From the vantage point of a rational
human with functioning gustatory papillae, a lamb dinner is the gastronomic equivalent of getting kicked in the testicles (some
people find it enjoyable, but I cannot for the life of me understand why).
Imagine, if you
will, meat that tastes like it’s been marinated in dirty old sweaters, perfumed with a hint of petting zoo, and garnished with the
toxic secretions of a cane toad. The consumption of lamb is less a meal and more an elaborate prank gone wrong.
The texture? A true paradox. Somehow it is both sinewy and gelatinous, as though the animal was full of despair and sadness before its untimely demise. And the smell, how in tarnation can it smell that foul? The stench wafts through a home like the
ghost of livestock past, assaulting the olfactory senses of every poor
soul who is in the vicinity.
Supposed connoisseurs
will wax poetic about its “earthy richness” or “
rich, robust, and well-balanced flavor” which, when translated to honest English, means “sweaty mutton disguised as fine dining”. It is not “
rich,” it is despicable; it is not “robust,” but a belligerent assault on the taste buds.
Lamb should only be served if your guests have wronged you terribly or if you have
lost all hope in the potential of food bringing you, or others, joy.
In conclusion, lamb as a dish is best served
NEVER. It is a betrayal of the palate, a disgrace to the kitchen, and a compelling argument for vegetarianism.
Jacob: You should come over for dinner tonight.
Patricia: That sounds
lovely, what are we having?
Jacob: A lamb dinner, I was thinking a roast leg of lamb.
Patricia: I just threw up in my mouth.
Jacob: Lamb Souvlaki?
Patricia: I would rather starve.
Jacob: Lamb
chops?
Patricia:
Que distinguida.
Jacob: Lamb kofta?
Patricia: Que feo.
Jacob: Lamb Shank Ragu?
Patricia: Ohhhh, you know what? I just remembered, I am busy tonight, sorry.