A Life Worth Eating

I know this may come as a shock, but beneath my intimidatingly macho 6′2″, 160lb exterior I’m a sensitive guy. There I was in Paris — a city others inexplicably call the City of Lights though I’ve always known it as the City of Macarons — and something was bothering me. I thought about what I consider to be the peripheral issues of traveling — things like monuments, museums, and parks — and how in the previous week I had completely ignored them. But my worries were squashed when Adam wisely pointed out that l’Astrance is just across the river from the Eiffel Tower. Surely there could be no better place for a walk while we all engaged in the sort of post-game commentary that inevitably follows this kind of meal. And besides, I always manage to see plenty of sites on the way to and from restaurants without even planning to.

We were having lunch with a certain Parisian friend of ours, so there was even more cause for excitement. Julien is a gentleman and a scholar of many disciplines, and over the course of the meal we were glad to hear his insight on topics as wide-ranging as macarons, poissonneries, and the best cookbook store in the city. We had plenty of time to chat about such things since we chose the longest degustation menu offered at l’Astrance — eight courses. Taking the time to experience other cultures first-hand has always been a priority of mine.

I believe it was Ron Burgundy of Anchorman fame who said “When in Rome.” I know others might quote a slightly more elaborate version of that old adage, but I prefer the conciseness of this one. And I’m not always prone to grasp the philosophical nuances of such sayings, but I think what the wise Anchorman means is that eating Tex-Mex in Toledo or lobster rolls in Lexington is crazy. Trying to eat like a local is definitely the way to go.

Then again, so is trying to speak like one. And frankly, I did a horrible job of both at Au Trou Gascon. As the name suggests, this restaurant features the cuisine of Gascony, an area of southwest France known to geography scholars worldwide for its exceedingly high density of people… enjoying copious amounts of foie gras and Armagnac. The region also happens to be famous for cassoulet, a slow-cooked white bean stew that can include all sorts of happy things: duck or goose confit, mutton or lamb, pork sausage, pork skin, pork belly, pork shoulder, and other particularly pleasing pig parts.

I had only been in Tokyo a week, but my practice of the Japanese art of kuiadore was progressing quite nicely. By eating my way to financial ruin and an irreversibly larded midsection over the past several years, I had actually been getting a head start on connecting with this culture before I even arrived. Or at least that’s what I told myself as I tried to justify walking around with this ridiculous piece of paper in my hand. Let me explain…

It was my last night in Tokyo, and I was on my own for dinner. Both of my friends had already left, and our collective knowledge of Japanese had gone with them. Beyond food words, I know essentially nothing (for me this is a trend across several languages, English included). So I asked a staff member at the hotel to write out a simple message for me on a sheet of paper — Please give me the longest menu this restaurant offers. Thank you.