I had dinner at that Yakitori joint at Far East Plaza just now, the one that everyone knows about. The last time I ate there must have been a decade ago. I remember because I have only ate there once before. Also, I have a weirdly good memory with regards to useless information like this.
Whenever I have Yakitori, I will have chicken hearts. I order them without fail. I discovered my love for this little knots of pure muscles years ago, when I first tasted them at that overwhelmingly meaty restaurant, Carnivore. Other than the impossibly addictive grilled pineapples (which I love too, although their sharp acidic juices grated my tongue), the grilled chicken hearts were the only other highlight of a meal smothered to death with too much animal protein.
It may sound gross to those of you who do not eat innards of any kind, but they taste fantastic. I have given it some thought and I believe I can eat them every day for a month and not get sick of them. Maybe I’ll start to give when I near the 3 months mark. But any time before that, nah.
And it is just like me to think too much about something like this, about eating little hearts. It brings to mind a couple of things:
- Neil Gaiman’s Stardust, where ugly witches try to hunt down a fallen star so that they may nibble on her heart for renewed youth.
- Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto, where Mayan priests gorge out the still-beating hearts from the chest of their still-alive human sacrifices.
There is something different about eating a heart than say, eating a liver. It is probably romantic bullshit, but a heart is special – right? Social constructs aside, biologically speaking, if someone stabs you in the heart, you die, 99.99% of the time. Anywhere else and you have a better chance (I think).
Maybe that is why they are so delicious. Its all that concentrated, throbbing life in them.
[I am aware that this may make me sound like a demented potential serial killer. I am not. Don’t be silly. Really.]