It could be a delicate celebration dessert, the invention of some enfant terrible in a Michelin starred kitchen. The gastro-poetry might allude to raspberry coulis, hints of mint, crushed peanuts, lime. Creme fraiche could be dolloped on top. The restaurant critic might describe it as risky, triumphant or crazy.
But currently I am not of that world.
I am in the goat restaurant.
The crimson circle before me is drained from this hollow-horned mammal. Bottled in used la Vie plastic, it is poured into the bowl over a diced mix of other goat bits, mostly chewy ones, and clipped up coriander. Peanuts and lime juice finish out this delicacy, known as tiet canh de.
I have eaten blood of goat.