This Little Piggy went to the Ferry Building...

I’d imagine that many born-again carnivores have to summon up the courage to cook meat at home. I know I did. It was surprisingly easy, really. First a Thanksgiving turkey (with 4 pairs of rubber gloves to remove the innards), then some Thai pork shoulder which I hacked apart while chanting “it’s okay, it’s already dead, it’s already dead…”, and I never looked back. Apart from the fact that I love to cook, I knew cooking meat was inevitable for me because I really wanted to make a commitment to eating “good” meat. Humanely raised, organic, no hormones, that sort of thing. This is hard to do when you go out to eat. If you really want to know where your food came from, you either need to eat exclusively at places like Delfina, or you need to cook it yourself.

And so I ventured into the world of butcher shops. It was, and is still, a bit intimidating. All those strange bits of raw meat, and me with not a clue what to do with them. I really think meat should come with instructions. Thankfully I've found some pretty helpful butcher shops in San Francisco.

My first was Drewes Brothers in Noe Valley. I love that place. It’s a great independent butcher shop, owned by two brothers that seem to have a thing for heavy metal. I don’t really approve of the metal, but I do feel good spending my money there. If there’s a long wait when you go to pick up your Thanksgiving turkey, they have free tequila to pass the time. Patron, not the cheap stuff.

Sometimes I go to Prather Ranch in the Ferry Building – they have a nice selection of meats and the music is better than at Drewes Brothers. There's a moddish guy that works there and he's usually playing the Jam or the Buzzcocks as loud as he can get away with in a place like the Ferry Building. And everyone there is friendly too. Butchers are friendly people, I’ve discovered. They don't give you any of that snotty Rainbow Grocery attitude. (Don't get me wrong, I do love Rainbow Grocery, but sometimes I feel like everyone's sneering at me because I didn't bring a jar from home to put my bulk olives in.)

Mostly I love to go to BiRite. They have beef from Marin Sun Farms and other great stuff too. I even bought a duck breast there once - my first! But everything in that store is great so it can be dangerous as I usually end up with loads of cheese and wine and ice cream too.

Now a lot has been written about eating local, sustainable, humanely raised food. And a lot more has been written about how this is an elitist concept that only a few people can afford to practice. Well, I don’t know. Last time I went to Prather Ranch, I got 2 pounds of ground beef, 2 filet mignon and 2 pounds of pork shoulder for about $60. This seemed pretty cheap to me. I mean, $60 for big hunks of various animals? I had to pay more that that to adopt one little dog, and we have to feed HER, not the other way around.

I guess this is really one of the great advantages of being a born-again carnivore: I have absolutely NO IDEA how much meat is supposed to cost! $60 for a big bag-o’-meat, is that expensive? Let's do the math...for $60 we got a fantastic steak dinner, hamburgers, lasagne bolognese, pulled pork sandwiches and papardelle with a slow-cooked pork sugo. 5 meals x 2 people = 10 meals @ $6 each, which makes it almost as cheap as the taqueria on the corner. And ain’t nobody calling that place elitist.

The Accidental Feast - Paris, Part 1

Okay okay, I'm back. I know I've been gone for ages, but until someone starts paying me to write about meat, I can't promise that I'll do it on a regular basis.

Let's see, where was I? Oh yes, that big long stint of traveling in the fall. Normally, that would have been merely interesting. As a born-again carnivore, it was a revelation.

I travel for work, some. Not a lot. If you are someone who aspires to a job that involves travel, let me tell you right now - business travel is not glamorous. It is not fun. It is not a vacation. Usually it involves getting very little sleep, seeing the inside of a conference room instead of the sights, eating hotel food, and making mindless small talk to people with whom you have nothing in common. It is, however, waaaaaay better than a regular day at the office.

While I wouldn't consider travel one of the perks of my job, I would consider it a perk that the colleague I most often travel with shares my passion for food & drink. She is someone who understands the importance of a nightcap. She knows that a cocktail at the end of a long flight is as important as a warm bed. She will trek halfway across a strange city with me to find some hole-in-the-wall that I read about in Saveur. And that, my friends, makes business travel tolerable. And sometimes, fun.

In October, we found ourselves on a massive tour that included a conference in DC, followed by a conference in Tunisia, followed by another work function in Barcelona. We were in for the long haul. DC was fine. I even had my first Frito Pie in some place in Alexandria that specialized in the stuff.

But the night before we were to leave for Tunis, the room was abuzz. Several people were to attend the same conference. And Air France went on strike. We were on Air France. What to do?

We go online and look - our flight to Paris is cancelled. Our onward flight to Tunis is not. Okay, easy. We just need to get ourselves to Paris. We call Air France. We spend 40 minutes on hold listening to some hideous song with a woman breathlessly singing 'Away with the Sea'. Finally, they rebook us on a Continental flight for the next day. All is well.

We're running a bit late when we go to check in. "Oh, you're the passengers going to Tunisia," the Continental rep says, "We've been waiting for you." Huh. Not sure if that's good or bad. We get checked in, pulled aside for extra security (of course) and sent on our merry way. Our plane lands in Paris and I turn on my phone. I have a text message. Our Tunis flight is cancelled.

Grrr. Charles de Gaulle Airport is a seething mass of angry humanity. We go to the restroom. "We must put on red lipstick. We're in Paris. That's what you do when you're in Paris," my colleague said. And I admit to her, I've never been to Paris.

It's true. I've been close. Most notably almost 6 months spent in London. But never once did I make it across the channel. She's shocked.

We shuffle between airport counters and baggage claim. We go from Air France to Lufthansa to Iberia to Alitalia and back again. What I learn to appreciate most is the French flair for exaggeration. "No sir," I overhear from an Air France agent, "you are not getting on a flight today. All flights, to anywhere in the world, on any airline, are full."

"Madam," I'm told, "there are million and millons of lost bags. Millons. We cannot possibly find yours." (Thankfully, I have eagle eyes because I found my own bag among the pile.)

Long story short, we manage to get on a Lufthansa flight to Tunis for the next day. We have 18 hours to kill in Paris. There are worse things in the world. Thankfully my colleague knows Paris well. We head into the city, get a hotel and book dinner at Allard.

Allard is as old-school a Parisian bistro as I can imagine. It's not cheap, but hey, we were suffering here. Stuck. In Paris. What are we to do? We're stuck. We must eat. And drink. It's not our fault. It's Air France's fault. They are practically forcing us to eat here.

We order wine.

Then foie gras. My second. it has a little jelly type thing on it that I'm not fond of, but I'll eat it anyway.

Then escargot. Hey, when in Rome, you know. Okay, they gross me out a little. Not the snails, per se, but the fact that their little heads and little antennae are still there. Of course, there's nothing like garlic butter to keep you from noticing a little antennae.

Then a whole Bresse chicken completely covered with chanterelles. I have never, ever, seen so many chanterelles in one place before. Never.

Then tarte tatin. And armagnac. Oh, the tarte tatin.

So yeah, maybe business travel isn't all bad. We got up the next day at 7, and spent 3 hours in Frankfurt airport where I had a delicious bratwurst (I wasn't going to let a meat opportunity pass me by). Maybe it wasn't all that delicious but I'd never had bratwurst before. Well, it was delicious until I found a hard thing in it and had to stop eating it but the mustard was good.

Then we spent another 3 hours in the airport in Tunis waiting for lost luggage while Tunisian men leered at us for being beer-drinking American sluts.

All in a day's work.