Food Porn
The good, the bad, and the yuck.
Let’s start with a big myth: all French food is fabulous.
This is simply not true. You can find mediocre meals in France and, zeut alors, even very bad ones. Like anywhere in the world, a lot depends on your budget, your time constraints, and your savviness. Let’s start with time constraints.
French restaurants are open for lunch from noon-2 pm. They open again for dinner at 7 or 7:30 pm. Roberto and I kept making the mistake of having a big breakfast and then not being hungry again until 2:00. We would start looking for lunch and realize everything was closed. I know it seems ridiculous that we would make this mistake more than once, but I’m telling you we did it again and again. After 2 pm the only food choices were the very touristy places near the Place de la Comedie—the food there is overpriced and not very good. Bland sandwiches, dry burgers.
Budget:
Our first lunch after we landed was the simple sandwich jambon et fromage—ham, cheese, and butter on a baguette, and a good one can be one of the highlights of your trip. I ate many of these when I lived in Paris as a student because they are cheap and ubiquitous. As a student I also loved a ham and cheese crepe, and you can buy them cheaply on the street (the secret is to make sure that the cook is using butter and not oil on the griddle). I also loved a ham and cheese omelette with a side salad of endive and mustard vinaigrette. One day I looked up and realize all I was eating was ham and cheese. What a waste! (And what a waist).
Saviness
The very first night we were in Montpellier we were waiting for the restaurants to open for dinner, so we went to a bar to have old fashioneds (of course.) We asked the young waiter where we should dine and he told us with great passion that we should go around the corner to Le Souris Qui Danse, the Dancing Mouse.
We found the place easily and were slightly concerned that, though it was winter, no one was sitting inside. But it was still early and there was a group (okay, maybe gang) of young men sitting outside laughing and smoking. The waiter/possible owner was thrilled to see us. He seated us and quickly brought us water and wine. Only after we were seated did we start to notice the odd surroundings, like multiple old espresso machines lined against one wall and bags of, I don’t know . . . laundry? . . . stacked against another.
The menu was strange and seemed to have no theme. It was French and Italian and Israeli? My eyes found the word gnocchi because I am a sucker for gnocchi in any dish. This gnocchi listed ananas in the ingredients. I thought “bananas?” That’s weird. Then I remembered that ananas means pineapple. So . . . even weirder. I asked the waiter about the dish and he said, "Oh, yes! This is our speciality. I had it for lunch. It is very light and refreshing."
I thought to myself, “We are in France, and the French make everything delicious!” I ordered the gnocchi.
Roberto ordered the chicken in a cream sauce. We also ordered some cheese as a starter, because France.
We watched the man cut the edges off of cheese that seemed to be leftovers from his lunch. While we nibbled on the questionable cheese, the boys from outside kept coming inside to use the bathroom, and they seemed bemused by our presence. Had we interrupted something? Was this a front for the mafia?
Finally our main courses arrived and my gnocchi was swimming in a sauce of cream, tomato, and the promised pineapple. I took a bite as Roberto watched in delighted anticipation.
It was . . . unbelievably disgusting.
Roberto’s chicken was edible enough for him to eat.
I moved my pasta around the plate as we watched the boys from outside come in and order pizzas. When the pizzas arrived they looked decent. We had ordered very, very badly.
The bill arrived, and for our appetizers, entrees, and wine, we paid less than 50 euros, which was most likely why our young waiter had recommended it. He could probably have a pizza and beer here for less than 15 euros. And he wasn’t stupid enough to order the house specialty.
During our last week in town this May we had two fine dining experiences, both involving a chef’s tasting menu.
The first, called Ebullition, was excellent. We made one rookie mistake, however. The hostess asked us if there was anything we didn’t eat. We said, “No, we eat everything,” thinking of allergies. Well, the third course contained octopus and the fourth course was veal, neither of which we eat. Octopus because we both watched the documentary My Octopus Teacher and read Remarkably Bright Creatures and veal because, well, you know, veal.
We had no problems with escargots however and we happily ate them in a smoked parsnip mousse with a parsley emulsion and parsnip crisps. (Show me a documentary about the brilliance of snails and I’ll stop eating them tout de suite).
The next fancy meal was at Le Reserve Rimbaud, which has a Michelin Star. We ordered the four course tasting menu and when they asked if there was anything we didn’t eat, we wisely said, “No octopus and no veal, thank you very much.” The waiter assured us there was neither on the menu so we relaxed and waited for our meal. Each course consisted of two dishes made from the same ingredients but prepared in different ways, such as snap peas and apple served cold with a frozen pea granita, and also served hot as a buttery soup with crusty bread. We thought we were being conservative when we chose the four course menu, but that ended up being eight dishes!
We were having a wonderful time when the waiter arrived with our third course. He put a meat dish in front of us and said something along the lines of “Et voila le pigeon,” and walked away. Roberto and I, both ex-New Yorkers with lots of “rats with wings” visions floating through our heads, looked at each other with deep concern.
Roberto said maybe the waiter didn’t say “pigeon.” Maybe he said “pigeon of the woods” or something else which means quail or pheasant in French?
We didn’t touch our plates until the sommelier came over to fill our glasses and I asked, “C’est le pigeon? Comme le pigeon dans le parc?” This is pigeon? Like the pigeon in the park?”
He laughed and spoke very quickly. All I understood was, “Non. Pas le pigeon dans le rue.” No. Not the pigeon in the street. I had a bite. It was gamey and I wasn’t convinced. We now know to say, “No octopus. No veal. No pigeon. S’il vous plait.”
And just a few more pics of some incredible sweets we ate.
And finally, the cheese de resistance, this brie which had a layer of mascarpone and truffles. (Roberto insisted on adding this pun in honor of Austin’s O. Henry Pun Off which we missed while in France. I apologize on his behalf.) We sampled the brie at the farmers’ market and just started laughing, because it was the only way to express how ridiculously delicious it was. When we told the cheese monger we’d take a quarter kilo, he said excitedly, “This cheese has a LOT of fat!” When the French cheese guy warns you about something having a lot of fat, you know you’re in trouble.
Jusqu’à la prochaine fois (until next time),
Carolyn & Roberto
Loved this :) If you haven't checked it out, I recommend https://parisbymouth.substack.com
Out of curiosity, do y'all eat pork? Pigs are smarter than dogs and young children, so probably smarter than octopi too (not even addressing the fact that My Octopus Teacher, while a very moving film, was total anthropomorphisation). And veal in France is not subject to the same torture that veal in the US is (just travel around the countryside in meat producing areas and you'll see them all out frolicking in the green fields, eating grass and drinking their mother's milk). You might want to open up to trying new experiences to truly enjoy French gastronomy.