I’ll Meat you in Paris, Mon Cheri
Oh well done us, Daddy Tea and me. We have eaten our favourite Saturday night posh meal. And it was as yummy as it always has been, and (hopefully) always will be.
So: filet steak (from the local Wanstead butchers), parmentier potatoes with garlic and rosemary, green beans (ideally our own, but they haven’t grown yet, silly weather) and a red wine reduction. Serious deliciousness. Not good for purse or waistline, but good for the soul, and hey, good for parenthood… “goodnight children, sleep tight, and keep quiet whilst we gorge on MEAT”.
I didn’t eat red meat much until I was about 23 years old. Then I moved to Paris and realised that if you want to stay alive (via the medium of eating) you need to embrace the world of red meat. And I mean, wholeheartedly with a kiss on either cheek. Monsieur, can I ‘ave my steak well done? Non, mademoiselle. Absolutement not, please leave my restaurant quietly, and don’t come back, you English cretin, au revoir.
So that’s when I got the whole meat thing, and came to appreciate good meat. I began to flaunt my new gastronomic prowess by ordering my lamb “bleu” and I almost (but not quite) learnt to eat steak tartare.
I met Daddy Tea in Paris. We fell in love in Paris. We got engaged in Paris. We owe Paris a lot, notwithstanding our love of a good steak.