Au Pied de Cochon, 6 Rue Coquilliere, Paris (00 33 1 4013 7700). Meal for two,
including drinks and service: £70-£100

In the healing process, Paris always has had a head start: a deep well of self-belief. New York has its hard-boiled myths and clichés, but still has a shared memory of the 70s when the city almost went bust and Time Square was a place for junkies and retail sex. Some New Yorkers wonder how much it would take to go back there; others pine for it. Londoners gripe about a frail, creaking transport system that cannot cope. They look up at carelessly authorised skyscrapers and down at the gentrification of once shabbier corners and wonder what the city they try to love is becoming.

And Paris? On a visit that merges the noble instinct to solidarity with equally noble greed, Paris remains stubbornly, gloriously itself. Haussmann’s architecture is too solid, too poised, for the lustre to be dulled by something as deformed and futile as 21st-century terrorism. There are still the boulevards and the cafés and the sense that things will continue, just as they always have done. I have said before that Paris nurtures its own clichés better than almost other city could and a trip to Au Pied de Cochon only confirms that. It is Paris, compacted into a riot of curving lampshades piled with baubles like over-filled fruit bowls; of panels painted with dated floral designs which were out of date when first unveiled and seafood stands which are a mosh pit of still twitching lobsters. The ceilings are low. The banquettes are red. The waiters have seen it all before.

Parisians will tell you that, of course, it is now owned by some huge, faceless restaurant group; that it is just a place for tourists. But Parisians are also brilliant at being tourists in their own city, however nonchalantly, and on the lunchtime I go the tables are full of an older clientele, some eating alone, who look like they’ve worked hard to make their indentations on these fat leather banquettes.

It was not my choice of venue, but should have been, and long ago. That’s not because it is one of the best restaurants in the city, or even one of the best brasseries, though it does its thing very well. It’s because a man with my tastes should know about a place named after pig’s feet. So should you. It opened in 1947, opposite the famed Les Halles market, a good place to find leftover pig, and nurses a legend that it has no light switch or lock, for it has never closed. It is open 24/7 knocking out an enthusiastic menu of piggy extremities alongside brasserie staples.

As a statement of intent, a bowl of pig snout is delivered to the table alongside the menu: the nose, first long-cooked unto a gelatinous wobble, has been chopped, lightly breaded, then fried. There is the occasional layer of crisped meat alongside the jellied bits. I am, as ever, lost in admiration for those who first looked at a pig’s snout and worked out how to make something so edible from something so unpromising. My advice: you should try these and then decide, based on your reaction, which way the meal will go.

If you like them, hurrah. Because, if you take the place at its name, you can be served a succession of such wobbly, fatty breaded things. Alternatively that may turn your lunch into an assault course of outrages. If it’s the latter, order a steak. The steaks look great. Try the scallops. It’s hard to go wrong with scallops when the seafood is this well cared for.

Me? I like a little pig snout. We take it gently for the starters: a charcuterie plate with pâté de campagne, bayonne ham, lightly stinky offal sausage and, in a shocking nod to the existence of food from elsewhere, slices of oily chorizo. It is a celebration of cured pig, served with good crunchy baguette. The pâté in particular balances fat against muscle and is closing on room temperature, as it should be. We also get a salad layered with smoked duck breast, mostly because we think all the coming fat and protein requires some greenery. Both dishes are perfectly fine, but are there more to pass the time before the main event than inspire prose poetry.

And then, here it is: the famed Temptation of Saint Anthony. Dear Anthony happens to be the patron saint of charcutiers; his saint day has traditionally been celebrated each November at the nearby Saint Eustache church, because of its proximity to Les Halles. Here, the dish carrying his name is the fried and breaded tail, ear, snout and half a trotter with chips. I am no St Anthony, for I succumb and swiftly so. It is the Land’s End to John o’Groats of the pig, with no venturing inland. It is strands of deep pink meat, especially along the tail, and layers of soft skin, that manage both to be crisp and fatty at the same time. It is the essence of porkiness. It is quite startlingly anatomically correct. For £19, including impeccable béarnaise, it is a mighty amount of pig. I am very happy.

Indeed, it was enough pig. We didn’t need a whole trotter as another main course. For some reason I assumed it might be different to the other extremities, perhaps stuffed in some way, or meatier. But it really is just more breaded, grilled wobbly stuff. At which point I surrender: it seems there actually is a limit to the amount of porcine extremity I need in my life. It is fitting, I suppose, that I have located that limit right here, at Au Pied de Cochon.

Happily, we have also ordered a grilled lobster. Not the local rock lobster which is charged by the 100g and will come out well north of €100 (£75), but the Canadian at €57 (£42). It has travelled further to be here than us, but has been grilled sensitively. And that finishes us off. There is no room for their crêpes flambéed in Grand Marnier. We manage only a pink meringue pig.

This being Paris, the wine list has never heard of another wine-making country, but has a well-priced list of Beaujolais which is just the thing with this food. As is the fizz that we drink. For there is something celebratory about this place, an outrageous swagger. I may not want to eat at Au Pied de Cochon every time I visit Paris. I may not always hanker after pig parts. But I’m pleased to know it’s there for when I do.

Jay’s news bites

■ If you want a different take on pig feet, try the bare-tabled Gourmet San on London’s Bethnal Green Road. It’s a completely uncompromising Sichuan place, where they serve trotters a variety of ways, including with spicy salt, dry chilli and brown sauce. There may in the past have been certain issues with the environmental health people, but that seems to have been dealt with now (gourmetsan.co.uk).

■ Good news, at least for large arses like me, should I find myself in need of a job. Research by a team at Cornell University has found that diners order more desserts if served by a fatter waiter. According to the paper, published in the journal Environment and Behaviour, diners are four times more likely to order something from the sweet end of the menu if their waiter has a high Body Mass Index.

■ An early entrant for the most teasing restaurant name of 2016 award must go to Swingers. No, it’s nothing like that. It’s street food and crazy golf. Well of course it is. It opens in the City of London in the spring (swingersldn.co.uk).

Email Jay at jay.rayner@observer.co.uk or follow him on Twitter @jayrayner1@jayrayner1