Pigs' Trotters
Back in the shite old days when I was a pro musician, I did a recital tour in Spain. Whilst preparing for a concert in Jaca Cathedral, we were invited to have dinner with the local Arts’ Councillor. Great! we thought. An opportunity to sample some authentic Basque cuisine.

At the appointed time, we showed up at the man’s house. We’d never met him in person, and I for one was expecting a respectable, sober gentleman in a suit, so we were somewhat taken aback when the overweight, middle-aged man who opened the door was wearing nothing but a pair of ancient, greying boxer shorts and more eyeliner than I would wear on a night out. “Usted es Miguel?” “Si! Si!” Miguel then stepped outside, pulled the waistband of his shorts forward and aired his testicles for a few seconds. Then he invited us in.

Miguel’s wife was wearing a little sundress which she kept clawing at and pulling up. She was obviously unaccustomed to wearing clothes. It became apparent however that she was a brilliant cook. We had just the most amazing dish of tomato soup with mussels, by far the yummiest thing we’d had so far in Spain. But then it was time for the main course…

“Ahora, tenemos los pies del cerdo!”

Stewed pigs’ trotters. By God, they were revolting. The smell alone made me retch. It was like putrefying flesh. They contained no meat, at least not meat as we know it. It was a sort of flaccid, white, glutinous substance, sort of like semi-liquid gristle. I poked at it. It wobbled a bit.

Now normally, if I’m faced with a dish I don’t like, I can make myself eat a bit of it in order to appease my hosts. But these pigs’ trotters were unfit for human consumption. Every fibre of my being recoiled from them. If you’d put a gun to my head and ordered me to take just one bite, I couldn’t have.

My pianist also looked as if he was about to vomit. The semi-naked Spaniards didn’t seem to notice – they were too busy scoffing theirs.

I was totally traumatised by this experience, even though I hadn’t actually ingested any of it. When I got back home, all I could talk about was the pigs’ trotters. It was as if I was suffering from post-traumatic stress. I needed to talk about it.

“How was Spain?”
“Well, there were these pigs’ trotters…”

“How did the recitals go?”
“Did I tell you about the pigs’ trotters?”

“Did you get good reviews?”
“It was like trying to eat death!”

Come back Judaism, all is forgiven.
(grandmasterfluffles Come to my Armageddon party on, Thu 17 May 2007, 14:14, Reply)