Based on these recommendations, I followed procuring Lost Sock and Small Planes coffee beans into Logan Circle. Then I followed the recommendation of my coworker friend into Le Diplomate, a French restaurant and neighborhood staple. I found each part of the meal interesting to discuss.

They seated me at a corner table near where the servers close out checks and gossip, less glamorous and more entertaining. Then they brought out their signature bread basket. I initially felt a base concern about the high carbs in the bread and the high fat in the butter; American nutritionism currently fixates on protein so much I can buy “protein water” at Target. However, recognizing the shortcomings of American nutritionism, I tried to enjoy the bread basket as a French person would, rather than as an American person wouldn't.

Next came the foie gras parfait. I know foie gras as made by force-feeding birds and as originally accessible only to royalty. From my plate I could hear the cries of animal welfare activists and the echoes of the Bastille. As if punished for my consumption of foie gras, I couldn't read the overly ornamental bathroom labels prioritizing form over function. I had to induce the more suitable bathroom based on the outgoers.

I ended the meal with rabbit pappardelle, because I index on novel dishes and rabbit is novel to me. The rabbit tasted like chicken and the pasta tasted like not-enough-sauce, so advised by Julia Child, I added the remaining butter from the bread basket into the pasta.

The check catches me content with bread, butter, duck, and rabbit. Scanning the damage to my wallet, I realize French food is overrated.