Little known fact about me: I have an insatiable quest to try disgusting sounding food touted as delicacies. One of my life goals is to eat brains. I don’t care from what, just some kind of cooked brains, preferably while in Thailand.

I don’t really know where this stems from but I can’t stop. I’ve already done extensive research on Costa Rica and it sounds like I can soon add iguana and tailless gibnut to the list. Chad is utterly disgusted by this, often times because I’ll order some delicious sounding authentic regional dish and end up with a plate of fish heads or raw intestines and then out of spite eat the entire thing to prove to him what he’s missing by not being open minded or something. Really I’m just a masochist. One day I got really excited and “surprised” him with head cheese that I bought at a local deli. Bourdain raves about it. He refused to kiss me. For like a week.

I don’t know if we’ve been watching too much Top Chef or what, but at some point Chad and I got really into pretending we know all about top quality food. Every month he lets me pick a new restaurant regardless of price bracket. Awhile back, we went to Mercat a la Plaxa. It was tapas and after drinking a pitcher of Sangria we ordered half the menu. Half an hour of arguing later, I made him order fois gras. It’s what I imagine gangrened feet to taste like. Gangrened rotted feet that have been puked on. Truly fucking disgusting. But then, I thought, maybe it was just the chef. Maybe I should try it again.

So we went to North Pond. Kirstie Hefner was sitting at the table next to us and ordered it, so I figured what the fuck. Gangrened rotted feet that have been puked on and after months of sitting in jar of feces. But I still ate the whole thing. Stubborn as a mule.

On another note, I now know that root beer floats made with sailor jerry and gravity bongs are a superb combination.