Ten years ago I should have taken you to the farms where they fatten pullets.

The pullets of Bresse, you must know, have a European reputation.

Bourg was an annex to the great coop of Strasburg.
But during the Terror, as you can readily imagine, these fatteners of poultry shut up shop.

You earned the reputation of being an aristocrat if you ate a pullet, and you know the fraternal refrain: 'Ah, ca ira, ca ira--the aristocrats to the lantern!' After Robespierre's downfall they opened up again; but since the 18th of Fructidor, France has been commanded to fast, from fowls and all.

Never mind; come on, anyway.
In default of pullets, I can show you one thing, the square where they executed those who ate them.