Some things really are better in moderation. Foie gras, for example. Yes, last Friday’s dinner was bien arrosé, but I’m blaming the fattened liver (and subsequent cassoulet) for the lack of sleep and cold sweats.
This was an absurdly rich meal, one in a series, that I would only eat in France. The night before I had a terrine of rabbit and a beef stew with prunes and mashed potatoes tangy with crème frâiche. And for lunch, just hours before the foie gras cassoulet one-two punch I had the silkiest chestnut soup topped with whipped cream and crispy lardons followed by a roasted stuffed chicken leg over a buttery celery root purée. Oh, and dessert.
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