Americans have this thing: when they order something exotic at a restaurant they love to regale their friends with it afterwards. I, my friends, am no exception to this rule.
Readers of La Coquette may wonder if I have eaten cow's tongue? Why yes, I have! Readers of La Coquette may wonder if I have eaten Boudin Noir? Damn straight, sirs! Readers of La Coquette may wonder if I have eaten tripe? Whoah….easy there, lil' Readers of La Coquette. That shit's offal. (Ba-da-bump.)
I think Americans like to talk about eating unusual body parts--(and by unusual, I mean of course, "unusual")--because it makes them feel gutsy and noble at the same time, appealing equally to their sense of adventure and the part of them that feels guilty about wasting things. Maybe I'm projecting. Maybe some Americans think it's really fascinating to eat the foot of a pig, but if you think about it? It's no different from any other part of him. I put my feet up and file my nails at the thought of eating pig foot, really.
This is what I thought at least, until my uncle Roger and aunt Marie-Line came to town recently and took Jeanne and I to La Coupole. My uncle ordered Pied de Cochon. This is the conversation that transpired:
Jeanne : That there is a pig foot all right.
Me : Quite a…. hoof he's got.
Marie-Line : And such a delicate little ankle.
Roger : It's a good looking foot!
Poor piggy, all he ever wanted was to splash his little leg in the mud and now, here it was, on a porcelain plate.
My uncle did not offer me a bite, not because he is impolite, but because offering bites, this is not something that is done so much in France. But if he had, I would have said "Of course!" And it would have been delicious. Like the tender and juicy shredded pork we used to buy in plastic tubs at the grocery store back home. Mmmhmmm, now that's what I'm talking about.