Imagine holding a razor-sharp flint in one hand and a freshly defeathered pigeon in the other, trying not to slice your own fingers as you prepare dinner the Neanderthal way.
Not exactly your typical meal prep—but for a group of Spanish researchers, this primitive culinary experiment yielded one groundbreaking insight: Neanderthals may have been better cooks than we’ve given them credit for.
Here’s the twist you didn’t see coming: roasting a bird over coals—a technique assumed to be rudimentary—may have been a deliberate culinary choice, and not just the easiest way to survive.
What began as an experimental archaeology project turned into a revelation: some of the best evidence of Neanderthal dietary sophistication may have literally gone up in smoke.
And that, right there, is the immediate takeaway.
The next time someone scoffs at cavemen as bumbling brutes, you might want to remind them that Neanderthals were probably roasting pigeons with more finesse than some people manage at a weekend BBQ.
Let’s dig into how scientists uncovered this forgotten culinary chapter from 50,000 years ago—and why it’s rewriting the narrative on our ancient cousins.
A Radical Take on Neanderthal Diets
Neanderthals have long been portrayed as the ultimate big game hunters—strong, rugged, and singularly focused on mammoths and bison.
But a recent study led by Dr. Mariana Nabais at the Catalan Institute of Human Paleoecology and Social Evolution flips this simplistic image on its head. Instead of chasing megafauna, her team asked a different question:
What if Neanderthals also had a taste for smaller prey like birds—and knew exactly how to cook them?
To test this, Nabais and her colleagues ditched the comfort of labs and headed straight into the prehistoric mindset.
Using flint flakes and open flames, they butchered and roasted five birds—two carrion crows, two collared doves, and one wood pigeon—species closely resembling those unearthed in Neanderthal dig sites.
But this wasn’t just a quirky re-enactment for the sake of science.
The goal was deadly serious: to understand the traces—or absence—of bird remains in Neanderthal sites.
Why so few bones? Why so little evidence? Could it be that we’ve misunderstood their diets all along?
Turns out, the missing clues may not be because Neanderthals didn’t eat birds—but because they cooked them so efficiently, the evidence quite literally crumbled away.
The Sharp Reality of Butchering Birds with Stone Tools
Let’s not romanticize it. Butchering a raw bird with a flint flake is hard work—dangerous even. As Nabais puts it:
“Using a flint flake for butchering required significant precision and effort, which we had not fully valued before this experiment… The flakes were sharper than we initially thought, requiring careful handling to make precise cuts without injuring our own fingers.”
The experiment revealed that slicing through raw birds left behind specific and consistent markings—mainly around the joints, where tendons needed severing.
These patterns matched closely with cut marks previously observed on Neanderthal-era bird bones, helping researchers confirm that such butchery was indeed a practiced and perhaps common activity.
But here’s where it gets even more interesting: cooking the birds changed everything.
PatCooking Destroys the Evidence
We’re about 40% into our story, and it’s time to flip a common assumption.
Many believe the absence of bird bones in Neanderthal sites means they simply didn’t eat much poultry. That assumption? It’s wrong—and here’s why.
When Nabais’ team roasted the birds over hot coals, something unexpected happened.
“Roasting the birds over the coals required maintaining a consistent temperature and carefully monitoring the cooking duration to avoid overcooking the meat,” Nabais explained. “Maybe because we defeathered the birds before cooking, the roasting process was much quicker than we anticipated. In fact, we spent more time preparing the coals than on the actual cooking.”
What followed was the real shocker: cooked meat slipped effortlessly off the bones, eliminating the need for tools altogether.
But that convenience came with a cost—the bones became so brittle, many shattered into dust, making them nearly impossible to recover.
The implication? If Neanderthals regularly cooked birds, their remains wouldn’t last thousands of years.
In other words, we’ve been underestimating their culinary habits simply because we haven’t been able to see the evidence.
The Ancient Nutrition Hack
Here’s another curveball: size doesn’t equal sustenance.
During the experiment, researchers noticed something curious—smaller birds like pigeons yielded more usable meat than larger birds like crows.
This seems counterintuitive.
Why chase a smaller, harder-to-catch animal when a bigger one offers more calories? Well, not if the bigger one is mostly feathers, bones, and effort.
The smaller birds turned out to be a more efficient choice.
It’s the kind of detail that suggests Neanderthals weren’t just random opportunists—they may have been making informed decisions about what to hunt, how to cook it, and what gave them the best return on effort.
Flint Flakes, Bone Fragments, and Hard-Won Insight
The physical evidence gathered in this study paints a vivid picture. Let’s break down the findings:
- Five birds (two carrion crows, two collared doves, one wood pigeon) were used.
- All birds were manually defeathered.
- Two birds were butchered raw with a flint flake, which left half-moon scars on the blade and distinctive cut marks on bones.
- The remaining three birds were roasted over coals, making them easy to process—but resulting in fragile, burned, and sometimes unrecognizable bones.
- Post-processing, bones were microscopically examined for cut marks, breakage, and burns.
- Conclusion? Cooked bones are less likely to survive the test of time.
A Species With Taste—and Strategy
This study doesn’t just offer a footnote in paleoanthropology—it rewrites entire assumptions about Neanderthal intelligence and behavior.
The old caricature of club-wielding, monosyllabic cavemen is giving way to something more nuanced and human. These were individuals who:
- Chose prey based on nutritional yield
- Used refined techniques for butchering
- Cooked with an understanding of timing and temperature
- Possibly even selected bird species not just for food—but for feathers, or symbolic use
Dr. Nabais and her team emphasize humility about the study’s limitations—it involved only five birds, after all. But its implications are massive.
It opens the door to larger-scale experiments, more diverse bird species, and a reevaluation of what we don’t see in the archaeological record.
“The sample size is relatively small… Further research with larger samples, varied species, and more diverse experimental conditions is necessary to expand upon these results.”
The Archaeological Blind Spot
What else are we missing? If the humble pigeon can vanish from history simply by being roasted too well, what other aspects of Neanderthal life have literally gone up in flames?
This study reminds us that archaeology is often the art of interpreting gaps.
The absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence—especially when the evidence may have turned to ash.
It also speaks to the challenges modern researchers face. Studying prehistory isn’t just about digging—it’s about recreating, feeling, experiencing.
When Nabais and her team cut their fingers on flint shards and bent over smoky fires, they weren’t just mimicking—they were bridging time, rediscovering how knowledge is embedded in hands-on practice.
A More Flavorful Picture of Prehistory
At the end of the day, this research does something profound: it humanizes the Neanderthal.
Instead of viewing them as primitive and limited, we start to see them as thoughtful, adaptable, and maybe even a little gourmet.
These were people who didn’t just survive—they strategized, optimized, and maybe even savored.
As we uncover more about the real lives of Neanderthals, don’t be surprised if your view of them shifts from cave-dwelling troglodytes to culinary pioneers.
Who knew our ancient cousins were such good cooks?
One tasty bird at a time, we’re rewriting prehistory.
