Yep that’s a pig foot. It tasted like … a bunch of skin and fat. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not really complaining, I love skin and fat as much as the next clinically overweight American. But I kept pushing this thing around on my plate look for a hunk of meat that I had to be missing. Nope – my main meal of the day consisted of pig skin, fat, bones, and one giant hoof. Oh, and French fries.* French fries always make everything go down easier.
As with the other slightly exotic meals I’ve had here – andouillette, rabbit, duck liver pâté – my queasiness over the couchon was late to set in, but set in it did. When I’m at the dining table and a steaming plate of intestines is set in front of me I’m totally gung-ho, but, in time, my stomach always turns sour. At first I’m like, “Oh hey, look at me being all culturally immersive.” And then, three hours later, I’m wondering if anyone would notice if I vomited discreetly in the corner of the metro car. I don’t know if my stomach’s that sensitive or if it’s all just psychological. Either way, I don’t have the guts (or the intestines) to try the motherload of nausea-inducing standard Parisian fare: la tête. The head, or more accurately the brains, of any four-legged creature. I have two nights left in the city; should I go for it? In the mean time, I’ll stick to the pastries featured a few posts back.
*But they’d be better with KETCHUP, not the weird aioli stuff you gave me.
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