I was working in Paris. My boyfriend was visiting me for a week. My brother was visiting Paris with his girlfriend for a weekend. We all convened.
I was nervous. I hadn’t seen my brother in years. I wanted to impress him. He showed up with a beautiful, waiflike Chinese-American girl who had gone to Berkeley undergrad and was now attending Stanford Business School. She was somewhat shy, and very polite. She was perfect.
My brother, who had somehow turned into a six-foot-tall, slender, handsome man wearing designer clothes, embraced me and said it was good to see me.
We were all very hungry. I had carefully researched typical French bistros in the area, and had picked one that was starred by the reviewer. The food was described as “authentic country cooking not usually found outside its region. A great bargain.” If the prices listed were correct, I could afford to pay for at least one other person.
We hunted down the address painstakingly, each of us referring along the way to our individual maps, calling out street names to each other and confirming that we were at least heading in the right direction. Wandering slowly and circuitously through narrow, twisting streets with very few clear signs, we finally reached our goal.
Flushed with success and relief, I took charge as we entered the bistro. The proprietor seated us at a table in the corner and thrust menus at us, let us know that he would be back soon, and bustled off. My companions all looked at the menus and then expectantly at me. “I can tell you what the dishes are,” I said, reassuringly. “This is beef, and that’s chicken, and that’s fish.” The proprietor returned and smiling at us like the confused tourists we were, started reeling off the specials. He was speaking so fast I didn’t catch all the words. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know what half the words meant. I concentrated, and furrowed my brows. Now everyone was looking at me expectantly, including the proprietor.
“He has a special tonight that he says is very good, and you won’t find it at too many other restaurants. It’s…I think it’s sheep…I mean lamb…sounds like lamb chops.” I exhaled with relief. I had figured it out. I had passed the worst test and could continue showing off. “That sounds great,” I said. “The specials are always the best dishes. And the most typically French. I think we should all get it.” My brother and his girlfriend agreed immediately. I was gratified and flattered. My boyfriend quietly requested the fish. I was annoyed. Why was he deviating? Was he doing it on purpose to embarrass me in front of my brother? Well, I didn’t care. The three of us would have the best, most unique, most typically French dish served in the restaurant.
My boyfriend and I ordered two glasses of wine, and started slugging them down. It had taken us a lot of time and walking to find the restaurant. It was now quite late and everyone at the table was starving. All we could talk about was how hungry we were and how much we were looking forward to a hearty, delicious French meal. The idea of tender, juicy lamb chops on the bone had us all salivating.
The proprietor, with a flourish, started bringing out the plates. One by one, he smilingly presented those of us who had ordered the specials with shiny white bistro plates. “Bon appetit,” he said, and left.
On each of our plates there were two small brown balls. The large size of the white plates and the boiled potato sitting on one side made them look even smaller than they really were. We all stared at our plates. The balls looked like they were tightly encased in some sort of membrane. They did not look like meatballs. They smelled…odd. Slightly sour. “Is this the right dish?” my brother asked doubtfully. “Maybe there’s been a mistake.” I tried to flag down the proprietor, who seemed extremely busy. Looking impatient, he came over.
