Y’know what you need?
You need a mangosteen.
“But wait!”, you say, “What’s a mangosteen and why do I need one?”
Because it’s the most glorious fruit to ever come out of the Garden and it’s impossible to find in the US. True, our international readers are scoffing at my mangosteen-less-ness, but if it was good enough for ol’ Queen Vic to offer 100 quid to anyone who could bring her not-amused self one, it’s damned good enough for you to want one, too.
And you DO want one. You do not want to exit this mortal plane without having once tasted a mangosteen. This is Bucket List material, people, and it needs to be near the top, along with nude sky-diving with an agreeable Frenchman/woman and flying Business Class on someone else’s dime.
Y’know where you can get a mangosteen?
Lyon, France.
To the person who recommended Les Halles de Lyon Paul Bocuse, I owe you my first-born. It was both that good and I care for children that little. Also, I found a mangosteen there. But that little discovery was only the Koh-i-Noor in the crown jewels of gastronomic excess. In the Seven Deadly Sins, Les Halles is to gluttony what the Moonlight Bunny Ranch of Carson City, Nevada, is to lust. Or, to take it to the next level, let me quote “Q” of Star Trek: The Next Generation fame:
“It’s wondrous. There’s treasures here to satiate tastes both subtle and gross.”
And oh god, is there . . . wandering through Les Halles is food porn at its most excessive. Fresh morels? That’ll be a mere 130 euros a kilo, please. Oh, you want that cured ham that comes from a little village in Italy where the hogs come from stock that was around when the Romans were kicking ass? The kind of oinkers that only eat truffles and acorns and are massaged by prelates from the local monastery during a full moon? The kind of ham that’s been curing since Mussolini got hung upside down and ended up as a backstop for every partisan packing a Carcano? Yeah, they got that. Whatever your appetite, they’ve got a way to feed it. If you’ve got the euros -- oh so many euros -- they’ve got whatever creature once trotted this earth, swum in the seas or flew in the air that you would want to stick in your mouth.
I didn’t walk through Les Halles, I skipped joyously as vendors fed me samples of food that was at least three times too good for me. “Have some cheese! Have some jambon! Stick this in your mouth and chew . . . THE FIRST ONE’S FREE!” And I -- hapless, helpless I -- waded through the stands like a great baleen whale, mouth agape, filter-feeding whatever morsels of Heaven were tossed my way. Do they not know me? Do they not know that I have the impulse control of a hyperactive 6-year-old who ate three boxes of Peeps? “Have some pate! Have some wine! It’ll only cost . . . YOUR SOUL! (and about a gazillion euros).” The bastards had my number and soon I was buying goodies left and right. I even saw a giant two-inch roach in its death throes in front of a pastry stand -- and I bought something there anyway! Weeping with shame and joy, I thought I’d been to the mountain. Then my wife, the temptress, asked, “Isn’t that a mangosteen?”
It was all a blur after that. The euros and food flew. One of those? Yes, please! A couple of those? Oh, god, thank you! Just like the Little Piggy (who was turned into prosciutto), it was oui, oui, oui all through Les Halles. Finally, something had to give: my stomach or my wallet. I know excess and generally know when to stop. Les Halles bested me. Yet, I’m still drooling as I think of it now.
And that mangosteen? The one I just ate like 20 minutes ago? It was even BETTER than I’d hoped it would be.
Y'know what you need? You NEED a mangosteen. Just leave the chip-and-pin card at home.
(More Lyon coming soon!)
-- Mike Beebe