I have eaten goat three times in my life (so far as I know).
The first time was in Morocco in 1984. I was visiting my
friend Dave in Asilah, a lovely town on the northern Atlantic coast, and we
decided impulsively to buy some goat meat and cook it.
We had no idea what we were up against. Goats (in Morocco at
least) are tough. We cooked it for quite a while, but we still couldn’t eat it;
the meat was wrapped around the bones like thick rubber bands. We gnawed on it
for a while, but it was too tough for us. I think we threw it out and ate in a
restaurant that evening.
The second time was here in Providence, maybe ten years ago.
A work friend and I had heard about a good (and authentic) Mexican place on the
West Side. Okay. Well, what do you order: something you could make at home, or
something interesting?
They had goat on the menu. So I ordered the goat.
It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t wonderful, but it wasn’t bad.
The third time was just the other day. My student employee
invited me to
lunch at the Jamaican place across the street. They had “curry goat” on the
menu. Well, once again: why not order something interesting?
“Curry goat” was delicious, and very tender. There were bits
of gristle in it, and odd pieces of bone, but I think (when you’re eating goat)
those are the rules of the game. Also, it came with fried plantains, and
rice-and-beans, Caribbean style.
I’d order it again.
But oh my God: think
of the poor little goat who died for this!
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