Beans, beans

Our new neighborhood, named after its closest métro stop, Saouzelong (kind of a mouth-full as you enunciate every vowel) is satisfying. My latest favorite discovery, besides Line 2 stopping right outside our building, is our local butcher -- his beans, to be more precise. Along with an incredible display of every kind of meat in every kind of cut one could hope for (I'm slowly getting up the nerve to try the purple filet de cheval) he carries several takes on the regional specialty of Cassoulet. The other night I brought home a jar of haricots Tarbais cuisinés à la graisse d'oie to accompany the saucisse de Toulouse that Jacques locked eyes with as soon as we entered the shop. The sausage was good, but the beans- the beans! - were out of this world, their texture so creamy and melt-in-your-mouth tender without being pasty, with flavor that makes beans cooked in duck fat seem light.