More Food

Though I would never consider myself a gourmand, I'm by no means a fussy eater. But traveling in Europe and living in France reminds me that the typical American palate is actually pretty narrow--particularly where animal protein is concerned. Basically, Americans eat mostly cows, chickens, pigs, sheep and some fish and seafood. And with few exceptions such as tripe, caviar, and chopped liver, they mostly eat the muscles rather than the internal organs.

These exceptions are important. How else would we know the boundaries if no one ever crossed them? But in the US, crossing those boundaries means doing some work to seek out the delicacies in specialty stores, rather than expecting to find them on any given menu or front-and-center in a typical chain supermarket.

A whole store for snails.

The difference in France's cuisine is in both the breadth of common ingredients and their ready availability. Snails, rabbit and blood sausage (boudin noir) can be had in the US, but they rarely make it onto restaurant menus (unless it's the menu of a "traditional" French restaurant, which may also include goose liver pâté). Over here, you'll find any or all of these on the menu of any French bistrot or brasserie, alongside the ubiquitous hamburger and the beef, chicken, and fish options. I once ordered andouillette at one of my favorite Paris restaurants, thinking it must be like the Louisiana smoked pork sausage, andouille. The waiter grimaced and made a circling motion in front of his stomach with his hands--effectively making certain that I understood it was made from intestines. Apparently, Americans have found the dish unsatisfactory in his experience. I believe I ordered the steak and frites that night.

In Strasbourg, another waiter warned me against a roast pork dish that, without mentioning it on the French-only menu (which I otherwise understood), was stuffed with intestines. Clearly, the locals understand the traditional recipes by their names, without much explanation needed, in the same way that Americans know that a chicken pot pie contains no actual pot.

On the other hand, a visiting friend took us to her favorite Paris bistrot from when she lived in the 16th Arrondissement. Perhaps overestimating my expertise in food (and language), the waiter raised no objection when I ordered the rognons de veau (veal kidneys). They were delicious, but will probably not become part of my repertoire. Nor did the positive experience inspire me to try l'escargots, or boeuf tartare. I had a similar experience in Munich, where my naively-ordered first meal was leberknödel. My first, last and only experience with liver dumplings was excellent, and will serve me for a lifetime.

One of these is delicious. So I'm told.

The butcher shops (boucheries) can be as much of an adventure as the restaurants. Growing up, American kids were trained to marvel at the idea that Native Americans used every part of the animals they hunted. Apparently, the French run a close second, with stomach, tongues, kidneys, lungs, hearts, feet, and about every other part trading across the counter. 

Le Porteur de Viande (the meat porter), Les Abbatoirs de Vaugirard, 15th Arr.

They also eat more kinds of poultry over here than I'm used to seeing. In addition to chicken (poulet) and turkey (dinde), boucheries have a wide variety of duck (canard) of course, which I'm more familiar with seeing hanging roasted in the windows of Chinatown restaurants. But there are also capons, a chicken version of a castrated steer, quails (cailles) and guinea fowls (pintades). Since these birds are all sold plucked, the savvy customer knows they're getting the real article by shopping at establishments which leave the heads intact and feathered for easy identification. 

If that seems macabre, wait until you stumble across a dressed rabbit at the butcher counter. These not only have the heads intact, but the lack of skin greatly accentuates the eyeballs and long incisor teeth. If you remember the kennel scene from John Carpenter's The Thing (1982), you have a pretty good idea of the effect. And I've eaten and enjoyed rabbit, in San Francisco, in fact, at the late, great Belgian restaurant, La Trappe. But I'll admit to being squeamish about seeing it in its midway form.

I may someday cross some of these boundaries, probably in the company of other people who are mad about snails or offal and know their way around. That's basically the only way I eat oysters, which are fantastically popular over here, and farmed locally in the Charente-Maritime. It's also the way I first ate Chesapeake Bay blue crabs, which are basically giant spiny bugs buried in spice mud. Now I crave them anytime I'm in the mid-Atlantic region of the US.

Among the oyster farms, La Tremblade, Charente-Maritime.

One local delicacy I will probably never try: chevaline.

Not fit for a dog?

I'm not particularly a horse lover, per se. Maybe it tastes great. But haven't horses been through enough? Down through history people have sent them to war, worked them to death in the fields and pulling carts, raced them under horrifically dangerous conditions, whipped them into violent terror-frenzies to prove they can be ridden for even a few seconds, turned their bodies into dog food and industrial products--and hunted them to extinction in North America and Europe. Don't they deserve to be treated at least as well as pets?

If this seems like a weak excuse for not eating horse meat, it's because it is. You could make the same or stronger argument for any of the the other farmed domesticated animals I eat without compunction. I sometimes do, almost to the point of conceding that hunted game, under certain circumstances, is the only humane form of meat consumption (the argument works better if you don't personally know too many hunters). So if you like chevaline, by all means, dig in.

But for me, I gotta know the boundaries.