If it moves. . .
Bruce Anderson
'I'VE never eaten sheep's eyes,' said I. This was in an Arab country. and the eyes of the chap I was talking to immediately glinted. 'You're dining at my house tomorrow evening, remember.' Oh well, I thought, others have eaten sheep's eyes and lived. So I was half-disappointed when my friend greeted me looking apologetic. 'I'm sorry. We weren't able to get a sheep's head' — the look of apology vanished — 'but don't worry: there is goat.'
As a special hors d'oeuvre for me, the goat's skull arrived on a plate, complete with eyes. There seemed to be a lot of servants about, with eager, expectant faces. Refusing to duck the challenge, I dug out the first eye with a spoon and ate it. I was disappointed. It did not taste in the least ocular. I had expected a sort of liquid chewiness. Instead, it was like eating a piece of scraggy old mutton. The second eye, ditto; they had been overcooked. If I am offered eyes again, I will ask for them rare.
The house staff had not given up hope of sport. The skull was broken up, and I was presented with the tongue and brain. Both were unmemorable, though the brains were slightly more interesting than calves' or sheep's ones, which are so bland as to be suitable only for invalids or those with a weak digestion (the same is true of jellied eels).
The delicacies consumed, the rest of the menu moved on to more orthodox parts of the goat's anatomy, and my host, though a disciple of the Prophet, had a cellar. I may be the only person who has washed down goat's eyes with '82 Margaux.
Apropos sheep's brains, I once visited the Lebanon with Julian Brazier, the Tory MP. Julian is a splendid fellow, but his culinary tastes are Anglocentric; he will regard that as a compliment. The standard of victualling was rapidly to deteriorate, because our host, General Aoun, was inconsiderate enough to start a civil war, and within a couple of days we were billeted in the cellars of the ruined presidential palace, listening to shellfire and living on pitta bread. On the first evening, however, we were given a banquet, with an array of Lebanese meze. I do not think that all such dishes are equally good. For me, raw liver does not work, while lambs' balls require more mastication than their flavour justifies. But there was plenty to savour.
Julian Brazier was not convinced, and prodded the dishes suspiciously, as if they might counterattack. Then he found something which he enjoyed. `Mrnm. This is good. What is it?' A cold sheep's brain in olive oil,' I replied, before rapidly pushing back my chair, for Julian's face had turned the colour of the table-cloth. He recovered his composure, hut put down his knife and fork with finality.
In the course of journalistic wanderings. I have been offered a lot of strange foodstuffs, not always accompanied by firstgrowth claret. Marinated whale on the Island of Harris, porcupine in the Cameroons, dog in China; in each case, once is enough. The whale might do for a hungry Norwegian on a cold winter's night, with the gales lashing his fiord. As for the dog and the porpentine, I had always believed that anything gamey would automatically taste good; they refuted me. Neither was more than edible.
The Chinese would disagree, at least about dog, but I believe that there is a difference between their palate and the Western one. I am happy to try anything on a Chinese menu. Deep-fried spicy chitterlings, ducks' feet, big fish heads and fish lips are all excellent, as are the so-called hundred-year-old eggs. I do not know how old they really are, but the white should resemble jellied consomme, with the yolk an angry, orange, volcanic colour: delicious.
I am less convinced by other dishes. Ducks' tongues are fiddly to eat and have little flavour. Sea slug has an unappetising texture, though it does benefit if cooked around a large fish to absorb the juices, like parsnips with a joint of beef. But the real divergence between Orient and Occident occurs over shark's fin. Having tried it in China, Malaysia and the Chinatowns of London, New York and San Francisco. I cannot see the point. It is merely glutinous; I suppose it might make decent stock.
The Chinese diet has been shaped by hunger. Especially in the South, they will scoff anything. In a street market in Chongqing, I saw a woman buying a bag of kittens. She was not looking for pets or a mouser. I was surprised that the little creatures were sold for food so early; there cannot have been much meat on them. Perhaps their new owner was intending to fatten them up, or possibly kitten is more toothsome than fully-grown moggy.
Lord Napier and Ettrick, then Princess Margaret's private secretary, was once on a reconnoitring mission with a girl from the Embassy before the Princess visited southern China. At dinner, he displayed Brazieresque wariness. Then he found a mouthful that he enjoyed and inquired what it was. 'Civet cat,' he was informed. 'How interesting.' was his comment, before he rushed off to be sick.
In restaurants, I am enticed by the unfamiliar. This is not guaranteed to produce the best results. I tried bear in St Petersburg; it was like indifferent beef. Grey squirrel at the St John restaurant in London was little better. That fine eating house cannot be blamed, and the squirrel came saignant as requested. But eating grey squirrel is an endless process of sucking dullish flesh from small bones. I suspect that a young red squirrel would taste much better.
At La Mouniche in Paris once, I could not resist queue et oreille de cochon. We had started with oysters, and my companion's next course was equally delectable. Mine was not, to her mockery. I should have known better, for I had eaten a pig's tail in China, with little pleasure. I thought that the French might have discovered hidden depths in the dish. I was wrong. The tail was preferable to the ear, which was inedible. One can see why `pig's ear' is a term of disapproval. I have subsequently eaten a pig's head cooked by Marco-Pierre White. Even that maitre could not make it exciting.
Up to now, I have been immune to digestive mishaps, possibly because of a tip from an old India hand which I commend to readers. If you have reason to doubt hygienic standards along the food chain, start the day with a shot of whisky or vodka, even before brushing your teeth. It reinforces the immune system. Thus fortified, I shall continue to pursue culinary exotica, though at times it will be the triumph of hope over experience.
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