Top Chef Masters judge Jay Rayner amps up the discomfort factor of an already disturbing ode to the joys of ingesting fat (“Give me a duck with tits like Dolly Parton”) in today’s Guardian: He opens with a rapturous account of what he thinks it would be like to actually eat himself. “I think I would prove a satisfying dish because I am rich in that which anybody who knows how to eat — and I mean really eat — always cherishes,” he says. “That something is fat.”
My rump will be as marbled as the arse of a prize wagyu, my rib eyes shot through with glistening alabaster nuggets of something animal and saturated. And the only thing that would separate my belly from deliciousness would be a few good hours — what, eight? Nine? — of serious rendering in a hot oven, so that the fibrous meat was fully bathed in the hard-earned grease of a life lived far too well.
Rayner isn’t the first British food writer to make us turn away from the computer in disgust (that honor goes to noted baboon slayer A.A. “I wanted to get a sense of what it might be like to kill someone” Gill), but he is certainly the first one who has exhorted us to consider biting into his fat ass.