A recent encounter with chocolate mousse in France did not involve tasting, but rather observing the experience had by two stereotypical American tourists. I was well into my pre-meal cheese plate, preparing to eat for two hours as I’d fasted most of the day to make room for dinner at my favorite restaurant in Montmartre.
**Le Bon Georges in my opinion is one of the best bistros in all of Paris and demands your visit if you happen to be in town. Its everything you dream of in a French neighbourhood restaurant with superior techniques on seasonal ingredients and a wine list encyclopedia too big to sit on the table. Classic offerings noted on large chalkboards, cozy tables with bent back chairs, the sounds of the kitchen reverberating through the busy waitstaff along with the smell of sizzling butter. Its one of very few places where I eat every bite of four courses.
The father and twenty-something son seated next to me were deep in a loud conversation over what traits make a woman suitable to marry. With tables so close we could rub elbows, I found it difficult as a woman whose earned years of relationship badges not to tilt my head with a raised eyebrow. Besides, the sheer volume at which these checklists were being shared, now enveloped several tables.
To say we did not agree on each point is putting it lightly. But, I kept quiet and instead indulged in a steak tartare with extra bread to keep my opinions from sliding out of my mouth.
I did however notice when they ordered the chocolate mousse for dessert, followed by a questionable “bien sûr” (of course). I glanced over to the chalkboard and read under “to share”: ‘mousse au chocolat’, grosse cocotte à partager (jusqu'à 4 personnes, 30€). A large casserole dish filled with chocolate mousse, for 4 people.
When a large black cocotte arrived at their table overflowing with rich mousse and a mound of chocolate shavings I heard them both exclaim “we did not want this much mousse, why is there so much mousse?” (chew, sip, chew)