TODAY I ATE a large bowl of duck tongues, something which no doubt hissed-off "a paddling" of water fowls. The setting was 'Laureate', in the vicinity of China Town. It was slick, modern and efficient (you order via ticking numbered boxes on a form). It was also filled with Chinese diners.
Nothing quite prepared me, however, for the excruciating crunch from the bone running through the greasy tongue (I don't have one in mine, so why should a duck?)
Over the next few days my colleague, a wine importer from Dijon, is graciously taking me on business to Burgundy, the stomach of France (Paris is the heart, for the brain, look to her Michelin starred establishments serving sauteed calf brains).
I will update on my return.