Really, I admire the French. They've given the world champaigne, Chartres Cathedral, Edgar Degas, the French symbolists, Jeanne Moreau, and pommes frites. What more could we reasonably ask of them? So I'm not bitching, per se, about this meal--I've had thousands of bad meals in my life in places that weren't France and never blogged about any of them--but I must say, to have an inedible meal in France is tuly painful. To have it at a restaurant that you truly love is doubly painful. And I suppose to have it as your "one night out" in Paris sans baby is trebly painful.
The restaurant in question was Le Dix Vins, only a block away from the Hotel Innova, off the Blvd. Pasteur at 57 rue Falguiere (M: Pasteur). It's a place we ate at twice before on a trip in 2006 and loved. It's rated highly in most guides--an informal and affordable place with great food, pleasant service, and Parisian ambience. I still highly recommend it--they seem to do everything well. I'm sure they did what I ordered "well" too, according to French standards. But of course, I wouldn't really know because such food defies my simple standards of what is consumable. So, dear Dabbler reader, know that I'm not dissing Le Dix Vins itself, but the subculture which gave us this dish. And also know that I'm having trouble reconciling the exquisite French culinary tradition with, what I can only call, a French culinary outrage.
When I saw andouillette with mustard sauce on the menu I assumed it was a sausage similar to andouille--the smoky, rich, spicy sausage we get here in the states often enough. When I ordered it, the waiter--who couldn't (or wouldn't) speak a lick of Anglais--rolled his eyes a little and pointed at his stomach. Being a stoopid 'merikan, I thought he meant it would be a big portion and I'd better be hungry. Non, non, le andouillette, sill voo platt! Bring it! But after he'd gone, K suggested that he might have been trying to indicate the portion of the pig's anatomy the sausage came from. What, the intestine? I said. Well, I've had tripe and haggis and things like that plenty of times and it hasn't grossed me out. So, what of it? (I wasn't excited about my choice, I confess, but hey, it was France.) I'd love it.
My plate arrived--on it were a sausage covered with seedy mustard sauce and a couple lovely veggie sides. It looked wonderful. But lurking behind the mustard odor was something... something earthy, something musky, something...something...? Yes, the more I sniffed at it, the more clearly I registered it: The sausage made from a pig's intestine smelled a lot like the contents of a pig's intestine. My plate smelled, literally, like a barnyard.
But trying my best at being the open-minded, non-ugly American I so want to be, I said to myself: A barnyard, perhaps, but a French barnyard! And there's a big differance between a Tennessee barnyard and a Provencal barnyard, yes? I fortified myself with positive thoughts. I've eaten Rocky Mountain oysters, right? I've eaten beef tongue and chicken feet and steak tartare, right? I love stinky cheese, right? I've eaten cheese that smelled like old gym socks that'd been farted out of a goat, right? I can DO this.
The restaurant in question was Le Dix Vins, only a block away from the Hotel Innova, off the Blvd. Pasteur at 57 rue Falguiere (M: Pasteur). It's a place we ate at twice before on a trip in 2006 and loved. It's rated highly in most guides--an informal and affordable place with great food, pleasant service, and Parisian ambience. I still highly recommend it--they seem to do everything well. I'm sure they did what I ordered "well" too, according to French standards. But of course, I wouldn't really know because such food defies my simple standards of what is consumable. So, dear Dabbler reader, know that I'm not dissing Le Dix Vins itself, but the subculture which gave us this dish. And also know that I'm having trouble reconciling the exquisite French culinary tradition with, what I can only call, a French culinary outrage.
When I saw andouillette with mustard sauce on the menu I assumed it was a sausage similar to andouille--the smoky, rich, spicy sausage we get here in the states often enough. When I ordered it, the waiter--who couldn't (or wouldn't) speak a lick of Anglais--rolled his eyes a little and pointed at his stomach. Being a stoopid 'merikan, I thought he meant it would be a big portion and I'd better be hungry. Non, non, le andouillette, sill voo platt! Bring it! But after he'd gone, K suggested that he might have been trying to indicate the portion of the pig's anatomy the sausage came from. What, the intestine? I said. Well, I've had tripe and haggis and things like that plenty of times and it hasn't grossed me out. So, what of it? (I wasn't excited about my choice, I confess, but hey, it was France.) I'd love it.
