Frikki, the guy who brought me the sheep’s head, had picked it up at a drive-through where they sell the delicacy to busy Icelandic commuters hungry for a taste of face. By the time it reached me the noggin was cold and giving off an unpleasant muttony musk. The side dishes of potato and mashed yellow root thingie were room temperature as well. No matter. I had to geek the face or be pegged as a pussy for the rest of my stay. I channeled my inner caveman and grabbed a mouthful of cheek between my teeth, tearing it off to the appreciative murmurs of my barbaric audience. It tasted just like a cold lamb sandwich without the bread and mustard, except for the rubbery skin, which was similar to neoprene, but gamier. I ate some of the yellow root, but declined the eyeballs, offering them to Frikki instead. I was pleased when he passed on the peepers.
There’s a joint around the corner where they put you in a pen full of baby seals, thrust a club in your hand, and let you have at it (they gut the adorable corpses and cook ’em for you). I might try that next, but fuck the club; I want to go after their furry asses barehanded.
Ken “Are You Going To Eat That?” Pontac
Top of the food chain and loving it,
Iceland
