prose: Chez Tripe

When I grow up I want to open a restaurant that follows in the spirit of giving dishes like haggis and prairie oysters the status of sushi and blue steak. Replete with undersized tables and quirky mismatched wall sconces, my restaurant would sport a deceptively chic name like Chez Tripe (house of entrails) or Cervelles des Singes (loosely translated that should mean monkey brains.)

Breakfast: Fried Spam cubes with soft-boiled eggs. Syrup-drenched grits and spits. Extra-runny oatmeal. Lunch: Grilled anchovie sandwich. Beef tongue vichyssoise. Loose meat neck-on-a-bun. Entrees: Boiled heart. Horse chops. Sauteed goat's liver and onions. Kiln-baked fish heads. Daily special: Rotisserie roadkill donair. Vegan: Brussels sprouts served on a bed of chopped Brussels sprouts and smothered in a tangy water and Brussels sprouts puree.

Of course, it's all about ambience. The flame atop a spherical candle licks the sides of its glass holder with anticipation. Hors d'oeuvres have come and gone - elegant wrought iron skewers of pickled egg, pickled sausage, and pickled pigs' feet, hooves filled with sauerkraut and fried weiners, and head cheese served in dainty rodent skulls. While a robust tuxedo-clad waiter refills your vin rouge, a prim scullery maid sets amoungst your myriad golden knives, forks, and spoons an absurdly oversized square plate with an asymmetrical gold band meandering around its edges. A radish flower with radicchio foliage sits in the top right corner, a haunting single chicken foot nestled in the delicate tendrils of slinky-cut carrots cascading over the bottom left. Lying in state at the centre of a puddle of HP sauce with their empty little eyes glinting up at you are three perfect liquid-smoked sardines, each bearing a thin sliver of leek across its belly.

The only dessert item would be Betty Crocker frosting, served in the plastic tub at room temperature with rainbow sprinkles and a generous dollop of marshmallow creme.

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