The Art of Eating In - Cathy Erway [121]
We all nodded. Even though the tripe was very tender by then, it was still a chewy, springy little piece of offal. It needed to be worked on for a while with the molars before it gave way and broke into separate chunks. I didn’t find the texture unappealing, though; this need to chew, while savoring the flavor that it had been steeped in, was a trait I’d always loved about dim sum braised tripe before. I dipped my piece of bread into the reddish, spicy broth. Everyone soon followed suit.
“I can’t believe I’m eating this,” Jordan said after a brief silence.
“Mm, the soup is really good,” Mai said.
“I’m actually liking the tripe a bit, and the hominy? Is that what these things are?” Aaron asked, holding up his spoon.
“Yep. They eat a lot of hominy in Mexico, apparently,” I explained. “But for some reason, not so much here. It’s a good way of preserving corn.”
“I see.”
We continued to slurp until, miraculously, all our plates were empty. I hadn’t been sure if my friends would take to the dish—probably because I had been the one who had seen and worked with the strange ingredients, in all their raw glory. I had expected a little more hesitation and perhaps a couple of dislikes. I didn’t think anyone was making an extra effort to be polite, either. I knew for a fact that Jordan would put down her spoon and be quite content not eating something if she found that it was not to her liking. But her plate was cleared just as well as anyone else’s.
The thing about tripe is that it doesn’t really have a particular taste. It’s all texture—weird, blubbery texture—but tastewise, it is completely benign. So traditionally whenever it’s cooked, it’s stewed for long hours with savory broths and spices, so it soaks up that flavor. What we were eating basically tasted like red chili pork broth-soaked sponges. Which was actually quite nice, especially for a hangover.
“I’m actually starting to feel a bit better now,” Jordan said.
“It worked?” Aaron asked her. She nodded, smiling for the first time that morning.
“I’m going to go for seconds,” he said.
After the four of us had seconds, there was no more menudo left to go around. In the end, we concluded, it was probably the rich, savory spiciness plus the warm soupiness of the dish that had eased our hangovers the most. I wasn’t sure the tripe itself was integral to this. We could have been eating spicy chicken soup or any other type of meat prepared in the same way.
I felt a great pride in my friends right then for doing what Mike D. and even his wife never dared to—eating the actual tripe. It wasn’t so bad, really, once you got used to the new texture. It was completely different from any other texture in the world, sure, but that was what was so great about food anyway, that it could vary so endlessly.
After we’d filled our stomachs with menudo and bread and had another round of coffees, the four of us tried to retrace our steps from the previous night. It was fun to recall the fuzzy details we’d nearly forgotten, like rubbing clear a fogged window and catching new glimpses with each swipe. Why had we thought coconut rum and vodka would go well together? Why was I talking about the stage adaptation of John Waters’s Cry-Baby with someone—and who was that with, anyway? Slowly, we began to fill in the blanks. There had even been a little skirmish with the police at one point, when a guest stepped outside onto the front stoop and got ticketed for holding a bottle of beer outside.
This was a classic hangover, healed. I was convinced then that I had discovered the best way to remedy that old morning-after affliction, and I would follow it as much as possible—if not with tripe, then at least with something spicy and soothing. The key was to also spend the day with friends, filling our stomachs with something—anything. And, perhaps, to experience new foods, or new cuts of an animal, and breaking down those cuts from a raw state yourself. Well, this last part was probably best saved for a clear, nonhungover state