My plate arrived--on it were a sausage covered with seedy mustard sauce and a couple lovely veggie sides. It looked wonderful. But lurking behind the mustard odor was something... something earthy, something musky, something...something...? Yes, the more I sniffed at it, the more clearly I registered it: The sausage made from a pig's intestine smelled a lot like the contents of a pig's intestine. My plate smelled, literally, like a barnyard.
But trying my best at being the open-minded, non-ugly American I so want to be, I said to myself: A barnyard, perhaps, but a French barnyard! And there's a big differance between a Tennessee barnyard and a Provencal barnyard, yes? I fortified myself with positive thoughts. I've eaten Rocky Mountain oysters, right? I've eaten beef tongue and chicken feet and steak tartare, right? I love stinky cheese, right? I've eaten cheese that smelled like old gym socks that'd been farted out of a goat, right? I can DO this.
I ventured forth. I took a forkfull in my mouth. I chewed and swallowed. I took another. Another...
And that was it. I'd met my match. No more thank you very much. Not for me. Nuh-uh. Care for a bite K? (She took a nibble.) No? Well, that's a first. K's met her match too.
It sat there stinking on my plate like a raw turd for the next half an hour. I drank a bottle of white wine to clear out the lingering flavor. Couldn't get rid of it. I ate the side dishes slowly, squishing food around my mouth, cleansing my palate. Nope, still there. The waiter came by and looked pityingly at me. I said with a chagrined chuckle, "Too strong." He gave a Gallic shrug and took the plate away. Thank effing God.
What more can I say? Research I've conducted since my arrival home has revealed that the sausage is made up of the lower portion of the pig's colon and that the reason it smells like pig shit is because the tissue there becomes infused with the enzymes that make pig shit smell like pig shit. For me, that's too close for comfort. I was informed also that there's an elaborate cleaning process for the sausage's contents prior to stuffing, which makes sense. However, I'd have appreciated knowing that as I went back to my room that night: I was deeply afeared that I'd actually eaten uncleaned pig anus and that I might give a midnight demonstration to my wife of a "technicolor yawn."
Curiously, the French have a society called (as if to heap absurdity upon absurdity) the A.A.A.A.A. It's the Association Amicale des Amateurs d'Andouillette Authentiques: the Friendly Association of Authentic Andouillette Lovers. Apparently, this group accredits makers of andouillette for marketing purposes. I suppose it's nice to know that there's an organization out there making sure we don't eat shit-laced pig colon, but I'd like to see the criteria they follow when evaluating the quality of the dish they so love. Criterion Number One, Odor. Circle one: 1 Excellent: Smells like shit; 2 Good: Smells more like shit than food; 3 Average: Smells more like food than shit; 4 Poor: Smells rather like food; 5 Disgusting: This is simply food. Merde!
Adieu,
CD
And that was it. I'd met my match. No more thank you very much. Not for me. Nuh-uh. Care for a bite K? (She took a nibble.) No? Well, that's a first. K's met her match too.
It sat there stinking on my plate like a raw turd for the next half an hour. I drank a bottle of white wine to clear out the lingering flavor. Couldn't get rid of it. I ate the side dishes slowly, squishing food around my mouth, cleansing my palate. Nope, still there. The waiter came by and looked pityingly at me. I said with a chagrined chuckle, "Too strong." He gave a Gallic shrug and took the plate away. Thank effing God.
What more can I say? Research I've conducted since my arrival home has revealed that the sausage is made up of the lower portion of the pig's colon and that the reason it smells like pig shit is because the tissue there becomes infused with the enzymes that make pig shit smell like pig shit. For me, that's too close for comfort. I was informed also that there's an elaborate cleaning process for the sausage's contents prior to stuffing, which makes sense. However, I'd have appreciated knowing that as I went back to my room that night: I was deeply afeared that I'd actually eaten uncleaned pig anus and that I might give a midnight demonstration to my wife of a "technicolor yawn."
Curiously, the French have a society called (as if to heap absurdity upon absurdity) the A.A.A.A.A. It's the Association Amicale des Amateurs d'Andouillette Authentiques: the Friendly Association of Authentic Andouillette Lovers. Apparently, this group accredits makers of andouillette for marketing purposes. I suppose it's nice to know that there's an organization out there making sure we don't eat shit-laced pig colon, but I'd like to see the criteria they follow when evaluating the quality of the dish they so love. Criterion Number One, Odor. Circle one: 1 Excellent: Smells like shit; 2 Good: Smells more like shit than food; 3 Average: Smells more like food than shit; 4 Poor: Smells rather like food; 5 Disgusting: This is simply food. Merde!
Adieu,
CD
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