My final night in Melbourne I went to a celebrated Moorish restaurant, Momo. When I asked
the waitress what was best on the menu, no joke, she said an accent that could make anything
sound appealing, “We are renowned for our split lamb brain with spiced murguez sausage in a
creamy spinach yogurt.”

With a childish grin on my face I asked if she was kidding. This isn't an Indiana Jones movie, I
thought to myself.

Testing and teasing me she retorted, “The tender creamy nuttiness of the brain works with the
tasty saltiness of the sausage to create a wonderful blend of textures and flavors.”

Feeling ambitious and daring, I confidently said, “Spiced Lamb Brain it is.”
Twenty minutes later I wasn't so confident.

The dish smelled terrific, a bunch of middle-eastern spices my nose was very unaccustomed to,
but make no mistake about it, it was an animal's brain.

I looked around the crowed, posh restaurant to see who was paying attention to the grave food
mistake I had obviously made. Not a person. Not a soul looked at me with any care about the
fact that I ordered something I simply could not bring myself to eat.

Perfect timing, I could gave it to a waiter cleaning the table to my left. But I couldn't give up so easily,
I'm on an adventure, right?

I prepared a bite just big enough to swallow. “Wonderful blend of textures- my ass,” I said aloud to myself.
As I brought the bite to my mouth I could feel my face wincing but didn't stop.

An inch before my mouth I involuntarily gauged which totally messed up the whole timing of my ‘just
swallow it plan.'

Once in my mouth I couldn't even bring myself to focus on my tongue's taste buds.
Now silently yelling to myself, “there is a BRAIN, that's right a brain in my mouth.”

The second gauge was more powerful and forced me to clamp my teeth together.
I was not going to puke at this restaurant.

I popped up from my seat, still with the warm piece of food on my tongue, and quickly waked to the
men's room. Thank goodness it was close and vacant.

Without hesitation I spit the quarter-inch square bite into urinal and spastically shuttered.
Like a twelve-year old who didn't even give the food a shot, I looked at my pained reflection and
said, “yuck.”

Head low, I returned to my seat and couldn't look at the still warm dish.
Now walking to the table was my verbally seductive waitress, obviously my enemy, obviously coming
over to claim victory.

However, with a winner's smirk she gave me an easy out.
“Would you like me to take this away,” she said.

She has a heart, I thought to myself.
Still not looking in the meal's direction I clearly answered, “absolutely”

“I saw you running to the toilet,” she laughed, "I'll bring over another menu.”

To that all I could reply was, “it wasn't a run,” stuttering now as she's walking away, “more of a... quick walk.”