Why I hate Paté

I know there is a is a cult of Paté lovers out there: Paté of Foi Gras, Paté of Canard, Paté de Campagne... Cook books are devoted to the stuff - how to make it, what to drink with it, what to eat with it... The finest restaurants have Charcuterie plates featuring Patés... HA! To me, it's all just glorified meatloaf!

I have watched Paté being made in a multitude of kitchens. Line the terrine with belly fat, grind the ofals and meat, season the mixture, layer it with what ever the region calls for: a tender duck liver, a black truffle, a hard boiled egg - bake it in the oven and Voila! A slice of heaven. No, nope, not for me... where's the ketchup?

Pate is something I will never understand. It's right up there with Corned Beef Hash... something people make to deal with what no normal person would ever eat in their true form (or in their right mind) I don't care how perfectly poached the eggs are, or how tiny the cornichons. I like cornichons and I like poached eggs; I also really like Foi Gras just not served all ground up, mixed with other stuff and loaf shaped.

Sometimes our culinary likes and dislikes are built upon childhood experiences. My mother had a tendency to overcook vegetables, as a result, I like them al dente. We all know someone who eats only beige food, no vegetables at all, or nothing spicy. I feel sorry for those people.

Back in the day when I went to a French boarding school with priests and nuns who wore the traditional black and white habit, dinner would frequently be paté served with a little green salad and water mixed with local red wine, cornichons and spicy mustard. To me it tasted the way canned dog food smells. Yuck. Mind you, this is the same school where we were served, coincidentally of course, creamed spinach when ever the lawn was mowed. No,I don't like creamed spinach either. I think those saintly nuns made the paté out of all the left over meats from the week, and then compensated by serving a delicate little apple tarte for desert. I love apple tarte.

Go ahead. Eat all the paté you want. I'll never object. Perhaps you may convince me to taste (in the hopes of getting me 'on board' with people I respect and admire) but never, ever, for a moment imagine that I will fall under the spell of some Paté en Croute. I am doomed to be Paté Philistine. So be it.