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in chopped garlic, parsley and butter and put them under the grill. They looked magnificent
placed on top of thickly sliced pain de campagne , the glistening melted butter and the aroma
of garlic adding to their lustre. We sat there with our plates in front of us feeling like proper
country folk, but we didn't eat them straight away.
'You first,' I said bravely.
Natalie hesitated and then dived in. 'Mmmm,' she said, overacting I thought.
We ate the mushrooms and I'm happy to report that there were no side effects, no sickness,
stomach upsets or death. Or, most disappointingly, taste. They were incredibly dull. I'd ex-
pected a hearty, almost steak-like texture and a strong, woody flavour, but this was like eating
soggy foam. The thing about France, you see, is that food is a kind of death or glory ex-
perience: food can be great or terrible, but should always be interesting. These mushrooms
were neither of those things, in fact they were worse than death; they were bland mediocrit-
ies, sullen and insipid. They were the French countryside equivalent of a midnight hot dog in
Leicester Square.
To us that didn't really matter though - we had picked and eaten wild mushrooms. And we'd
not only survived the experience, we were living the dream.
'This is what country living is all about,' I said to Natalie. 'Freedom, peace, living off the
land.'
'And animals,' she replied, though avoiding eye contact. 'And animals.'
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