Andouillettes for lunch

One of the few local foods I have a problem with is a kind of sausage called an andouillette. It's such a nice sounding name — pronounced [ahn-dou-YET] — for something that has a strong odor and taste, at least to the American nose and palate.

Andouille is basically a bigger sausage made pretty much the same way as andouillette. Louisiana-style andouille is a different thing entirely however. In Louisiana, andouille is straightforward kind of pork sausage (though one book I have says it is made from "stomach and neck meat"). It can be pretty spicy.

Fluorescent roses in the back yard to dress up this odiferous topic...

In France, andouille and andouillette are made from the pig's intestines. In other words, it's what we might call a chit'lin' (or chitterling) sausage in the U.S. South. The Larousse Gastronomique says: « Les andouillettes sont préparées comme les andouilles, mais avec des boyaux moins gros. » That is, "andouillettes are made the same way andouilles are, but with skinnier bowels." I'm using the word "bowel" because it is a literal translation of the French term boyau. And because it gives you a better idea what we are talking about here.

Why did we decide to eat andouillettes yesterday? Well, it wasn't really a decision. We were invited to lunch by Maryvonne and Bernard, our neighbors across the road. They also invited an old American friend of theirs who is now 84 years old and who hadn't been back to France in five or six years, plus a French friend of his.

A hibiscus flower

Why Maryvonne decided to serve andouillettes to a group of Americans, I'll never know. Even she knew it was a dangerous thing to do — she actually said so as she brought the plate of sausages to the table, their odor filling the room — and she also brought out a plate of lamb chops that those who couldn't eat the sausages could have instead.

Well, I figured that since Maryvonne bought and prepared the andouillettes, I should try them. Her food is always delicious. The andouillettes she had were made in Vouvray with Vouvray wine, which is one of the highest-quality local wines. The older American gentleman didn't didn't turn up his nose at the prospect, and the three French people were enthusiastic about the andouillettes, almost oohing and aahing about how good they smelled and how good they would taste.

Mille-pertuis, a.k.a. St. John's wort

I told Maryvonne that andouillettes are one of the rare French foods I wasn't crazy about, but that I would try them. « Il y a de la moutarde, j'espère, » I added. Some of that strong Dijon mustard, the kind that sets your nostrils on fire and feels like it's going to blow the top of your head off when you put a little too much of it on your steak or sausage, would go a long way toward masking the taste of the pork guts... er, lovely andouillettes.

The andouillette is kind of a cult food in France. If you like it, you are French. If you don't, you are probably not. It's that simple. I guess I am not. There's a club. It's called the A.A.A.A.A. — L'Association amicale des amateurs d'authentiques andouillettes. It holds competitions and gives out awards to the charcutiers who make the best andouillettes in France.

A salmon-colored rose in the neighbors' garden

The city of Troyes, east of Paris, is probably the best-known andouillette-producing place in France, but cities and towns including Arras in the north and Lourdes in the south, along with Cambrai, Paris, Aubagne in Provence, and Fleurie in Beaujolais also brag about the andouillettes they make.

The standard joke about andouillettes goes like this: « Une bonne andouillette, ça sent la merde... mais pas trop ! » — A good andouillette smells like sh*t... but not too much!

Andouillettes and andouilles are sold pre-cooked — poached — and ready for grilling. I assume the ones we ate were poached in white wine, and the ones made in Troyes might be poached in champagne. (Some might say that's a waste of good champagne, but never mind.) By the way, the word « Andouille ! » can be hurled at someone as an insult, usually in the form « Espèce d'andouille ! » It means something like " You bloody fool!"

A pork butcher's shop in Saint-Pourçain-sur-Sioule,
a wine village in the Auvergne region.
The owner claims to be the "King of the Andouillette."

Afterwards, I asked Walt what he thought of the andouillette he ate. He said he put so much Dijon mustard on it that he couldn't really taste it. He said he thought it contained a hint of cinnamon, and he might be right. And he also pointed out that he didn't have seconds.

Well, I did have seconds. Southerners are polite that way, you know. I didn't enjoy the second piece any more than I had enjoyed the first, either. I slathered on the mustard both times. And when I say a piece of sausage, I mean exactly that. Neither one of us ate anything approaching a whole andouillette.

But even the Larousse Gastronomique is clear on this point. It says, after a paragraph listing the various side dishes — mashed potatoes, apple sauce, sautéed onions, raw red cabbage, celery-root purée, lentils, red beans, etc. — that you might serve with andouillette: « Une seule certitude : l'andouillette exige une bonne moutarde forte. » One thing is certain: andouillette demands a good strong mustard.

Callie lurking behind bunches of wine grapes

I'll tell you how good the andouillette was: on the same platter, Maryvonne also served some of the sausages called boudins noirs — variously known in English as "blood sausage" or "black pudding." Between the two pieces of andouillette, I ate one of those just to cleanse my palate.

By the way, you really learn to appreciate a good red wine when you eat foods like these!