Ate legs, 7 Seas...

Not only did I want octopus for my lunch, but I wanted octopus for my life. I was absolutely convinced that bringing such a strange creature into my system would bring interesting new thoughts and awarenesses to me. You are what you eat after all. So there I sat at "El 7 Mares" on Sunset having ordered the Pulpo Cocktail. The small window opened at the designated pick-up point and there was my cocktail in a large plastic cup on a plastic tray surrounded by a pile of Saltine cracker packets. I had eaten this before with great enthusiasm - it's a dazzlingly fresh mix of tomatoes, onions, avocados, cilantro blended into a cool chunky drink perfect for a warm November afternoon. At the bottom of the cup lies a handful of purple-pink pulpo parts, each about the size of a pinky tip. They're chewy like calamari and the sucker bumps add a wonderful texture.

Then the world changed on me... My warm and jolly hunger was eclipsed by a profound state of physical and philosophical nausea the likes of which would make Jean Paul Sartre's wonky eye pop right from it's socket (and into my pulpo cocktail). Suddenly, the thought of all those baby octopi, farmed and chopped up and kept in a Tupperware container on a shelf inside the kitchen of this electric orange cement box of a restaurant was brining me down faster than a bad oyster in a month with no "r." Beyond the pangs of conscience, which in truth were fleeting, there were the octopus pieces themselves, dredged from the depths of the cup with a white plastic spoon. No, I do not want octopus in me today I announced to myself looking into the cup. And then I started eating.