We flew to Paris for Cameroonian food; and it felt right!

When you say it out loud, it sounds completely unhinged. You don’t usually book flights from the UK just because your bride-to-be friend is craving grilled fish and braised tendon badly enough to drag you across the Channel.

But this was a hen-do; two Cameroonian-British women meeting in the middle, whooping and hollering at Charles de Gaulle like we’d just won the lottery. We didn’t come for the macarons or a romantic stroll along the Seine; we were on a mission.

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Friday Night: La Tendonnerie

27 Rue d’Oran, 75018 Paris (Château-Rouge) | €10–20

We took exactly one second to unpack, clink glasses, and pray for good weather (it rained anyway). Then? We were out. La Tendonnerie @chey_julie , located just a 3-minute stroll from Château Rouge in Paris’s 18th arrondissement, is legendary for its spotless vibes and authentic African soul. It’s a full gastronomic map of Cameroon, Gabon, Senegal, Congo, and Côte d’Ivoire. Château-Rouge is one of those “if you know, you know” spots.

Ms. Bride-to-be ordered the tendon with plantain tapée (braised beef tendon with smashed fried plantains). If you know beef tendon, you know it’s a gamble. But when it’s done right? It transforms into a gelatinous, collagen-rich perfection. She took one bite, eyes wide: “It’s melting! A taste of heaven just fell from the sky into my mouth!”

I went for the poisson braisé (grilled mackerel). It was seasoned with a vibrant blend of garlic, parsley, and spring onions before it ever kissed the grill. The char was perfect; the flesh underneath bien juteux (so juicy). We sat there yapping over each other, laughing until our sides hurt. I even tried a post-meal cigar for the vibes, attempting my worst Robert De Niro impression. Ridiculous. Hilarious. Perfect.

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Saturday: Wig Snatching & Le Kamer

15 Rue de Saint-Quentin, 75010 Paris | €60–70

The next day, we braved public transport for a bit of a wander. I even took the chance to test out my Key & Peele French skit on a train full of actual Parisians. I got some genuine laughs, so hey, there might be a comedian in me after all!

Our main mission was Mariam B, a hair salon hosted by a truly eccentric character. I’m not sure how many Central Africans this Arab gentleman had been hanging out with, but his code-switching from Bassa to Beyti regions was impeccable. I couldn’t even keep up! By the time we left, the Bride-to-be had secured her wedding wig, and I’m pretty sure she named it on the spot.

Wig in tow and bloody famished, we stopped at Africana le Kamer (@africanalekamer). They brand themselves as “haute gastronomie africaine,” which is a bit of a stretch in my opinion, but the food was undeniably delish. The wait wasn’t too long, but the card machine was down, and we only had British pounds on us. Paying in GBP involved some serious “calculator currency gymnastics;” it was a whole mood, to say the least. Conversion struggles aside, the food stood ten toes down. Ms. Bride-to-be ordered the grilled sea bass with bobolo. Before the fish even landed, she was reaching for the Maggi Arôme, basting that fish like her life depended on it. When I asked if she was finally happy, she looked at me dead serious: “I will be happier when it’s in the pits of my tummy.”

I went for the grilled pork in mustard sauce. We both had the pepper sauce on the side, a blend of fried scotch bonnet that starts as a “kick” and ends as a physical assault. It went down smooth at first, then hit with absolute vengeance about three seconds later. Worth every spice-affected breath, even if I was already anticipating a violent exit the next day 🤭🤭🤭.

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The Saturday Night Shift: Vitry-sur-Seine

After eating, we hopped back on the train and took a bit of a walk to her cousin’s place. We chilled for a bit, but then it was time for me to get to work. Before I’d even touched the tarmac in France, the bride-to-be had already announced that her dear friend—me—would be whipping up an Eru storm.

Eru is a hearty, balanced meal-maker: leafy greens, palm oil, slow-cooked and rich in flavor. You can’t go wrong with cow skin (kanda), red meat, or beef, and I also prefer mbonga; smoked fish dried out to within an inch of its life. Very hard that, hence the slow cooking.

With the meal all plated, we paired it with a dry red wine that made my tongue pop. It was the ideal reset: just eating, talking, and enjoying the moment.

But the night was just starting. Once we’d fueled up, we got ready for a night out in Vitry-sur-Seine. We ended up at a club that sold suya on skewers and massive custom drink orders for the table. Between the DJ hyping up the bride-to-be to the nth degree and the non-stop dancing, our feet were finished, but we stayed until the morning came for us.

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Sunday: The Host with the Mostest, Poulet DG & Wine Like Water

We were invited to a lucky couple’s house for dinner. Six of us around the table, and the wine; Château de l’Estiac Bordeaux and Mission St Vincent, kept flowing like water. The hosts told us the story of how they met, and it was so romantic it created a ripple effect of good vibes across the table. The Parisians really don’t play about their joie de vivre.

The main event was Poulet Directeur Général (Poulet DG); it is a combination of chicken and ripe plantains. Back home this meal used to be considered a high-status meal served primarily to elite business leaders and government officials. It has now become a staple everyone can enjoy but it still carries that VIP weight. Our host was so proud of the “tough” chicken he used; I tell you, take us out of the continent and we still crave our comfort foods.

This chicken must have played soccer or something in its past life because the meat was nice and firm and oh so tasty.

Then my friend let it slip it was my birthday. Suddenly, the kids ran out, champagne was popped, and a candle went into the dessert. Warm, loud, and completely unplanned. If I could have blushed red, I would have, but the gesture was just so sweet.

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Monday: Departure

Before the taxi to the airport, we squeezed in one last meal: gumbo and fish with bobolo (le manioc). We did a quick detour through the gorgeous Parisian streets to see the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe, then I hit the airport gift shop for the Ratatouille plush and the France-shaped cookie tins.

I couldn’t forget a fridge magnet, too. My little girl’s many certificates for being good at something have to get pinned up by something… and it’s also proof I was there. Even the ride to the airport was a mood; our cab driver got a very domestic phone call from his missus. I couldn’t help but note how bland he sounded while she was so perky on the other end. I almost gave him one star just for that—I mean, come on! Show some life!

We didn’t go for the monuments. We went for the food, the loud Cameroonian music, getting hit on far too much, the vibes, the culture, the people, the family… you name it. It was epic and messy, and that is exactly the point.

Would I fly back just to eat like that again? In a heartbeat. 😜

What’s that one meal you’d happily hop on a plane for, even if everyone else thinks you’re being completely unhinged? Tell me in the comments!

Xoxo, CC