Evening Republican, Volume 20, Number 226, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 September 1916 — What Strancge foods Have You Eaten? [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

What Strancge foods Have You Eaten?

Here’s a fellow who has tasted at least once every sort of outlandish, ub he’s heard of— including snake and butcher bird v v V v

HY GRANDFATHER was a devoted stamp collector. I had an aunt who spent her entire life and an annuity acquiring china plates which nobody was ever al- ’ lowed to use. My father had so much pewter In his home mat the place almost tinkled ns you crossed the threshold. My only sister has a unique assortment of samplers to show for a life of industry and vigilance. Is it any wonder that I inherited the collecting habit? asks Percy Waxman in the New York Tribune. Then he goes on to tell his •story: My acquisitive instinct, _h<>\yeyer L has taken an entirely different Turn. I am a collector of tastes. From early childhood the gustatory novelty 'has possessed an inordinate charm for me. I have a seemingly Inexhaustible curiosity where unheard-of edibles are concerned. Needless to say, this rather unusual form of the collecting mania from which I suffer has led me into many queer eating adventures, some of which have proved most amusing as well as highly instructive. As a boy I lived in Australia, and it was there that I handled my first gun. It was presented to me on my twelfth birthday. I had to promise to shoot only for educational purposes or to . obtain food. ’• Fifteen miles away from the city of Melbourne is a delightfully hilly district known as Diamond creek. I decided that Diamond creek should be the scene of my first attack on the brute creation. In and out of the gum tree cloisters I scraped and snooped and dodged, aping the heroes of all the hunting stories I had ever read. On and on I panted till at last I saw a strange looking bird alight on top of a blue gum. A joyful tremor went through me. I poised my gun. I took alm. I pulled the trigger. Bang! and oh, joy of joys! down fell my first “game.” To my boy’s eyes my bfrd seemed the largest, wildest and most ferocious thing in the world. In reality ItL was a little larger than a robin. I looked Bt the bird. It was quite strange to me. I had never seen its like before. The sun was straight overhead. That meant lunch. The brilliant inspiration came to me that in obedience to my promise I ought to eat my prey. 1 cleaned him in the creek as a boy cleans things and patiently roasted my quarry. And then 1 ate him. The flavor seemed a little did not taste anything like the kind of game Igot at home. It tasted almost “queer.” Several days later I again went shooting, this time accompanied by a much older boy, who knew lots and lots about game and bush lore and things. To my delight, shortly after we had plunged into the bush I brought down another of these gray birds and proudly came running to where my companion was, to show him my prize. To my amazed horror he burst out laughing. "And is that the kind of bird you ate?” he roared. “Do you know what that is?” “No.” “That is a butcher bird! It’s one of the buzzard family.” I don’t suppose many of my readers have ever sipped the delectable thirst destroyer known as kava. I sincerely hope not. Its native heath is Samoa. I had often read of the celestial inspiration to be derived from hashish, sake and other exotic liquids, and before landing in Apia I used to wonder If Robert Louis Stevenson’s afflatus had ever received any assistance from Ikava. It was almost under the shadow of {Stevenson’s own Vailma that my own brief, never-to-be-forgotten plunge into a bowl of kava splashed its way indelibly into my personal history. I had sneaked off by myself to pay a visit to a native hut. There in a cone-shaped, thatched, beehive-like (abode of smell I was invited to try the famous Samoan drink, a whiteygray liquid, much betrothed, resembling for all the world that which is found in the humble boiler on Mondays after the linen has just been hung out to dry. My first sip tasted all right, and I think I became perhaps a little overconfident and increased the pressure of my intake too speedily. Five minutes after my first sip I was whirling

