The Worst Meal I've Ever Eaten

Preface - This is the story of the worst meal I’ve ever eaten, and the scene of the crime is Paris, France. This experience taught me that if you want to make every meal count, and no dining experience to be wasted, you have to do your research, no matter where in the world you’re eating.

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I’m sitting at a round table tucked into the corner of a long, low ceilinged dining room decorated in red, black and gold. I’m surrounded by people laughing and clinking glasses, and the bright, white lights of the Eiffel Tower are visible through a series of wood-framed windows, casting a soft glow across the room. A red curtain separating the dining room from the kitchen flutters with the warm, evening breeze sending wafts of butter, herbs and cooking meat my way, causing my stomach to grumble in protest. I’m very hungry.

At 25 years old, this is the first night of my first trip to Paris, a city that up until this point I’ve only seen glimpses of in films or read about in books. I feel overwhelmed by the need to take it all in – to remember every moment, take a mental picture of every alley I peek my head into, relish every bite, taking mental notes of every ingredient I taste. I am determined to remember it all.

The site of my first Parisian meal has been chosen at random. After hours of travelling and exploring I found myself in a delirious state of exhaustion and hunger, but knew I had nothing to fear being in the gastronomic capitol of the world, the birthplace of haute cuisine. Back home in Toronto, a full restaurant is usually a sign of good food and atmosphere, so I assume the same will be true here. I saw two restaurants, side by side, the patios and dining rooms packed with people, and choose the nearest of the two.

I order something local, yet familiar, steak frites. The scent wafting from the kitchen conjures memories of the countless steaks eaten throughout my childhood. Thanks to my dad’s best friend, the owner of a butcher shop, those steaks were thick pieces of brick-red meat, often veined with ripples of white fat. Dad would shower the meat with salt and pepper, then sear it in a blazing hot cast iron pan or grill it on the bbq with oil, butter and herbs until it developed a firm crust on the outside surrounding a soft, pink centre that gave way to a rush of salty, juicy flavor when you bit into it. Impatiently, I look around the room, attempting to take in the details while twirling my fork in my right hand, the cool steel firm and reassuring between my fingers.

Finally, I see my server part the curtain making his way towards my table, and balanced expertly in his hands are two white plates, which I’m certain are carrying the best steak and frites I will ever eat.

He places the steak in front of me and I pause, confused. Is my vision failing me in my state of fatigue? In the centre of a stark, white plate sits a greyish-brown slab the shape of Florida that I’m struggling to identify as any cut of beef I’ve seen before.

I stare at this lone hunk of meat staring boldly back up at me, lacking the dignity to cover its shameful appearance with a trace of sauce. Maybe this is simply a cut and cooking style I’m not familiar with. Is that a grill mark over there by Miami? Determined to enjoy it, I cast my doubts aside, cut into the meat and take a bite.

Several minutes pass as I chew, and chew, and chew, an activity that seems like it will never end. It’s as if my teeth are grinding down again and again on a bouncing rubber band. Suddenly a memory pops into my head of that time I got a flat tire, and I can vividly see the strips of thick, shredded rubber scattered on the road. It feels like I can taste them, and that same wave of panic returns as I realize there is no rescue in sight. I need to spit this out.

I spit out the flavourless bite and begin to laugh. It lands on my plate, now white, shriveled and riddled with teeth marks, next to the larger piece I cut it from, and the whole dish looks so pathetic I almost feel sorry for it. I now see on closer inspection that this meat is grey through and through, and I’m convinced that what I thought might be evidence of a grill mark was only a passing shadow.

This poor piece of meat was probably once something resembling beef and has clearly suffered terrible abuse at the hands of what can only be a bored, untrained chef lurking somewhere on the other side of that curtain. Or perhaps the chef is not even here and this was cooked yesterday and warmed in the microwave for my dining pleasure. There’s no way to be sure.

Abandoning the steak, I look over, hopeful, at the towering plate of frites. A golden high-rise made up of tiny, crispy- looking rectangles. I reach for one with the hesitancy of a skilled Jenga player, picking it up between my fingers and eyeing it with suspicion, making no sudden movements. I bring it slowly to my mouth and bite into it. It’s crispy, but overdone, tasting of no seasoning aside from a mild bitterness from something burnt and the overwhelming flavor of the vegetable oil it was cooked in. A combination I’m not sure any amount of wine can succeed in banishing from my palate.

I try anyway, taking a large gulp of my too-warm red wine and look around the room. Was the red curtain always stained and tattered at the edges like that? Were the lights coated in dust just a moment ago? I notice that my fellow diners might be talking and laughing, but what they aren’t doing much of is eating. Am I imagining things or are the lights of the Eiffel Tower dimmer than they were before?

As reality sets in, I realize that I am the only one to blame for landing in my current situation. I entered this restaurant with a hopeful innocence solely based on naive assumptions about Parisian cuisine, and I had learned my lesson. The only thing to do was to declare this meal a grand failure. My stomach continues to protest, grumbling away, so I stuff a handful of greasy fries into my mouth, wash it down with the rest of my wine and leave, vowing to eat better tomorrow.