“What is that?” I asked in Castillian.
There was a large chunk on his plate. It was about the size of a childs fist. Earlier in the dinner I had assumed that he had ordered chicken, but now that I took a second look, I wasnÂ´t so sure.
“The head.” He replied.
The table was silent as he and his father watched me for my reaction.
“The head of what?” I asked cautiously. Then,Â suddenly I recgonized the two long front teeth and the shape of the skull.
The father made a bouncing motion with his hand, then put both his hands to the side of his head to simulate the long ears of a rabbit. He raised his eyebrows excitedly.
“Oh…” I paused…
“YouÂ´re not going to eat that?” I asked.
“Oh, yes! The head of the rabbit is very good!” Replied the father. “This is just how my grandmother used to make it. ItÂ´s so good, I ordered one for myself too!” He had already finished his dinner. But as if on que, the waiter arrived with a second plate of broken rabbit parts piled on a thin pool of broth.
Knowing how he likes to share the flavors and textures of his culture, I quickly took a gulp of red wine and prepared myself for the worst.
“You never see the head of the animal on the plate in the United States.” I stammered in Castillian.
Within seconds of the new rabbit landing on our table, he had forked a small object onto my empty plate. It rolled around like a marble before coming to a stop in the center.
“Uh oh. Organ meat!” I silently thought to myself.
The fatherÂ´s eyes lit up as he excitedly pointed to his own back and smiled, “How do you say this part?” He questioned in english.
“Kidney.” I replied.
“Yes!” He said, then smoothly added in Castillian, “ItÂ´s very rich, No?”
Trying not to think too much about it, I quickly forked it into my mouth. Indeed, it was very savory with a pleasant firm texture.
“Yes, itÂ´s very good.” I admitted.
“The cheek. You must try the cheek. This is a very special part.” He dug into the face ofÂ the rabbit and pried off a small chunk of meat that he deposited on my plate. Again, I found it to be delicious, smoothly textured, well seasoned.
“And now, you try the brains.” He informed me.
“No! You donÂ´t truthfully eat the brains?” I suggested, hoping not to find out.
“Oh yes. This too is a very special part. You must try it.” He insisted.
A lump of grey matter was forked onto my plate.
As I think back on this moment, IÂ´m pretty sure everyone in the restaraunt stopped what they were doing or saying so they could watch the American eat rabbit brains for the first time.Â I was so focused on the burnt and basted substance before me that IÂ´ll never know. At that moment, the small, pulpy lump was larger then the jagged peaks IÂ´d seen in the distance, more mysterious than any of the high mountain passes IÂ´d been crossing to get to the valleys on the other side.
Then I went for it.
As opposed to finding something toÂ savor, I discovered a disconcertingly textured, offensively flavored mush that tasted miraculoulsy, exactly how I feared rabbit brains would taste.
“No me gusta!” I exclaimed, and reached for the wine.