What A Pig: Culinary Adventures in Paris

by Will

A very wise (and spontaneous) person once told me “I’ll do almost anything for a great story.” While his sense of adventure often bested my own, I have modified his maxim slightly to describe many of my most bizarre and seemingly painful experiences. Once the unpleasantness has passed and I am given a moment to reflect, I will justify these moments with a “that was awful, but it was definitely worth it for the story.” With that, I give you the details of the first meal that Sharon and I shared with friends in a tiny Paris bistro.

We landed France just before 8am and took a taxi to our hotel before walking around our neighborhood a bit. This was my first to Paris and I was in total awe. There were 10,000 photo opportunities everywhere and I took advantage of most of them. We walked through a small farmers market where people were selling fresh baked pastries and brioche, delicious looking cheeses and all kinds of vegetables. The aromas were incredible. The only smell that was slightly less earth-shattering was coming from the butcher stand. “If this were New York that smell would be completely offensive, but in Paris it’s great,” I remarked to Sharon as we walked away to meet our friend for lunch.

We picked a small restaurant away from the major tourist spots and ordered a bottle of Brouilly. Brouilly is one of Beaujolais best villages and although Beaujolais shares a scorn among American wine drinkers that is often only reserved for White Zinfandel, it is customary to wash down a French lunch with the light, fruity red.

After taking a few sips of wine we looked up at chalkboard above our table that served as a menu and noticed “Andouillette.” When our waiter arrived to take our order I pointed to the menu and asked “Andouillette is Andouille?” He gave me a funny look that I perceived to be rooted in a language barrier (It was a look that I was already used to by my first afternoon in France. I speak no French and while most people speak at least some English in Paris, my ignorance was still occasionally an issue).

I repeated: “Andouillette is Andouille?” The confused look remained but this time he nodded and said “oui oui.” Somewhat reassured Sharon and I both ordered the dish.

This is probably a good time to mention that one of our friends, a woman named Sherry who worked at Amanti last summer, is a strict vegetarian. She won’t touch anything with a face, not even fish. It was her dish that arrived first: the vegetable quiche that was listed just above our “Andouillete” on the menu.

Our plates followed shortly and looked delicious. There was a small ramekin of homemade mustard, a side of fries and an especially plump sausage. I wasted no time smothering the meat with mustard and cutting off my first bite. As I cut into the sausage the smell immediately transported me back to the butcher stand at the open air market (the one whose stench was masked by the mystique of the city). This first piece didn’t exactly hold its shape as small, meaty, slivers began to fall out of the casing. Undeterred, I took my first bite. The flavor was rustic to say the least. It was unlike any Andouille that I had ever tasted in the States. It was not firm and smoky, but chewy and extremely gamey. I followed each bite with large sips of wine.

“This is a great pairing,” I said to Sharon, describing the perfect counterbalance of sweet red fruit to the earthy meat. She agreed and we continued to eat (it just goes to show that you can have a nice pairing even when you are unsure about exactly what’s on your plate). There was very little conversation through the meal. I slowly ate my mystery meat and spent most of my time looking at Sharon’s plate watching her meal disappear (she told me later that she had been watching my face after each bite and gauging my reaction). When our bites finally slowed to a halt the waiter came over and cleared our plates.

When the table was cleared Sharon picked up her Blackberry and checked her email (or so I thought). I ordered an espresso (my 17th of the day which had started about 25 hours before) and spoke with our friends about our plans for the rest of the day. Our conversation screeched to a halt when Sharon handed me her Blackberry and said “Oh my God, you have to see this.”

The screen was open to the Wikipedia entry for Andouillette (if you are about to eat or are feeling the slightest bit nauseas, stop reading this now):

“Andouillette is a French sausage, a specialty of Lyon, Troyes and Cambrai. Traditional andouillette is made from the colon and the stomach of pig. In modern times, contents vary and normally contain intestines of pig, cow and/or calf. It is not to be confused with andouille sausage (just to interject for a second:  IT MOST CERTAINLY SHOULD NOT!!), which is much spicier, but more mild in animal-derived smells. French andouillette is an acquired taste and can be an interesting challenge even for adventurous eaters who don't object to the taste or aroma of feces (now imagine reading that sentence after just eating it). It is sometimes eaten cold, as in picnic baskets. Served cold and sliced thinly, the smell, taste, and texture may be mistaken for an andouille, but on closer inspection the texture is considerably more rubbery and the meat has a more feces-like flavor. By contrast, many French eateries serve andouillette as a hot dish, and foreigners have been repulsed by the aroma, to the point where they find it inedible (see external links). While hot andouillette smells of feces, food safety requires that all such matter is removed from the meat before cooking (that’s reassuring, huh). Feces-like aroma can be attributed to the common use of the pig's colon (chitterlings) in this sausage, and stems from the same compounds that give feces some of its odors.”

I spent the rest of the day walking the streets of Paris and battling my stomach. If I could have gone back and reordered, I might have joined Sherry with the vegetable quiche. But hey, it was definitely worth it for the story.

Feel free to email me at will@amantivino.com