The Pork Quest Begins
Okay so I’ve been living in Paris for three months now and realized I hadn’t tried proper French pork dishes. Last Tuesday I decided to fix that. Grabbed my notebook and Metro map around noon.
First stop was this tiny bistro near Place d’Italie my neighbor recommended. Walked 20 minutes in wrong direction first (thanks Google Maps offline mode!). Finally found it tucked behind a cheese shop.
What I ordered:
- Cassoulet with Toulouse sausage – came in this scorching hot clay pot
- Glass of cheap Syrah
The first bite? Heaven. Sausage skin snapped perfectly, beans soaked in duck fat. But then halfway through I found a feather in my dish. Small gray one. Showed the waiter who just shrugged “C’est la campagne!”
Beef Adventure Gone Wrong
Next day I targeted beef. Researched steak frites spots near Le Marais. Booked this place with stained glass windows. Arrived at 7:30 sharp.
The menu confused me:
- Entrecôte “à l’ancienne”
- Onglet “maison”
- Bavette “charolais”
I asked the server difference between bavette and onglet. Got a 10-minute French lecture ending with “C’est la texture!” Ordered medium-rare bavette with pepper sauce.
Knife met resistance like cutting tire rubber. Chewed one piece for three minutes straight. Flagged the waiter who tasted it and agreed – “Trop cuit! Désolé!” Didn’t charge me but damn.
The Golden Find
Friday morning I changed tactics. Asked the cranky old lady at my bakery where she eats meat. She scribbled an address saying “Tell Jacques I sent you.”
Place looked sketchy – neon “Boucherie Charcuterie” sign flickering. Inside smelled like rosemary and death (in a good way). Jacques emerged wiping bloody hands on apron.
We negotiated:
- Dry-aged ribeye (thick cut)
- Rosemary roasted potatoes
- Red wine reduction sauce
First bite? Butter. Second bite? Fireworks. Third bite? I almost cried. This crust! Like meat candy. Jacques grinned when he saw my face – “La meilleure, hein?” Charged me €22 total including wine.
Final Meat Thoughts
So what’d I learn? Forget fancy spots. Don’t trust menus with English fonts. Feathers might happen. But when a French grandma sends you somewhere? That’s the golden ticket. Still dreaming about Jacques’ ribeye crust.
