Pig’s trotters. Lamb’s feet stuffed with their brains. Flayed wild rabbits, all sinew, muscle and eyeballs. Nude chickens with flopping heads, gaping beaks and scaly feet. A pig’s head with curling eyelashes lowered demurely. A tray of minced horse flesh. Our favourite shop window. The French, eh? Would we like the head on or off, asked the butcher when we went in and asked him for one of his chickens. I consulted briefly with Oscar. We thought off. On would have been thrilling, but we wanted to see a French butcher cut a chicken’s head off. He positioned the chicken’s neck on his block and severed it with a nonchalant chop. Then he lobbed the head in a lazy parabola into his off-cuts bin.
Next stop, the knife, gun and hunter’s accoutrements shop. A tinkling bell announced our entry into a church atmosphere. The elderly man behind the heavy mahogany counter greeted us with priestly courtesy, his vestment a green apron.
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