When I first moved here, I jumped at every chance I got to have an English menu. Hungry, I usually didn't feel up for the language learning exercise a French menu would be. However, after peering over a Froggy's shoulder, I started to suspect that something in the translation had been lost. Homard éclaté dans une essence marine à l'echalote grise à la syrah seemed to me somehow different (and better) than 'lobster with red wine and shallots'. Sometimes, sketchy translations can do more than make a luscious dish sound boring - they can make an otherwise great dish sound positively unpalatable. Like lotte sur un lit de choucroute et raisins translated as 'fish on sour cabbage with dry raisins'. It took me a while to realize that the 'dry' raisins were just raisins of the regular sort and sour cabbage was in fact better known to most English speakers as sauerkraut, but what about lotte. So I asked Froggy.

'A fish.'
'Yes. I know. But what kind of fish?'
'I don't know. It's big and ugly.'
'Ok.'
'And white.'
' Um...ok thanks.'

As it turns out Froggy was right. Lotte is big and ugly when its alive, but it's also lovely served over sauerkraut with raisins. Lotte is none other than that tasty bottom-dweller known as monkfish.

Other times, I would be so frustrated with people treating me like I was stupid, that I wouldn't even bother to ask. Once I ordered rognons de veau. I knew veau was veal. No problem. However, in my hypoglycemic state, my brain somehow connected rognons with 'round' and 'round' with 'medallions'. Great. Veal medallions. Yum. When my dinner came, I pushed my 'medallions' around on my plate and one almost rolled right onto the floor. They were definitely round. Sighing, I steeled myself and took a bite. It was actually quite good, but it was obvious to me that I was eating an organ. And then I thought, what if I was right after all? What if rognon did mean 'round' and 'round' was some French euphemism for testicle. There, of course, would be nothing wrong with that. Like I said, they were tasty. But if I was breaking new gastronomic ground, I wanted to know. So I swallowed my pride and asked Froggy. When he finished laughing at me, he explained that I wasn't eating anything more questionable or groundbreaking than kidney.

After that, I decided no more. Chances are, if you want to dine well in Paris, you will end up in a bistrot that doesn't have an English menu, with companions or a server who don't know how to explain to you exactly what it is you're eating in English. But don't let your fear of eating testicles turn you off of trying new things or seeking out those very French restaurants. It is almost the only way you'll get to try authentic French cuisine. Just do what I did.

Get yourself a small gastronomic dictionary. A regular pocket dictionary won't do. The French have many words to describe the cut, style, origin and preparation of food. Your pocket dictionary is unlikely to have words as specific as jambonneau (hand of pork, pork knuckle, stuffed chicken thigh) or paleron (cut of meat from neck to ribs). I paid 4 euros on Amazon.fr. for mine and it has proven to be indispensable (mine is always in my purse). You can get yours here.


NB: There are two other common confusions that English speakers have when confronting the French menu.

1) Entrée means appetizer in French.

2)Menu in French refers to a set-price meal, usually consisting of 3 or more courses. What we would call a menu in English (a priced list of a restaurant's offerings), in French is called a carte.

So you've been dutifully visiting all that you've been told to visit in Paris. You've been to Notre Dame. You've braved the lines at the Louvre. And being the peppy sport that you are, you even forwent the elevator, dragging yourself up the stairs at the Eiffel Tower. You've been busy. And I don't blame you. Paris is an incredible city, with many things to see and do. But if you are like most North American tourists, you ate an early breakfast so you could beat the crowds and you probably had a sandwich or crepe for lunch, while walking (somewhere close to noon). So now, its 6pm and you are rightfully starving. Your stomach is growling and your companions are getting cranky. As you and your loved ones drag yourselves along the cobbled stone streets, clutching at your howling bellies, you make a wrong turn. Damn. There's nothing and no one on this street, but the thought of turning back makes you feel weak. There are black spots swirling in the corners of your eyes, but you go on. Luckily for you, you spot a small, authentic enough looking bistrot at the end of the street. The bistrot is empty, but the door is open. What the hell, you figure.

You and your friends stand grouped, backs together, like frightened cows, by the door. You wait. And wait. You try not to notice the nervous-looking dishwasher watching you strangely from the window to the kitchen. You hear people talking. You know they are talking about you. Cooks push their way to the window to gawk at you from the kitchen in turn. You shift your weight and look around, pretending not to see. Finally, someone emerges from the depths of the bistrot. You explain that you would like a table for dinner. The man removes the pen from his ear and flips open a large black book. What time? Maybe it was your bad French, so you explain. Oh.... you want to eat now? His mouth twitches. He can hardly restrain his smile as he tells you service doesn't start until 8. As he escorts you politely to the door, you get the distinct impression that he's chomping at the insides of his cheek.

So you and your friends slink out of the restaurant dejected. You are now officially on the verge of fainting. You think you might be starting to hallucinate. You can distinctly hear the scrape of cutlery on plates. And glasses clinking. You want to warn one of your friends to catch you if you fall. And then you turn.

On the corner, there is a hopping bistrot, with a terasse full of people....eating!. A big sign - Service Non-Stop – crowns the menu board. Saved in the nick of time. You mouth waters as you mentally savour your delicious (and authentic) French meal. I guess, this is your lucky day right?

Wrong. French restaurants (the ones that actually serve the French) close between lunch and dinner. If you want to avoid tourist traps in Paris and eat like a Parisian, then you must alter your clock. I know. I'm sorry. But French people generally don't eat dinner before 8pm and all the restaurants that you actually want to go to (trust me on this) won't start service before 7:30pm. So eat a late lunch or have a snack.

I've been there too. I used to feel like I was going to faint by the time I could eat dinner. I would fill up on bread and barely make it through my first course. And now 8pm reservations feel so early. Believe me, if I can change my clock, so can you.