I saw this sign a couple of days ago. So struck by it was I that I went back the following day just to photograph it. A sign lovingly written and carefully blue-tacked into the window of our local butcher’s. It refers to the newly reinstated sale of stomach offal (due, possibly but unfeasibly, to popular demand).
Note the grille on the windows. Is this delicacy so rare and highly sought-after that it has to be protected? And now I imagine a vault inside, guarded with laser beams and other high-tech paraphenalia, like the crown jewels. Perhaps they have their own version of beefeaters – the tripe-eaters.
The word tripe takes me back to my childhood. You could say it’s a “tripe down memory lane” for me (if you were perhaps devoid of all comedy genes, that is). I remember different types, different colours and different textures, all bought from a local market stall, all eaten raw, all about as appetising as an eskimo’s scrotum.
I tried it and knew I didn’t like it, thus consigning it forever to that list of things “faddy lad” won’t eat.
I have been tormented in my life for not liking fish, or shellfish, or pancakes, or turnip, amongst many. But surely we can build a consensus on tripe. Can’t we…?
Do you have food fads which you’ve carried with you since childhood? Which foods would you never eat, even if someone threatened to kill a kitten every ten minutes until you did? And am I doing eskimo scrotums a disservice?