In my haste, I neglected to read the description of the dish (major screw-up number one). When the waiter returned with my selection, I immediately dug my fork into the mass and lifted a hefty bite to my lips (major screw-up number two). After one chew, my eyes shot open. I looked up at the waiter and forced a swallow against a major gag reflex (major screw-up number three). This was not cinnamon toast.

"Excuse me, waiter," I said through the sticky paste lining my mouth.

"Yes, sir?"

"What, exactly, am I eating?"

"The sweetbread, sir?"

I nodded.

"You are eating the thymus gland of a calf."

The restaurant was fortunate to have seated me near the bathroom. 'Nuff said.

Is it a coincidence that practically any food considered a delicacy is composed of slaughter scraps that many people would refuse to feed a starving dog? I think not! Many of my acquaintances have tried to convince me that these abominable victuals come from centuries of tradition among the producers of livestock and the connoisseurs of meat dishes. Quite obviously, this is one more example of revisionist history. More likely, it is a conspiracy of the profit mongers to boost the already usurious profits in the meat industry by throwing nothing away. Then again, it could be a conspiracy of the commie-pinkos to extract more money from the wealthy conservatives to support their multi-billion dollar freeloading programs so they can enslave the masse more readily. Whichever the case may be, this elaborate marketing scheme is working in most cases, making these words of enlightenment necessary.

For instance, no one possessing an semblance of sanity would fight for the last piece of cow stomach as they would the last piece of cherry pie. However, gourmets pay outrageous prices--akin to month's salary for poorer folk--to dine on elegantly prepared tripe (same stomach more creative marketing). Tripe, after all is a totally meaningless word reserved to make such horribly disgusting fare sound exotic and tasty.

Instead of referring to the stuffing in our traditional Christmas turkey as containing internal organs?liver, gizzard, and heart?of the bird, my grandmother would tell us with a smile that she added giblets. Giblets sounds much better than turkey vital organs!

Southern cooks would never have made chitterlings popular if they truthfully called them pig intestines. This delicacy brings new meaning to telling a cook, "I hate your guts!"

The practice of serving foods made from hideous parts of animals and naming them with glamorous, flowery words is a practice that invades all levels of the food industry. The high-caloric fat sponges called pork rinds are actually rendered hog skin; caviar is simply a spoonful of fish eggs; ham is nothing more than the ass of a pig, and let us not forget that the sweet honey that many use to flavor tea and cereal is merely bee vomit.

Whoever named these foods obviously new quite well that people would not eat them if the truth were known. It is the name, not the dish, that sells the food. For example, I could create a paté made from the scrapings from the diseased nasal passage of an infant rhino mixed with bat brains, call it Flavor Spread, and tell people it is a delicacy from Zimbabwe (or any other exotic land). Flavor Spread, if served with an honest, unassuming white wine, could well become the culinary fad of the century.

A word of warning: if something sounds unbelievably elegant or extremely vague, ask the server to present a list of ingredients. Failure to do such could result in disaster. Children who revile liver may end up eating paté de foie gras. Tourists in the United Kingdom may devour the Scottish delicacy known as haggis before discovering that the main ingredients consist of the heart, lungs, and other innards of a calf boiled within its own stomach. People traveling to the west may devour a plate of Rocky Mountain oysters without stopping to think, "There are no oysters in the Rocky Mountains." After they realize they are eating the leftovers from the rite of creating a steer from a bull, they'll most likely lose all control, have a nervous breakdown, and spend countless hours smacking themselves in the forehead while shouting, "Holy gastronomic grossness, Batman!"