In a dingy Parisian back street, diners at a one-of-a-kind bistro tuck lustily into breaded horse brain, pan fried heart of horse and broiled cheek, along with prime rump steaks the chef cuts from the bone himself. Seasoned aficionados queuing at one of the few horse butchers left in Paris say they prefer theirs raw as minced "tartare," pepped up with olive oil, lemon juice and pepper. If the thought of having eaten Romanian cart horses in mislabelled frozen lasagne is making ...
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