Let me tell you a little something about culinary bravery.
People think the worst thing I ever put in my mouth was Gregory's demon cock. Incorrect. That actually tasted like honey-glazed sin with a cinnamon finish. The real horror? Street stew in upper Talguth. I think it had meat in it. I know it had eyes. And something that blinked.
I've eaten my way up and down this godsdamn coast. You want refined palates? Go bother a court chef. You want survivor cuisine? That's me, sugar.
Let's start simple. Roasted water slug. Sounds gross? It is. But dip it in garlic brine and squint—almost like mussels. Almost.
Then there was the monkey brain tartare in Delivda. They call it a delicacy, serve it with shaved truffle and golden spoons. It's still brain. And it's cold. It wiggles. The courtesans there fake delight as they eat it. I fake orgasms better than they fake enjoyment.
I've slurped tentacles raw in Toemacha. Crunchy barnacles in Seebulba's dockside dives—suck 'em right off the shell. Had deep-fried beetles from a cart in Ashkalon, sold by a guy who claimed they were aphrodisiacs. I still think he just dumped lamp oil on a cockroach problem and called it fusion cuisine.
I've gnawed on lizard jerky, chewed testicle skewers from a roadside vendor with absolutely no sense of proportion (seriously, whose balls were those?!), and once—once—ate a spider the size of a soup bowl because the host family insisted it was rude not to. They were very proud. I swallowed without chewing.
And yes, I've had cockroach pie. Yes, it's real. Crunchy top, gooey inside. Smelled like vinegar and old sandals. I was very drunk.
Let's not forget the high temple banquet in Melkharra. I was "entertainment," remember? Served on a tray between courses. But before that, they gave me oyster pearls fermented in mare's milk and topped with a saffron glaze. Fancy as fuck. Tasted like sadness and salt.
You know what the worst part is? I kinda liked some of it.
No, really. There's a point where your mouth stops judging and your stomach just claps politely. You stop asking "what is it" and start asking "is it edible and will it kill me today or later."
The Dragon says I have the palate of a sewer rat. I say he's a snob who thinks soup requires a narrative arc. Once he spent three hours trying to explain the "umami lineage" of a bone broth while I was licking grease off my fingers from a roadside lamb shank.
If it's greasy, salty, and comes with bread—I'm in.
If it's moving, sizzling, or stares back—I might hesitate. But I've eaten worse. Hell, I've done worse.
Pause.
And yes. Once. In an especially low moment. I chewed leather boots. Mine. Long story.
Moral of the tale? Never trust anything called "Chef's Special" in a brothel tavern. Unless it's me. Then trust. And tip generously.