through Elysian fields at one thousand miles an hour. When 1 came to I was lying in what would have been a corner of the hut if It had not been built quite round, and a rather copiously built Samoan lady was smiling tolerantly at me while' she fanned me with a Tapa cloth. I was presented with an inventory tabulating various articles of furniture and expensive heirlooms which had somehow or other been utterly destroyed during my kavagaries. And now a word or two about the manner of making this Samoan nut sundae. Large, copper-colored ladies, whose facilities for mastication are considered perfect, chew the root of the kava plant until it is time to —er — er —er —you know, into the kava bowl. Then water and cocoanut milk are added. The concoction is allowed to ferment. Then it is ready to shoot. On a fishing and shooting expedition in a remote corner of New South Wales, meat became rather scarce. One day we found ourselves almost entirely out of supplies. With no immediate opportunity of receiving any, I made up my mind to try an experiment and add roast kangaroo to the bill of fare for supper. — I make no pretenseat flattery when I pay my honest tribute to the magnificent upholstery possessed by the hindquarters of a kangaroo, alive or roasted. When I attempted to dispose of my portion of the succulent dish it seemed as If an automobile tire stricken with wanderlust had strayed into my dish. It possessed a Krupplike recoil that acted reflexly. And the flavor! Well, the, flavor of roast kangaroo is supplied entirely by the imagination. „ Experienced bushwhackers had often told me that the Australian aboriginals looked upon snakes as more or less of a table delicacy. So one day ip the bush, on a kangaroo hunt, fate led me to cross the path of a huge diamond snake. I interrupted his slumbers rather rudely by blowing his head off. When the time arrived to prepare him for dinner I bad him coiled up In.a ball of clay according to the natjvVmethod and baked. In the search for knowledge there must be martyrs, of course, but I will gracefully step aside in future and Jet who Will wrest from me without a struggle the right to inform a waiting world what it feels like to indulge in diamond snake baked. . Can you imagine having a quart of chewing gum suddenly thrust into your unwilling mouth in such a way that you cannot get it out? Well, that’s bow a mouthful of snake beSeated on the bank of a Greek one day in New South Wales. I wasTfilsily removing leeches from the* inside of my leggings, when a flash of brown fur whipped across my path. I grabbed my gun and let drive at the curious creature, and when I hopped on one leg to the scene of Its demise I picked up what looked like a colossal guinea pig masquerading as a rat. It was a bandicoot.

My native boy told me excitedly that bandicoot was grand to eat —“all the same them plurry pfeller pig”—' and so I had the one I shot taken home and roasted. I have never seen anything on a dish that had such a far-off, hopeless look as that particular specimen when It appeared on the table. Three bites was enough. Although I have never knowingly tasted roasted house rat, I have a well defined belief that is what the flavor of bandicoot really resembles. Here is a little inside war news. Now that Italy has taken a hand in the struggle, let me prophesy that even if her entire navy be sunk all the blockades in the world will not starve her into submission. Dn a cruise in the Mediterranean some years ago I put in at the delightful island of Ischia, in the Gulf of Naples.. In the chief hotel there I had one of my choicest gustatory adventures. I saW a name on the menu that sounded musical to me, so I pointed at it. An obliging waiter brought it. It was indeed a most curious looking dish. It appeared to be a large, horny tarantula that had committed suicide in a bowl of oil. At first I thought it must be a table decoration or a souvenir of my visit. But, no; I saw the same dish handed to other guests, who began to eat it. It turned out to be that popular Neapolitan delicacy, fried octopus. t ried octopus is a very satisfying dish. One piece satisfied me. It took several glasses of water to remove the queer feeling I had of having swallowed something alive. For years and years I had longed to meet a cup of Mocha coffee in its native lair, far from where slant-eyed suspicion could poison the cup with doubts of its genuineness. So when at last I found myself at Aden* I dashed madly to a coffee house where the delectable Arabian brew was said to be had. I do not think it could have been a very high-class coffee house. It did not smell aristocratic. But I cared not. Was I not in the sacred land of the original coffee bean? In a fever of anticipation I called for a cup of Mocha. A smiling son of the prophet salaamed gracefully and withdrew with a confident air. In a few moments he returned and handed me something semiliquid, of about the same consistency as honey, in a cup that strongly resembled the receptacle an Englishman uses for boiled eggs. I tried it. and Instantly found it guilty. I tried it again. I stirred it. That seemed to irritate the thing, and bring out all its worst characteristics. I tried coaxing it. It tasted like Portland cement through which a little —a very little— molasses had been permitted to percolate. It was too thick to drink or inhale, so I attempted to chew it. Evidently I was not educated to the stuff. I had to give it up.