You couldn’t just get a bag of chips, it only came as extra with the
sausage. I marvelled at the ludicrous idea of having french bread with
chips (‘le chip butty’) and tried to decide what sausage I wanted.

The merguez (moroccan, spicy) looked great, but I wanted something
bigger so I pointed at the large ones on the hot plate. Looking at the
menu, I guessed they were ‘andouilettes’. That rang a bell. When the
woman scooped one disintegrated sausage into a baguette for me, I
remembered. Andouille… Tripe. Chitterlings. Offal.

I smiled, having made the age old unsuspecting-tourist-in-france
mistake. But I pride myself on a strong stomach and palate. I’m not
squeamish about food (as long as it’s not insects) gladly slip live
shell food down my throat and wax poetically about black pudding. A
little pigs’ offal wasn’t going to put me off.

I tucked into my baguette with great relish. Texturally, it was fine.
That thick white rubbery bit must have been a vein or stomach lining.
The pale grey brownish filling was like minced meat. It was the smell
of it that did me in. It was minging, sickly and sweet, much or exactly
like the food I used to cook for my pet.

Half of my baguette andouillette ended up in a bin. A bottle of Evian
took care of the taste and smell. Once inside the stadium, I stilled my
hunger with a plain old hot dog.