Interestingly, Paris became a little bit about my flirtation with raw food. Raw milk cheeses - because I could - and raw beef. Carpaccio and steak tartare to be precise. I've only ever dabbled in raw beef dishes before. Nibbled bits from the plates of friends or sampled trimmings while preparing steak. Enough to know I liked it. Not enough to know whether when faced with a large helping of chopped raw meat if I could actually eat it all. (For some reason, carpaccio is not as confronting as steak tartare. Maybe it is to do with the meat being pounded thin and then hidden under a pile of nicely dressed salad leaves. I didn't even think twice before ordering and eating carpaccio.)
So, when my friend Perry and I found ourselves in a restaurant in Montmartre that served steak tartare, it was time. Perry is a raw meat connoisseur from childhood, so I am told. I pretended to be.
It was so good. Washed down with a riesling from the Alsace, which was a great accompaniment.
I nearly ate it all. But in Paris, the wise woman leaves room for dessert.
There were other meals that were wonderful for other reasons (location, food, flirtation...). But this was the most memorable because it ended up being about the adventure, and pushing my own boundaries (and the great company, but that's another story). It was Paris, on a plate.
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