Last night's dinner

Kristina lent us an amazing little book, Clotilde's Edible Adventures in Paris, which we've now taken to as kind of a bible to discovering great restaurants in Paris. Friday afternoon, while exploring the streets of the Latin Quarter and following our Lonely Planet's walking tour of literary haunts, we decided to stop by one of the bistros I had marked as a possible stop and make a reservation for the evening. Unfortunately, we arrived after lunch (12-2 PM) and well before dinner (7-11 PM). After some discussion of whether we should chance just showing up a few hours later or call, Tara finally convinced me to plug in their number and give them a call.

"Bonjor!"

"Bonjour."

"Parlay vou Anglai?"

"A lee-tle..."

A reservation in hand for 8:30 that night, we followed our map, finding the oldest mosque in Paris, Hemingway's apartment, James Joyce, and a flophouse where George Orwell stayed for some time before writing Down and Out in Paris and London. After a brief stop at a tourist cafe where we each had a glass of beer while watching people pass by and a group of amateur capouiera practitioners entertained an undulating crowd, we browsed the used books available at Shakespeare & Company, then made it to the restaurant.



Clotilde described Ribouldingue as a palace to offal – tripe, sweetbreads, snout, tongue, udder – just about any part of the animal not generally found on an American menu. On arrival, two very kind waitresses at the restaurant greeted us and, realizing we had very little French to assist us, tried as best they could to get us comfortable.


The menu, filled with ris, agneau, cochon, vache, cerveau, required another handy book Kristina lent us, the Lonely Planet World Food: France; more specifically the French culinary dictionary in the back of the book. Quickly sorting tongue from kidney from marrow from brain, Tara and I were ready to order. Tara ordered a fresh marinated raw salmon with dill for an appetizer and tried to order veal tongue as her main. Apparently the latter was a popular choice that night and they were out; she ordered cod with fennel instead. I chose as my starter agneau cerveau. The waitress immediately replied something to the effect of, “you know that is lamb brain, yes?” “Yes.” For my main, I ordered Rognon de veau. Again, “you know this is kidney, no?” “Yes – exactly.”

They promptly brought us a pork skin terrine, the aspic glistening despite the low light of the restaurant. Tara ordered us a lovely rose to compliment our dinners. After some time, Tara’s salmon and my sautéed veal brain with fingerling potatoes, raw garlic cloves, and fat capers arrived and we feasted. Finishing that course, our mains – Tara’s cod and my rare veal kidney with scalloped potatoes – arrived.

All the food we had there filled me with such joy. The brains –billowy, with a creaminess reminiscent of sweetbreads only more so; each forkful just melted on my tongue. The garlic cloves, soaked in lemon juice, were like intermittent little firecrackers of flavor. The kidney had a delicate flavor, a slight gaminess I’m used to in liver, but stronger and with a chew like a good steak.

For newness, for delicacy, this might be one of the finest meals I have ever had.

Dessert – a passion fruit sorbet for Tara and chartreuse-flavored ice cream for me – was less adventurous than the prior courses, but acted as a fine palette cleanser for our finishing espressos and treats to close the experience. Delicate chocolate candies, salted caramels, and anise and cardamom flavored marshmallows arrived at the table; in due course we paid the check and walked home.