My breakfast that morning was with members of the Francs-Mâchons, a local society founded in 1964 that comes together six times a year to feast on innards for breakfast. Club president and mâchon die-hard Delfante told me that he had enjoyed no less than nine mâchons in the last 10 days. He was sporting a large napkin fastened around his neck with a chain and a matching apron, both designed especially for the Francs-Mâchons. Embroidered on each was a clock face set to 9:00, the time when mâchon begins, encircled by little sausages and what looked like farfalle pasta but was, in fact, a delicately sewn representation of another machon specialty: paquets de couennes (boiled pig skin folded like a bow tie and fastened with string). Hanging around his neck was a beaten metal wine-tasting cup.
