French Food

Well, weighed in last night, only gained 1/2 a pound. Not to worry. For the last week I said "fuggedaboudit" to watching what I ate and counting points. I knew I wasn't going to gain back 37 pounds in a week, and I didn't. Back on the wagon this week.

Last time I was in Paris, I was 22 years old, with a backpack and very little money. We ate a lot of bread and cheese, some crepes off the street, and had a fancy dinner one night. Well, fancy for us. My two friends ordered what they recognized; some kind of beef dish. Me, I wanted to be adventurous and order something I wasn't sure of... so I ordered the Pied de Porc.


Stop laughing.

My French is horrific right now, but then it was non-existent. I figured it was pork, and it was the least expensive item on the "Plates" menu, so I was ready to be surprised.

Carol and Tina each got a lovely steak and potatoes dish, and I mocked them for the ordinariness of their choice. Then my plate came out.

It was a pig’s foot. Actually, part of the leg and the foot. It came on an oval platter, cloven hoof and all. It appeared to have been deep-fried, and sprinkled with parsley.

As I shot dirty looks at my friends, who were doubled over with laughter, I peered sorrowfully at my plate. How was I going to eat this? I tentatively poked my fork into the upper (leg) part.

Oil squirted out, and I almost lost it. More laughter. I picked up a roll and buttered it. C. and T. offered me a bite of their potatoes. I was low.

Then, a large man who had been sitting next to us started to tell us how wonderful and tasty my dish was. At least I think that’s what he was telling us. He was speaking French, and mostly what I heard was “Très bien” and “Très délicieux.” He was smiling, and somehow we got the idea that he was the owner or the maitre'd off duty or something. He may just have been overly friendly, but I felt as if I was insulting him with my displeasure at my dish.

He leaned over, took my knife and fork, and cut the pig’s foot down the middle. Right through the hoof! On my plate now was cartilage, fat, deep-fried skin and maybe ½ an ounce of meat. I gamely took a bite.

It was pure fat. Pure pig’s fat. Greasy, slimy, leave-a-film-all-over-the-inside-of-my-mouth, fat.

I smiled my most winning smile at the man, tried not to look at my friends who were choking with mirth, and swallowed.

“Merci,” I said to the man, who made a little sound of satisfaction, and went back to his own dinner.