My first taste of offal was awful. I was sitting in a tiny restaurant next door to my friend's Buenos Aires apartment, choking on smoke of both the grill and Marlboro Red varieties and drinking Quilmes, the crappy Argentine beer of choice, when a sizzling platter of meats — a parrillada — arrived at our table. I forked up a coil of a sausage-looking substance that my friend called "tripa" and took a bite. I tasted bitterness and iron beneath the crunch and chew: I was... More >>>