The French, sometimes known as ‘fence-sitters’ if you’re feeling charitable or ‘surrender monkeys’ if you’re not, become positively dogmatic when it comes to eating meat. Their usual philosophical, ambivalent, shrug-shoulders attitude morphs into outright fascism where food is concerned; particularly when it comes to how, why and when meat should be cooked, contemplated and consumed.
I’m still reeling from adrenal overload following the stress of cooking filet mignon for lunch. ‘How can I possibly eat something as dried up and unappetizing as Cherie Blair’s neck?’, my husband asked me in bewilderment, going straight for my Achilles’ heel. Never mind Cherie’s neck, I’ve just had an epiphany; the saying ‘I married you for better or worse but not for lunch’ suddenly made perfect sense to me…
I like to eat my meat cooked (ie no cold or bloody bits left), whereas my husband lets it merely catch sight of the frying pan from the far side of the kitchen. That’s fine; he can eat his meat however he chooses (especially if I can arrange a separate table for myself to avoid the nauseating sight of such carnage). But his normally easy-going demenour deserts him during carnivorous half hour and he becomes a blinkered and dogmatic caveman.
Even my half-French three-year-old son has joined the rare-meat crusade; he ceremoniously spat out his chewed up filet in disgust proclaiming it to be ‘dégoutant maman’.
The problem is that I don’t actually like meat at all. I really only eat it because I find the idea of becoming a vegetarian very indigestible. (whatever anybody says, a twin-set of grey skin and hair and an surplus of body hair and fat is not a good look) . But to be able to swallow it at all, I have certain criteria that must be met: it can neither look nor taste like meat and has therefore to appear heavily disguised (tongue-singeingly spicy does it for me).
I believe we’d be on the blacklist of a restaurant we frequent if it weren’t for the fact that they’ve generously put my behaviour down to English eccentricity. And all because I once asked for mustard with my liver. The chef felt compelled to come and try and talk me out of my foible with the same degree of intensity I would imagine was used during the Bay of Pigs negotiations. He sat down at our table and lowered his voice (lest anyone should cop on to the fact that he admits low-lifes such as me into his restaurant). But I stuck to my guns and got my mustard (French; I was by this time too intimidated to ask for English), which I slathered all over my, by now, cold liver. Next time we go I’m planning to ask for it to be served with bacon and onions and perhaps a bit of gravy…
Since writing this article I am proud to announce that we’ve hit upon a compromise: Seven-Hour Lamb. Any meat that cooks for seven hours gets my vote but it stays so tender and moist (and is regarded as a real delicacy in France) that neither my husband’s nor my son’s inherently superior taste buds are insulted.
