“Antispéciste” by Aymeric Caron

The Book that Shook Me.

Less a manifesto, more a philosophical grenade—with a cover that says it all: a pig gazing straight at you, calm and knowing, like a quiet philosopher-king. I bought it on a whim, took it home, poured a glass of Bordeaux, and opened it expecting to scoff. Four hours later, I was hunched over a baguette, emotionally wrecked, my culinary worldview shattered.

The Awakening—Blow by Blow:

• Page 32: “A pig’s intelligence rivals that of a three-year-old child.” Me: “Wait… but what about jambon cru?”

• Page 89: “Cows form friendships. Chickens teach their young.” (Okay, maybe not algebra—but still.)

• Page 156: “We name our dogs but number our burgers.” Me: “…Oh putain.”

Caron didn’t just argue that animals feel pain. He laid out—relentlessly, beautifully—that they also feel joy, curiosity, affection, even hope. A hen basking in a sunlit dust bath. A calf resting its head against its mother. A fish, yes a fish, darting through a current in playful rebellion. These weren’t just behaviors; they were echoes of a shared emotional world. And here I was—reducing them to “product,” “protein,” “flavor profile.”

Then came the knockout punch:

Speciesism. Caron called it the “original sin” of domestication—the myth that humans sit atop a moral hierarchy, and everything else exists to serve us. From Aristotle’s hierarchy of souls to Descartes’ soulless automatons, straight through to factory farms. And chefs like me? We weren’t just bystanders. We were curators of cruelty, turning suffering into spectacle—and calling it art.

I wish I could tell you I laughed it off, tossed the book aside and went back to foie gras, langoustines, blue lobsters, and perfectly seared venison. But I didn’t.

What I had was what French therapists call une crise existentielle. Some English chefs might call it a midlife crisis. Same difference.

My hands—the same ones that deboned pigeon with surgeon-like grace—began to tremble. My beloved ris de veau tasted like betrayal. Even the creamy Saint-Nectaire in my fridge seemed to whisper, “You know where I came from, don’t you?”

And the real kicker?

Caron wasn’t just nudging me toward veganism. He was demanding something deeper—something almost sacred. A complete rewiring of the soul. To stop seeing animals as ingredients, and start seeing them as individuals. As beings with their own inner worlds—their own Paris. Their own sunlit fields, their own quiet winters, their own nighttime rituals and family bonds.

To understand that every steak-frites was not a dish—it was a eulogy. That the phrase “humane meat” was a contradiction in terms, a fairytale in a lab coat. Like “kind warfare.”

That book didn’t just change how I ate. It changed how I cooked. It didn’t tweak my philosophy—it detonated it. Suddenly, menus felt like manifestos. Recipes, quiet revolutions. The kitchen, once my sanctuary, became a battleground of conscience. My knives, once tools of artistry, now looked like instruments of betrayal.

I’d watch a lobster clambering for freedom on the chopping board and suddenly hear Edith Piaf: “Non, je ne regrette rien…”

Except I did. I regretted everything. Everything changed from that moment…..