the other hand, the ducks don't get to go out or splash around. They don't fly.

"People say, `If you eat it at the end, how can it be happy?'" says "Uncle Ron" Downey, the company vet. "But in reality, it's the quality of the life that counts."

Ducks are different from chickens, he adds. "These creatures have a personality."

There is a certain affection in the air, but this is still a farm. Ducks never become pets. Thompson says no one in the family has ever imprinted on one.

The King Cole story is a saga of four generations. About 20 family members are on the payroll now, including a sister act. There's Thompson. Fisher is her sister. So is general manager Debbi Conzelmann. So is Robin Kelly, who operates their Queensville Farm Supply & Country Store.

The story began in 1951 when James Murby arrived in the Aurora area. He would travel to Toronto farmers' markets to sell his ducks and chickens. The cooks were more duck-friendly in those days: The ducks would always sell out, but not the chickens. One day, a friend doodled a duck with a crown on it, like Old King Cole.

The patriarch, now 96, has passed on ownership, but still makes a daily appearance.

There are a lot of changes to take in – more than a dozen growing barns, two processing plants, a development kitchen, a cook plant. King Cole has spread to 14 facilities across 1,000 acres (about 405 hectares), mainly in York Region.

Nothing is wasted. King Cole's feather factory bales down destined for duvets, pillows and coats. The manure is composted and sold to garden centres and golf courses. Duck fat, bones and necks for stock, the hearts and the skin – all are sold. Their chef is working on a confit of gizzards.

"We say, `Everything but the quack,'" Thompson notes. "Absolutely everything is used."

Source: http://www.thestar.com/living/article/663656