I grew up eating offal. For Mom, who was feeding five kids, it was cheap. Luckily, she's a miracle worker when it comes to making delicious dishes from leftover animal parts. She grew up in a family of ten -- and her mother taught her how not to waste anything -- and how to make it taste good.
Hubby doesn't sigh with joy when he eats beef tongue, as I do. He doesn't appreciate Mom's meltingly tender meat and ragu sauce. Philistine.
We were running through our list of desired eating experiences in London. He was cool with everything till I said, "Fergus Henderson's restaurant, St. John."
He cocked a brow, and looked thoughtful. I knew his brain was trying to connect where he'd heard that name. Uh oh. "Is that the guy in Bourdain's book -- " Damn.
"Yeah, the guy who cooks offal."
"Oh come on! Look at the menu! Turbot and Monk's Beard. You like turbot."
'"Are you sure? Look! They have Crispy Pig's Cheek and Dandelion."
His glare can be so eloquent.
I guess I'm eating there by myself. Any London based foodies interested in joining me?