In most of my readings about real food, I have always encountered the term French Paradox. The term refers to the unexplainable fact of how most of the French people don’t get fat despite eating fatty, sweet, and ultra-rich foods.

I have never really given that any thought at all. My guess was that the French get laid more than they eat, hence cancelling out any of the excess calories that usually convert itself to bellies and bulges.

My ignorance with French food is vast.  So far, the only French food I had are the ones with the word French in its names: French Onion Soup, French Fries (There is considerable evidence though that French Fries actually originated in Belgium and I think the Muscles from Brussels, Jean Claude Van Damme, is an advocate of this campaign to rename the fried potato strips to Brussels Fries), French Toast, and French Bread. Oh, does French Maid count? I guess not. Truth is, I know a little French food, and tasted a few.

So last Friday, after buying some products in Union Square, we decided to try and eat in an authentic French restaurant. I didn’t want a fancy French place with an elaborate chef’s tasting menu that costs a few dollars short of a month’s rent, but rather just a typical French restaurant that serves casual French food for the common French citizen. With this in mind, we ended up at Les Halles on Park Avenue between 29^th and 28^th. It was my first time in a French restaurant.

We ordered the following just to taste and experience what and how these people eat:

Foie Gras Poëlé aux Pommes for appetizer

A classic Cassoulet for entrée

A dark chocolate soufflé for dessert

*My friends ordered the following, which I also tried.

Steak Frites, Pavé de Thon Grillé, sauce Vierge Légumes Grillés à l’Huile d’Olive,

Coq Au Vin, Escargot, and Gratin de Macaroni.

The Politics of Foie Gras

I know that Foie Gras raises a lot of eyebrows. But I guess if we view it as a cultural thing for a specific people, in this case, the French, we would understand. The French make and eat Foie Gras because it is a part of who they are. It is embedded in their culture. We should let them be. They raise their own duck, anyway,  so let them do what they want with them and their livers. Perhaps they just don’t see Donald Duck when they see ducks, like most Americans do. Instead they see Duck Confit, Duck fat and Foie Gras, which is fine with me.

Besides, they do not force others (non-French) to eat it or make it. If you don’t want it or couldn’t sleep with how French ducks are being maltreated, then by all means avoid it. In the same way as the French will never in a million years bother with our Chicken McNuggets, which they probably think is the bigger atrocity.

By the way, Americans have pushed Chicken McNuggets to the global stage, which is more embarrassing that nourishing.

The Experience

Anyhow, the Foie Gras arrived and I immediately noticed how small the serving was. It was a slice of liver as big as half-a slice of bread coated with brown sauce and sprinkled with walnuts. The dish was $18.00. A little pricey for such a small portion, but the moment I put some in my mouth I forgot who I was. For a while, in a haze, I thought I was Philippe Petit walking on a wire towards Megan Fox’s dressing room.

The thing exploded with flavor and texture. The closest thing I could compare it with, experience wise, is the experience of slurping high-quality grass-fed roasted veal marrow right off the bone.  I was overwhelmed with flavor like a rush of the best illegal things on earth shooting up my brain and leaving me in an orgasmic seizure.

It was so rich and unbelievably delicious. No wonder the French are determined to start a war with any nation that plans to take Foie Gras away from them.

After my first experience with the fatty liver, I did something different. No, I didn’t collapse signaling for the defibrillator, instead, uncharacteristically, I didn’t crave more of the fine stuff.  It was strange! But yes, I thought it  was so good that a bite of the super rich delicacy seemed enough, and a second bite won’t in any way take me any higher. It was akin to being on top of Everest, where there are no more peaks climb. A complete experience and many answered questions in a single bite.

Right there I realized that French food is all about quality not quantity. Their food is so good, you only have to taste it once to be satisfied. To be full is not in the question at all. Unlike most of us here in the US, where the sign of satisfaction is when we can no longer raise our arms to signal for the check due to a bursting stomachs, the French people are all about the sensual and social pleasures of eating. They eat well without eating more!

The Cassoulet was the same experience. The $23.00 succulent, fatty, slow cooked bean casserole with preserved duck, bacon, ham, and sausages satisfied me without the need of cleaning up the whole earthenware pot. And mind you, the pot wasn’t even big.  The fat infused beans with its meats literally melted in my mouth and I often found myself grimacing with pleasure like I knew all the answers to the greatest mysteries. I was enlightened.

The soufflé did not disappoint either. For a $10.00 cake the size of the Apple logo on my laptop and bathed in dark chocolate syrup, it was unforgettable. I shared it with my friends like I did with the other dishes and they all felt the same: satisfied to the brink of howling.

We ate there for a while, mostly talking about the great stuff we were having. We probably spent more time talking and walking around blocks to find the restaurant than actually eating the heavenly French offerings (I think when we were taught by our elders to give thanks to God for every meal, they meant THIS kind of meals not Happy Meals. For that we can thank red haired clowns and burger monarchs).

In the end, we all got out of Les Halles satisfied but not stuffed. Well, that doesn’t sound like it makes a lot of sense, does it?

That is why it is called a paradox.