A scene from a French restaurant:
“How would you like your steak, medium?”
“French medium or American medium?”
“French medium.”
“Well done.”
The steak, of course, arrived medium rare.
Food is a religion in France. The meal is the rite. Wine is not alcohol, it is culture.
And cooking beef too much is a sin.
In this country it is possible to ask for steak cooked only with the light singe of a cigarette lighter.
Or a raw egg, spices, and salt.
There is a parasite that depending on the source, an estimated large part of the meat eating French populous has. This is less in the US, only by virtue of more fire. Typically, you will never know if you have it. Your reaction time may be slower and you may have cysts in your brain, but you will not feel different.
You will also have a higher probability of dying in an automobile accident.
However, red beef tastes good. Real good.
More Carpaccio, please. More tartar!
Toxoplasma gondii be damned.
Of course, Lucy & I had steak tartare while we were there. Not sure if we came home with a few parasitic passengers in tow.
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