I am not a foodie. My eating origins, from a big, working-class family, were more about quantity than quality … in that mid-20th century American sort of way.

So there is always a risk that an astonishing dining experience in Paris — and I’ve been here five weeks now — will be wasted/lost on me.

Last night, for instance.

We joined my sister and her husband at a place called Flora, on Boulevard George V, near the Champs. Flora is named after its chef, one of the few women chefs (I am told) to enjoy success in this city.

I imagine all sorts of gourmands would have been excited at the idea of spending a Friday night at Flora. But to me … not so much.

We were greeted with four little glasses of vegetables pureed. It was green, so it must have been green beans, or maybe peas? Zucchini? It was fine. Like a green, tastier V8, if you imbibe that stuff.  And it was free. There’s that.

I opted for the 34 euro prix fixe menu. Try to keep costs under control. And, in theory, it ought to work out fine.

The entree was described as melba with tomatoes and mozzarella. And I was thinking, ah, the good-ol’ standby, tomato slices with mozzarella and some balsamic … But no. The whole thing was pureed and served in a tall, conical glass, like soda fountains once used for milk shakes. The tomatoes were a sort of soup at the bottom and the mozzarella cheese had been whipped to a white froth and placed atop the cold soup, with pesto splashes atop the white cream, and a cookie on the rim of the glass … and, sorry, it was weird. I would have preferred both tomatoes and mozzarella in their original state.

I had the rabbit as my main course and, again, it was a visual pleasure. A row of veggie bits in some sort of tangy gravy, and two chunks of rabbit (Bugs’ thighs, perhaps?) atop a thin, crusty pastry covered with, again, I think pesto.  (It was a green paste.) It looked artsy, and all, but … are we eating, or looking?

The dessert I chose was a “minestrone” of red fruits (strawberries and raspberries, chunked and/or pureed) with a frothy red “lemonade” topper sprayed out of a cannister (that might have been a fire-extinguisher in an earlier life). Imagine a Slurpee but with even more air and less substance. This all came, again, in a tall glass. A chunk of violet ice cream was hidden in the middle, and that was nice. But mostly … it seemed like a lot of work to serve strawberries and raspberries.

Overall, I felt as if I were inside some food show, with chefs trying to concoct things that would look good on TV.

So, yeah, some aspects of Paris dining are wasted on me.

Thinking back, I would rate practically every in-home dinner party I attended here ahead of all the restaurants … and on any given night I was absolutely fine with a home-made baguette-based ham-and-cheese sandwich that cost, like, 3 euros worth of ingredients.

My favorite meal was right here in this apartment in the 17th, a dinner party for six. We bought several pounds of duck breast and the butcher advised broiling it and we served it with sauteed peaches … with a salad,  a three-cheese plate and a choice of five outrageously good pastries two of the guests had culled from three patisseries. Along with two bottles of low end (but quality tasting) Champagne, two-plus bottles of something called “Buzet” — a southwestern French red that cost about $6 per bottle — and a very nice Bordeaux that our other guests brought along.

Now, that was fine. Duck isn’t something you get every day, and it was very nice but also accessible to those of us with limited imagination when it comes to cuisine. And the peaches were a perfect complement to the poultry.

(I decided duck is the king of poultry.)

What else … we ate at a one-star Michelin restaurant over by the Eiffel Tower, and I had the crusted sea bass. Which was fine. But what I remember most keenly about the evening is when a waiter on his way to a table dropped a main course, and the crockery exploded like a bomb and sent shards flying all over the restaurant. I also remembered being cramped between two other tables for two. (The cramped thing is a recurring issue, in Paris restaurants,  and when your shoulders begin to seize up, it’s hard to appreciate the food.)

Then there was another fairly well-known restaurant, also by the Eiffel Tower, where I cannot remember what I had. Fish? Red snapper, maybe? The place is best known for its shockingly rich mashed potatoes — which I gave to my brother-in-law, he of the astonishing appetite. A very nice cheese plate there, though.

There was the Japanese restaurant in the 2nd that was fine, and a bit revelatory. (Who knew that in Osaka they serve a sort of eggy/doughy pancake, with barbeque sauce, atop slices of pork? Didn’t see that coming. But I’ve had better miso soup … oh, just about anywhere alleging to be Japanese.)

There was the bargain-basement, three-course prix fixe dinner at the weird little place in the Marais, and we got what we paid for.  An indifferent endive salad (redeemed only by a half-dozen bits of bleu cheese), a chunk of turkey leg that was fine but small (even by Paris standards) and some French fries (I could have used some ketchup) and a fruit salad that might have come from a can.

But, again, I return to the home-cooked meals as best. Including three late-summer barbecues we were invited to.  One featured charcuterie (barbecued chicken legs, two kinds of sausage)  lovingly prepared by one of the kids, as well as an interesting drink made with Pimms, an English gin-based elixir. A second was barbecued fresh sea bass bought from a Normandy fish market, as well as Gambas shrimp/prawns that were as fat and long as an infant’s forearm; fresh baguettes and spice cake. And the third, perhaps the most interesting use of really basic ingredients, grilled lamb chops with an enormous lentil salad — lentils, some ham chunks, a bit of vinegar and some onion. The lentil salad was probably my favorite surprise of the whole trip here — very simple but very good.

Anyway, yeah … in the States I might be in the upper third (in my old age) among adventurous eaters, but over here I’m an unimaginative laggard who isn’t refined enough to give bonus points to presentation and new (and bizarre) ways of preparing familiar ingredients.

But those backyard barbecues, and home dinners with roast chicken or duck … and the baguette sandwiches. Now, those I like.