The Truck of Goodness

At 11:45 pm on a side street in Paris, the purveyors of pork park their mobile pantry. Cooks scramble outside to identify their beast of choice; there are no cuts here, no plastic wrap, no packaging. A hog my size would have landed on me if not for the lightening reflexes of those who came to score the beast. A fine specimen it was, destined to be divided first into primals and later into exactingly precise morsels of pleasure. A nose, a tail, an ear, a knuckle. Nothing is not used.

Inside the restaurant, a nearly endless array of small plates streamed from a kitchen smaller than most walk-in closets. Goat cheese in lemon-infused oil; broccoli soup; eggs and hash browns in Worcestershire; tarbais with lardons; smoked magret with figs and hearts of palm; the best kidneys I've ever had; a sponge cake and meringue confection; warm chocolate mousse with cherries aux noix; ginger-lime sorbet drown in tequila blanco with sea salt.

Our friends in Paris, Daniel and Ellen, picked the spot and accompanied us. Thank Pete. Never would have been able to eat all that by myself.