No meat, no alcohol: why French restaurants leave some diners with nothing
Imagine returning from France looking so thin your partner wonders if you’d just been released from prison. That’s exactly my experience after fifteen days travelling across the country. In that short timespan, I’d lost a staggering twelve kilos. The reason? Two weeks surviving on half a salad, a sliver of carrot, and three packs of almonds. Lady Luck certainly wasn’t dining with me—every evening out, I found myself in the domain where meat ruled and rivers of alcohol flowed.
Sitting at the Feast—Or Not Really Eating at All
In France, if you don’t eat meat and don’t drink alcohol—which, unfortunately, was precisely my case—you don’t eat at all. You nibble. You forage. Occasionally, a benevolent salmon fillet would show up to save me from starvation. Had I been vegan, I might have gone home in a coffin or, at best, in a wheelchair hooked up to an IV.
A weekend book fair made things downright theatrical. Three meals were on the schedule. Upon arrival, I was served my cherished salmon fillet—drenched in white wine sauce, of course. I spent ten minutes drying my plate with hunks of bread. Dessert? Charlotte with Cognac. Sadly, my bread was gone, so I surrendered my fully soaked Charlotte to my neighbor. He devoured every last bit.
That evening, the starter was oysters. Oysters and I? Lifelong enemies, courtesy of childhood trauma. I politely passed. The server swept by to fill my wineglass; I explained I didn’t drink, having overindulged in youthful days. His look was as if I’d asked whether he practiced tantric sex in freshwater pools.
Then, out of nowhere, beef cheek landed on my plate. One look at each other, and we agreed: this wasn’t happening. At least there was a vegetable flan, which I attacked like a hostage freed after three years. During bites, I had to reassure the waiter, again, that I truly didn’t want wine. He rolled his eyes to the brink of fainting. Next, dessert: half a pear steeped all day in Burgundy wine. The very scent made me woozy. Off it went to my neighbor—the same one who had scored my Charlotte. Again, he wolfed it down.
The Menu Minefield
Lunch the next day? Tapas: chorizo, chicken, Bayonne ham, lamb testicles, frog liver, goat tendon, wild boar spleen. I quietly watched the parade go by. Honestly though: the carrot sticks were delicious. I ate so many my pee was orange for two days. Dessert—an exotic fruit in plum alcohol—didn’t tempt me. Instead, I discreetly munched on a granola bar that had suffered in my backpack.
The remainder of my stay was no less entertaining. Seated in yet another restaurant, invited by well-meaning souls, I would await the menu with a combination of dread and resignation. Receiving it felt as if I was about to break some sinister secret. I’d scan it like it was a butcher’s handbook, then re-read, convinced I’d missed something. Starters? A battlefield: sautéed snails, foie gras terrine, and scallops in Port wine.
- Main courses, a full-blown animal parade: coq au vin cavorting with beef ribs, all under the fond gaze of lamb rack in a beer sauce.
- My saving grace? Fish. Like sole fillet… in Grand Marnier.
Did I flinch? Not a bit—I swiftly ordered a quarter Perrier with lime and ice, thank you very much.
Salad, Salad, and—You Guessed It—Salad
Let’s talk about salads. Lots and lots of salads. For degenerates like me, restaurateurs had found their solution: a colorful assortment of vegetables, freshly decapitated by those gadgets you buy at local markets for next to nothing—usually as Christmas gifts for your mother-in-law. This artful platter was all cucumber cut into measured chunks, spirals of grated carrot, twists of red cabbage. Perhaps three innocent leaves of lettuce tossed on top, and voilà. Salad you can eat without bothering anyone.
Lessons Learned (and a Few Laughs Along the Way)
So, what’s a meat- and alcohol-free diner to do in France? Survive off carrots, scavenged salads, and whatever stray fish escapes the tidal wave of wine sauce. At least, after two weeks fading away at dinner tables, I could say I’d detoxed in style—if a little too thoroughly. For future travelers, a word to the wise: pack some extra almonds, don’t count on bread to save your dessert, and prepare for some truly imaginative carrots. Bon appétit (if you can)!
John Smith is a culinary enthusiast and food blogger who discovered his love for Asian cuisine during his years living in Seoul and Tokyo. With a background in journalism, he brings a storytelling approach to exploring the cultural significance behind every dish. John is passionate about making Asian cooking accessible to home cooks and sharing the vibrant food scenes he encounters in his travels.
