Why is it that
”
delicacies
”
always sound like they were originally invented on Fear
Factor?
Think about it. Russian fish eggs. Taiwanese fried cockroaches.
Scottish haggis. I’m willing to try just about anything because I
have already been through perhaps the most vile food experience on
the planet, having a great blob of the rural Greek delicacy pat’sa
shoved into my mouth.
Why is it that “delicacies” always sound like they were originally invented on Fear Factor?
Think about it. Russian fish eggs. Taiwanese fried cockroaches. Scottish haggis. I’m willing to try just about anything because I have already been through perhaps the most vile food experience on the planet, having a great blob of the rural Greek delicacy pat’sa shoved into my mouth.
First, a little background. If you saw the movie My Big Fat Greek Wedding, you’ve seen the better part of my life story. Well, except for the fact that with 28 first cousins I’ve got Nia Vardalos beat on the number of bridesmaids I’ll have to include in my wedding.
Greek culture revolves around food and family, and to survive, you must become a well-trained eating machine, as evidenced by my ample waistline. I accept anything that is put in front of me, with a simple mantra: Don’t ask, just eat. Ignorance is far better than upchuck.
I didn’t make the connection between my favorite greens and my Yi-ya’s (Grandma’s) compulsion for dandelion foraging in the neighbor’s yard until I was 12. When friends from China invited me to dinner I had no problem eating tasty treats like pig lung. But pat’sa … that’s a whole class of its own.
To make this stomach-turner you take the left-over pieces of a lamb or pig – snouts, ears, hooves, intestines, etc. – and cook them with lard. The whole bundle is infused with enough garlic to ensure your breath will smell from (at the very least) three to four feet away for the next 24 hours or so.
Hot, it’s a soup that Greeks feel is the ultimate cure for a hangover. But if you let it set like a Jell-O mold and then cut it up into jiggling grayish cubes, it’s an appetizer.
This is one of my Yi-ya’s favorite foods. My father had been skilled enough to avoid her home each time it could possibly be in the fridge, but I slipped up one day around the age of 19. No sooner had I walked through the door than Yi-ya said, “Try this,” as she shoved a one-inch cube into my well-trained mouth.
Thank god she’s blind.
“Mmmm,” I sighed, feigning pleasure as my throat closed, eyes watering. I forced myself to chew something encapsulated inside the lard, straining with all my dignity to open my esophagus just long enough to get it down. Task accomplished, I wiped my quivering lips with the back of my hand and sighed, “Delicious.”
“You want I should cut you another piece?”
What had I gotten myself into now? There’s no way to refuse a second helping, but there’s always the hope of distraction.
“No. No, I’m on a diet,” I protested.
Bingo.
“Diet? You too skinny! Why you diet?”
One lecture later, I was forgiven for my refusal. I’d also revised the mantra: Don’t ask, just eat (It can’t be as bad as pat’sa).
