Did you follow the link? Really funny:
>>One thing I really wanted to find during my short stay was some really good, rootsy, traditional French cooking (I didn't have the
budget for anything too fancy). I looked in my little guidebook and thought of a few places, and I also wandered around a bit. I found a
place (the name of which, amazingly enough, escapes me) that had on its awning, "Cuisine française traditionelle".
I peered in. There were lots of contented-looking French people inside.
Bingo.
I walked in, sat down. The waiter appeared without much delay, and asked me if I wanted something to drink. I asked (in French, bien
sur) if he had any Belgian ales, he showed me a list, I ordered one that I had never heard of before, he brought it, I drank it, and rather
enjoyed it. For my first course, I wanted escargot. Many years ago, I had promised my beloved French teacher, Mr. Richard Crosby,
that I'd have snails on my first trip to France, and I was determined to make it the first thing I ate while there. "Je voudrais
d'escargots, s'il vous plaît", I said to the waiter, who replied, "Trés bien, monsieur." (I was getting really cocky with this
ordering-in-French thing.)
The snails arrived, piping hot and swimming in garlic and parsley butter. They were, of course, exquisite. Merci bien, Monsieur Crosby.
Time for the main course. Up until this time I had only committed one minor gaffe -- I wanted water, so I asked for "un bouteille de
l'eau." This was the incorrect term, as "bouteille" in this context refers to something like a wine bottle. The waiter very gently
corrected me -- "Ehh, un carafe, monsieur?" -- and the water appeared. Gaffe #2 was imminent, and it was a big one.
I perused the menu choices, and saw lots of things I recognized, the best-looking of which was a stewed rabbit dish -- mmmmm, lapin
-- that looked divine. But then I was distracted by one menu item:
Andouillette aux herbes
WOW! Andouillette! "Little andouille!" I thought. "With herbs, no less!" My Louisianian soul kicked in, obliterated any other thoughts, and
I instantly assumed that this would be a Louisiana-like andouille sausage, one of my favorite things in the world, only ... a little one.
Andouille-ette.
This was a very, very bad assumption.
(At this point in the telling of this story, after I returned from my trip, my friend Mireille gasped, widened her eyes, covered her mouth
with her hands in horror and cried, "Oh my God! Please tell me you did not order andouillette!")
Yep, sure did. With a green salad aux vinaigrette, and pommes frites.
I awaited my meal, sipping another excellent Belgian ale, enjoying my surroundings, and basking in the excitement of being in Paris for
the first time. Before much time passed, the waiter appeared, again and put a plate in front of me.
The very first thing that hit me was the smell.
I made another assumption -- that the waiter had also served the person next to me before he served me, and I thought to myself,
"Eww. Someone near me has just been served chitlins or something."
I looked down. Took a sniff.
Oh shit. It was me.
Little did I realize then, when I hadn't studied nearly as much French cuisine as I have now, that the French andouille, which was in
fact the precursor to the Louisiana andouille, is a big fat sausage casing stuffed with tripe. Aux herbes.
Hmmmmm. Well, being an adventurous sort, and not one willing to make a fuss (or God forbid, embarrass myself by sending it back and
ordering something else), I put on a brave face, tried to keep an open mind, cut off a big piece of the andouillette, and took a bite.
Jesus H. Christ. It was icky beyond words.
I should've ordered the goddamn rabbit. Always go with your first gut instinct!
So ... I reverted to my former eight-year-old self, and did what I did when I didn't want to eat something -- I cut it up and kinda
spread it around the plate. I ate my salad, all my potatoes, artfully covered my plate with my napkin, and summoned the waiter:
"Garçon! L'addition, s'il vous plaît!"
I beat a hasty retreat, until I found a café that was recommended in my little Essential Paris book, which as I recall was called Café des
Artistes, or something like that. I ordered a half-bottle of Bordeaux, a baguette, and a cheese plate ... and it was lovely.<<
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