Caractère de Cochon: A Must-Try Jambon Buerre in Paris
The night before was too much. Great food. Maybe better drinking. Bistrot del Tournelles will do that to you. Foie gras and red meat and cheese plates before the dessert, and too much wine, and too much talking, and too many hours awake past bedtime. Paris will do that to you. Morning came with a head like a dropped wine bottle. Sloshing around and with a thud. The city outside didn’t care. No one slowed down. Horns. Scooters. A language I still can’t speak.
The famous jambon-beurre at Caractère de Cochon was the plan. Not a plan, really…more like a craving or a dream or a bucket list item I couldn’t wait to cross off. Ham. Bread. Butter. Something simple enough to fix the damage. Something French without the attitude. Something that won’t judge me for saying Bonjour like a fool.
It’s not the Paris of postcards. No Eiffel Tower view. No beret. No bag of baguettes like you’re Arthuer from Michael Clayton (IYKYK). But it’s entirely Parisian all the same. This is the real deal. The Paris that feeds you when you’re hungover. Or on a date. or lost. The Paris that takes you in, no questions asked. The Paris that might have existed a hundred years ago.
It’s Sunday. Cold, grey, and the Marais is waking up slowly. I turn the corner and see the shop already with a line spilling out the door. Twenty people, easy. And more coming. Inside, it’s tight. Wall-to-wall cured meat. Hams hanging like trophies. Sausages in baskets. Butter stacked like gold bars. The owner works the counter alone. No rush. No panic. He moves at his own speed. Talks to every single person. One by one are allowed in the shop. Cuts samples. Offers a taste. There’s no hurry here, even if the street outside is chaos and the line is building. He knows you want to take it all in. This is why there is a line at all.
He wraps each order like it’s the only one that matters. The line doesn’t move fast. Ten minutes go by. Then twenty. Nobody complains. Everyone’s here for the same thing, and we all know it’s worth the wait. Hopefully, someone in another line is grabbing you a coffee and croissant.
I edge closer. Now you can hear him…explaining each ham: where it’s from, how it’s cured, why it’s better. It’s not a transaction. It’s a relationship.
Our turn comes. He asks what I want. I look at the baguettes, the trays of glistening ham, the jars of mustard. I already knew what I wanted and I’ve known for a month. He nods, already pulling bread. A big slab of butter. Thin slices of rosy jambon de Paris. He works like a craftsman, not a sandwich maker. I pay. He wishes me “bon appétit”. Back outside, the line is even longer now.
The jambon-beurre is the quintessential French lunch. Baguette. Butter. Ham. That’s it. Three things. No tricks. No hiding. At Caractère de Cochon, it’s not just a sandwich. It’s a lesson. The bread is fresh, still crackling when you bite it. The butter is thick, creamy, cold enough to hold its shape but soft enough to melt on your tongue. The ham is rosy, tender, salty. You don’t just get one option. The counter is a map of Europe. Jambon de Paris, poached slowly in aromatic broth. Bayonne ham with a sharp bite. Jamón ibérico so rich it tastes like nuts. Mortadella from Bologna, speck from the Alps. Ham studded with truffles.
The bread changes, too. Classic baguette. Pain de campagne. Rustic loaves pulled from a wood-fired oven. You’re asked what you want, but really you’re being read. Hungover? He’ll steer you toward something hearty. Feeling fancy? He’ll slice the Spanish stuff paper-thin and load it into a soft, light roll. And the butter—this is where you see the care. Salted from Brittany. Unsalted for the purists. Even one whipped with Espelette pepper for a quiet burn.
You eat it with your hands, standing on the street, juice from the ham soaking into the butter, butter melting into the bread. It’s not even messy. It’s perfect. It’s Paris in about six bites. Eat it on a bench. Eat it while walking down a narrow street. Eat it leaning against a wall while scooters fly by. I ate mine along the Seine while people smoked cigarettes and others made out passionately. It felt very on brand.
Why didn’t I order two?
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