I stared at it. If it still had its eyes I’m sure it would be staring at me back. Trembling slightly, maybe, in anticipation of its fate. Fortunately there were no eyes, it was the wrong end of the animal for that. Literally. Had it been moving it would instead have aimed a deft kick. It was not moving. Of course it wasn’t, it was on my plate. I was supposed to eat it. I had eaten all around it. All that remained to be eaten was it. I took a breath, grasped my knife, and sliced into it, preparing for the offensive onslaught to my olfactory senses.

I like to think I’m pretty adventurous. I’ll usually eat anything. I mean anything. Food is always a pleasure, particularly when shared with others. The only things I will not eat are tripe and black pudding. Not a chance. I have eaten each once and that was enough. The first time, I was at an Asian restaurant with my brother and mother where the waitress tried to trick me by serving “beef honeycomb.” My brother and I liked beef so we decided honeyed beef would be tasty. My mother waited till we had a mouthful each, then said casually “You know that’s tripe, right?” The crunchy chewy sensation was difficult to stomach especially now that I knew what it was.

As for black pudding, well, I was forced to by my English colleagues who had piled it up on their plates for breakfast on one of our work trips. They polished the whole lot off except one small portion that they cut off for me and made me eat. Fried blood. My emotional centre is way too connected to my stomach, the mere image triggers feelings of disgust and illness.

Most people when they think of traditional French food, they think of snails and frogs’ legs. I have eaten both of these and love them. Snails smothered in garlic butter and parsley are totally yummy little chewy delicacies, a texture similar to a mussel. Never been able to convince non-French people to order them. My daughter turned her nose up at them. Couldn’t convince her to try the frogs’ legs either. Frogs’ legs look like mini chicken wings with very delicate bones. Breaded with lemon, garlic and parsley, they taste just like chicken too. Also totally yummy. Some people can’t get past the fact they were once slimy green things hopping along their lilypads oblivious as to what they were to become. But imagine my excitement when I discovered them on the menu at a little local restaurant just across from my apartment.

However, of course, there are many more traditional dishes depending on the region. In the north you’ll get choucroute de la mer – seafood sauerkraut, oysters, moules mariniere (mussels in white wine), salted lamb and kig ha farz, a Breton stew containing different types of meat and vegetables. Not great for your arteries. In the east, real sauerkraut and sausages plus quiche lorraine. As you move south, snails and truffles start to feature, along with foie gras, cassoulet, and of course frogs’ legs. Along the coasts in the south you get the famous fish soup bouillabaisse, the north coasts, its equivalent, cotriade. And of course, the seafood platters, simple chilled seafood served with a slice of lemon. Avoid the bigorneaux. They look like big chunks of snot.

So here I was, sitting in an auberge that had been recommended to me by the agent who helped me find my apartment. An auberge is a restaurant that serves only locally sourced food, prepared on the property (believe it or not there are restaurants where the dishes are prepared offsite and simply cooked in the oven at the restaurant. Make sure you find a restaurant that is “fait maison” – made on site). The auberge itself was high on a mountain road in the middle of the Vosges, a region popular for hiking and mountain-biking. It’s easy to see why – the panoramic views are breathtaking. A beautiful stone building, the auberge is a quirky shape, and covered in ivy turning red and gold in the Autumn sun. Its terrasse looks out over the ranges facing fully into the setting sun. The welcoming owner took my reservation and then advised me where to go for a hike while I waited for the restaurant to open officially for the evening.

As I finished watching the sun set, its orange and gold rays spreading over the hills like a velvet cloak, I hurried back, my teeth starting to chatter with the cold. I wondered what hearty local produce would be served in this auberge, perched on its narrow mountain road, with hardly another building in sight. Maybe some rich beef stew drowned in red wine and surrounded with locally grown vegetables, home-made jus and hot crusty chewy baguette fresh from the oven. I was salivating already.

I sat down, took a local aperitif and looked at the menu. Turns out local produce here is mainly pig-related. Specifically, andouillette. And feet. Pig’s feet. Andouillette is a type of sausage made with the intestinal tubes and minced up pig offal from various internal organs. It is popular in many rural areas of France. If it’s made from the large intestine, the smell is really special. When you cut into it, you can see the intestinal tubes more or less intact, poking out at various lengths, not too dissimilar to a cathedral’s organ pipes . They are not all minced up nicely like a normal sausage. I have been with people who have eaten it, I have smelled the odour of it, I have never eaten it myself.

I continued my search of the menu. Except for some vegetarian dishes, it was composed entirely of andouillette in some form or other. Well I didn’t come all this way to eat vegetarian. I reminded myself I was an adventurer, a courageous empty nester exploring far-off lands for the first time. Experiencing local food, I told myself, was part of the package. I ordered a smoked pork salad entree and then the dish with the least amount of andouillette in it as a main. Pigs’ feet stuffed with andouillette.

Fortunately it arrived as one big fat phallic-looking log rolled in breadcrumbs, and not as actual feet. I ate all the vegetables and potates first. As I sliced into it, I breathed a little sigh of relief. There were still the organ pipe tubes, but they were small – not the large intestine. So no overwhelming smell of offal mixed with intestinal waste product from the pig’s last supper. The feet were minced and the whole concoction, although distinctly piggy-tasting, was spiced and seasoned perfectly with a lightly chunky texture. I’m not saying I would rush out to eat it again, but it had that wonderful rustic home-cooking feel to it, made even better washed down with a local pinot noir. I looked around at the completely full restaurant, other diners contentedly munching on these evidently popular dishes.

I nearly didn’t dare to order dessert, but out came a simple bowl of fresh fromage blanc with drunken cherries. The perfect piggy palate cleanser.

You must try pig’s feet and andouillette once. Not in a tourist restaurant, but the real thing, fait maison, in an auberge.

I ate at Auberge de la Ferme St Vallier , Girmont Val d’Ajol, Vosges. They also have rooms to rent so you can stay if you don’t feel like braving the mountain road after dinner.

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