So the family all went out to a fancy restaurant for Christmas Eve dinner. It had a menu that consisted of a dozen or so entree options that all went something like:
A Comprehensible Piece of Meat or Fish
A side that makes sense, a side that is kind of odd, wtf, and did you make up that word?
I got a sirloin with farro risotto, preserved wild mushrooms, herbed butter, and mache (Google informs me that this was not in fact a made-up word, but a lettuce-type leaf).
Mock if you will my generalized lack of foodie snobbery, but we’ve not yet reached the point of true wtfery. We received the dessert menu, which included this:
Chocolate Raspberry Brownie
Fois gras cream, [something something]
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To which I was like, goose liver cream? No, that can’t be. It must be some kind of foodie thing where it’s not actually related to geese or livers. So I asked the waitress. Nope, it was actually that fois gras. It made it wonderful and creamy! I made a face and ordered something else, so she teasingly suggested she bring a small portion and I should try it. So I was like, okay. I’m game.
So. Imagine, in your mind, vanilla meat mousse. Imagine vanilla mousse, slightly sweet, with maybe a slightly extra-creamy texture, and then slipping in on the heels of that taste is…meat.
Yeah.
It wasn’t…disgusting, per se. I like mousse and I eat meat, and so when I tasted each in turn I didn’t mind either, but then something deep in my soul reminded me that I was tasting them together and it cried out in distress and I still sort of shudder to remember it.