We leave the city in a taxi after breakfast. We're on a family vacation - Julien has taken the week off work and we're going to stay with his parents in a little village just outside St. Louis.
We arrive sometime after noon. Julien's step-mom has a meal waiting for us. There's a platter heaped with onion sauce, fries, and what looks like a Senegalese version of ribs. Baguette pieces sit in a pile next to the platter, for scooping up all this wonderful food. It smells amazing. Breakfast has long since lost its effect, and we lean in eagerly.
"You know what this is?" they ask me. "Phacochère." I recognize the word from our first week of French classes, when our table was covered with plastic animals, pictures, and household items.
Warthog?
I didn't know people ate that.
Something in my face must indicate confusion; they laugh. "Is this really warthog?" I ask Julien, half-expecting they're just teasing me because this my first time in a village.
Yes, it's really warthog, he assures me.
Angèle wants to know what I think.
It's actually delicious, even after I find out I'm eating meat from a tusked, bristle-covered wild pig. Maybe it's the sauce, but I don't notice the slightest bit of gamey flavor or toughness. It tastes a bit like pork, only more flavorful. More robust.
I am hooked.
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