You would never guess what I ate this weekend

So last Saturday morning I ran errands with D. Mainly to practice my stick shift skills, going from store to store. Finally, we arrived at la boucherie (the butcher shop), which, as to be expected when one is in France, is quite a sight to behold.

Red meat everywhere! Pig and cow carcasses; assorted pieces of raw animal flesh, all tied and cut up, arranged on platters in a glass display case and hanging from the ceiling and walls.

Funny how –back in the day—when I was vegetarian, I used to diligently avoid the meat section of Stop and Shop, not even taking a glance, because I was so disturbed by the sight of dead animals. Now I just swallow the disgust that naturally arises from my stomach and think of how I am experiencing and embracing French culture in its entirety.

While D was giving his order to the bloody apron-clad butcher, I decided to go look at the gourmet marinades and sauces that were lined up on a shelf. As he was ready to leave, I went over to pick up the plastic sack that was holding all our meat for the upcoming week, when I realized it was extraordinarily and unnaturally heavy.

“What’s in the bag?,” I asked.

“La langue de boeuf.”

“The what of beef?”

“La langue.”

Ah-ha.

In celebration of her birthday, Ar could have anything she wanted for supper. Anything at all. And what did she want? Cow tongue. Yummm. At least it sounds more appetizing in French: la langue de boeuf.

As it turns out, the lady who watched her when she was little was quite the traditional French cooking chef and used to serve it to her.

So it made sense why the bag was so heavy. The tongue is a muscle, after all. And for a cow, it is quite large: wide, and about a foot long. As S pronounced when we returned home, “C’est énorme!” It was her first time cooking it, and I could tell she was a little intimidated but quite the trooper. We discovered that the tongue shrinks significantly in size as it is slowly cooked stovetop overnight, as directed by the recipe, in a tomato-based sauce along with chopped sautéed onions and onions. When I went to get a glass of water from the kitchen that night, the fumes wafting around the kitchen were actually quite enticing!

Finally, as the time for supper approached the next day, my stomach was clawing with hunger and I was formulating various excuses, trying to find the most polite wording possible, and fully planning to eat only the side dishes for my meal.

So how did I end up eating the TONGUE of a COW, gory ligaments and tendons and all?

In my defense, I was drunk at the time. Okay, not really. But being in France, we have l’aperitif first, and this being a special occasion, D popped open some champagne (literally, he let the cork flew over the table). I instructed just “un petit peu” in my glass, but I ended up with a full one. [Note: the legal drinking age in France is 18.] Of course, I should have known better than to drink on an empty stomach. Furthermore (and more than anything this is probably more why I tried it, more than the fact I was a little dizzy and discombobulated from the alcohol), I was gauging the social pressure of the situation, and I could tell that it would have rude for me to refuse, to not at least attempt a bite.

So I made the decision to be courageous, plunge my fork into the meat, and forget the fact that MY tongue was in the process of digesting another tongue. It was a grayish brown color, some parts of it were smooth and others were bumpy. There was no denying its tongue-ish characteristics, no way of misidentifying it as a typical cut of meat. And even so, I have to admit: it actually tasted pretty good! (As in, I could understand why Ar would like it.)

And hey, now if someone asks me what is the strangest thing I’ve ever eaten, I have a pretty good answer.