From one of my Paris diaries…
Later, after our return to the third arrondissment for some relaxation in the apartment, my youngest and I did something I have never done in the United States. We walked back toward Les Halles and stood in line on the sidewalk and waited our turn to make trade with the neighborhood butcher. Europeans do not eat as much meat as Americans do, even if we discount the enormous amount of beef we consume per capita. They just don’t have the space that we do for herds, and where they do sheep and pigs are more likely to populate the vista than steer.
I suspect that the mentality of your average city-dwelling Frenchman is that if one is going to supplement the evening bottle of red with a chop of some variety, well, it’s going to be as nice a cut as can be found. How else to explain the line outside the butcher shop when Paris has as many grocery chain stores as any other metropolitan area?
My son, whose experience with fresh cooked meat generally involved styrofoam and plastic wrap, was in awe as we made our way slowly inside the shop. We both made note of the transaction process which, even with my limited knowledge of French terms involving bovine and porcine anatomy, clearly involved careful choosing and intense scrutiny and negotiation. The butchers, a husband and wife team, took no offense at the challenging manner of their customers. Rather, they seemed to want it no other way, and I could only conclude that the patronage of such discriminating meat lovers was the ultimate complement to they quality and service.
I’d like to think that they were pleased by foreigners coming to sample their goods, but I think my inability to properly put them through their paces in selecting the choicest cut and trimming it to my exacting standards left the transaction a little undercooked. I pointed at five good looking pork chops and felt meager pride when the she-butcher spun her calculator toward me so I could see the Euro required. I was even more heartbroken when, a few hours later, I gave up trying to figure out how the oven worked and pan-fried the chops using, shall we say, just a little too much heat and time. Nonetheless, the sautéed green beans turned out well, and we filled up on crusty bread. I look back on our visit to the butcher shop as part of the old-world French culinary home experience that many visitors never enjoy.
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