You don’t need me to tell you that food in France is good. But maybe someone needs to tell you that food in France is good if you order well. My husband Matthew learned this the hard way. He was maybe too adventurous, though I did order beef tartare, which maybe I should not have done considering I was almost 6 months pregnant (but I’d already resigned to eating zero brie, which was about all the self-restraint I could muster).

For some reason, Matthew couldn’t find his food stride, though he is the foodie (read: he shops at Whole Foods) of the two of us. There were some things impossible to get wrong, like croc monsieur and gelato, but there seemed to be food landmines waiting for Matthew in different corners of the City of Love (or Lights, depending on who you ask).

The first night he got some kind of weird savory pancake dish that definitely wasn’t a crepe. My salad wasn’t much better but at least I knew what I was eating.

Another night, the beef tartare night, he got some kind of weird Japanese noodle dish that someone who actually lived in Japan probably should have stayed away from altogether.

And finally, a duck dish that was probably okay but couldn’t compare to my perfectly cheesy lasagna and French fries only inches away from his fork.

Despite Matthew’s landmines, you could always count on a vibrant, beautiful plate. No one pays attention to detail like the French chef.