 I WAS a teenager when I realised that the French take their food very seriously. I was living with a family in Brittany, when I heard a skittering and a crash as something fell to the kitchen floor. I watched, rooted to the spot, as our lunch staggered across the tiles. 'Le crabe, c'est frais, n'est-pas?' said Madame wryly. This was 'lunch' French-style. As well as crab, I was introduced to trout with almonds, carrot consommé, tomato consommé, platefuls of smelly fromage, artichokes with vinaigrette - and snails. I doubt I'm as fearless now when it comes to new flavours. But Aquavit in Watergate Street was about to test my mettle. With both soused herrings and paté de foie gras on the menu, it was time to recapture some of that schoolgirl bravado, or should I say, my husband's bravado? 'Go on, have the herrings,' I said, admiring P's new suit. (My attempts at flattery are always double-edged). 'Why don't you?' he asked reasonably. 'Because I want the seared foie gras and shallot tart tatin (£7.75),' I replied. The truth was, I wanted the tart but not the foie gras. Force feeding geese and then eating their liver doesn't appeal to me at all. But since it's considered such a delicacy in France - and cost always precludes anything but the tiniest of slivers - it wasn't so daring, surely? | 
Article
