Ostrich gizzards at the vomitorium

It is Elfie’s birthday tomorrow. I hope that the celebration will be an improvement on last year’s.

The beer was flowing and Nick was ordering the ostrich gizzards as Elfie and I slipped into the two vacant seats opposite the toilets at the Rose de Sahara, an African restaurant in Shinjuku. A nail emergency, requiring a last-minute trip down to Kawasaki for an all-corners-cut French manicure, had made us late for this, Elfie’s birthday celebration.

One glance at the menu and I knew that I was a vegetarian for the night. Goat’s head seasoned with sand does not induce my digestive juices to flow. After ordering, I popped into the bathroom to pee. I had drunk a large chai tea latte from Starbucks, whilst waiting for the four layers of nail lacquer to dry; the pressure on my bladder was quite intolerable.

I stepped out of the toilet into a pile of regurgitated camel meat. I was wearing pink, thin-soled sandals, so a disaster for my feet.

"Oh shit, disgusting," I said loudly. The two Japanese men leaning against the wall looked at me blankly. Fortunately my Japanese runs to: "Puke, shocking!" The two men giggled and nodded in acknowledgement. They were waiting for their orally incontinent friend to finish messing the men's toilet. We watched as the waitress scooped the puke into a dustpan.

“Are you from the Sahara?” I asked, feeling the need to acknowledge her existence on her hands-and-knees at my feet.

She was from West Africa. Ten minutes later, the same West African waitress brought our food. I am sure that she had thoroughly disinfected her hands, but still my appetite was small.

"What exactly are gizzards?" Nick asked after a couple of mouthfuls.

"Bits not usually deemed fit for eating," I replied.