Remembrance of Things Passed

A.L. had me very intrigued with Le Coin de Verre. First, their number wasn't in the phone book. Second, it was a restaurant known for its wine, not its food. What exactly was this place?

We met A.L. at Colonel Fabien metro and headed south on Avenue Claude Vellefaux. It was a wide boulevard, but it became more dark and desolate as we walked south. We eventually made a sharp right on one of those tight corners where the buildings look like tall slices of cheesecake. The door to Le Coin de Verre was locked and the curtains were pulled. It looked like the restaurant had shut down months ago. A.L. rang a buzzer. After about 45 seconds--long enough to burnish the restaurant's cachet at the expense of our patience--the hostess opened the door and let us in.

Once we struggled through the heavy, red curtains, the hostess led us through the small front dining room to a table in the back next to the fireplace. A.L. said she told him that our table was to be up front, but a group who had reserved the fireplace spot had cancelled last minute.

It was at this point that I became skeptical. It was too perfect. All travelers want to find the hidden gems, to know what only the locals know. It elevates us, it's an ego stroke--we're not tourists, we're Travelers, right? Let the sweaty backpackers follow Lonely Planet off the beaten track, let the jet set be chauffered by Michelin. Here I was with real live French people, sitting down to the best table in a restaurant that most Parisians didn't even know about.

Turns out Le Coin de Verre is not for everyone. If you are looking for a great Parisian restaurant, this isn't the place. Having said that, we had a wonderful time. This is the kind of place that I'd want to find in any city--it does its own thing, and it does it well.

The tables were made of large, uneven slats of wood. The stuffing in the benches was so worn out that you felt you were sitting on a 30-year-old school bus. The fireplace cast a jaundiced light on the chipped plaster walls and years-old flyers for piano nights. Looking around, I felt like a photograph in an old, faded newspaper.

Our server had grey, slightly greasy hair that was slicked back an inch off his head, like he had been out of the shower for 10 minutes. He had Gerard Depardieu's face, and a reserved manner that nonetheless betrayed an ability to be the last one standing at the end of a particularly rowdy night.

The wine list and menu were scribbled on chalkboards that sat on the mantel above the fireplace. The tables were to either side of the fireplace, so it was impossible to see the wine list and the menu. Our server--after raising his eyebrows playfully at the table across from us--spun the wine list around so we could see it. It was probably a millimeter from falling off, but he'd obviously done it hundreds of times before.

A.L. and his friend B. spoke with the server for 5 minutes about which wines to start off with. It wasn't a heated discussion, but they obviously were not in complete agreement. Which seems to be okay over here. A.L. told me later that the server he usually has is much more knowledgeable about wine, and that this guy didn't really know that much.

I asked A.L. what I should order. The menu was extremely limited: mostly "charcuterie" and "fromage" (sausages and cheeses). Very good sausages and cheeses, mind you, just not much else. We decided to get several plates and share them. I got the Salade Savoyarde--lettuce with several sausages and cheeses. Jeremy got the boeuf--a simple dish with beef and rice. A.L. had the saucisson tripe ("tweep").

If you know what tripe sausage is, you just winced. I didn't know. When I asked A.L. what he had ordered, he had difficulty explaining in English. "It zee, ummm...zee middle, zee inside of zee peeg," he said, rubbing his hand over his belly. "Intestines?" I asked. "Yes, zee place zee sheet go before eet come out."

Remember, we're sharing these dishes. I figured I could try it. After all, I had already eaten the horsemeat hamburgers A.L. had prepared "in my honor" a few weeks back. I mean, all body parts are gross when you think about it; doesn't cooking change everything? Once it's cooked, it looks different, smells different, tastes different.

A.L. cut me a slice of tripe and put it on my plate. I took a bite. Hmm. Pungent, real quick to the nose. Bitter, certainly. There's one flavor, sort of mustardy, standing out from the others...can't quite put my finger on it. Don't think I've ever eaten it before, though I've certainly smelled it plenty of times. I took another bite.

Yup. Shit. Definitely. Can't say for sure, because I've never eaten it. I thought that element would cook out of it. I was wrong. My mind drifted back several days to Ireland. Jeremy and I were standing in an old graveyard out in the middle of nowhere. A horrible stench came over us. We looked over into the field behind us and saw a farmer on a tractor spraying manure. We were directly downwind from him. I wondered what bottle of wine we should have brought to Ireland to best match that aroma. The Languedoc I held in my hand would have been sympa, I thought.

Unfortunately, the person to my left was also eating tripe. I had passed him some of my sausage earlier, so I didn't think he'd offer me any tripe now. I dug into my normal sausage--oh, sweet relief! But after turning my head away for a moment, I looked down to see my other neighbor had dumped a little bit on my plate. How kind!

It went down with more difficulty this time. This time, I knew exactly what I was getting myself into. I did not want to eat it. Not at all. But for some reason, I felt like I had to. Maybe I thought I'd acquire the taste. After all, A.L. and his friend were tearing through theirs the way I might tear through a pepperoni pizza. I took a bite.

GUH!

Never again.

The rest of the evening was wonderful, though. Lots of great bottles of wine, a plate of several cheeses (including an outstanding comté), and great banter. And the price! Each person had a full plate of his own, as well as sharing several good bottles of wine, a plate of charcuterie, and a plate of cheese. Not to mention a small glass of delicious 1979 armagnac as a digestif. All this for 27 euros. No wonder no one knows about it. If I found something like that in Baltimore, I might not tell anyone.