There are two kinds of eaters: those who are eligible for membership in my monthly dining society and those who will not be able to read to the end of this paragraph without getting queasy. If the juxtaposition of the verb eat with the noun phrase goat lungs makes you look frantically for an exit, stop reading now. Everybody else, let me tell you about the Organ Eaters' Club.
Actually, the group doesn't really have a name. "Organ Eaters' Club" is merely descriptive. Some members prefer names with a little more flavor--the Organ Grinders, say, or the Innards Circle, or Seekers of the Offal Truth. Melissa Easton, the designer who convened our very first meeting (at La Lunchonette, in Manhattan's Chelsea neighborhood), says that what we do is simply "adventure eating."
Like so many first times, ours was a transporting experience. La Lunchonette is smallish, stylishly unstylish and far enough out of the way to be hip. When I arrived, I saw a little group sitting at the other end of the room, one of whom I recognized: my colleague Chris Peacock, who normally blanches at the very thought of organ meats but had gracefully offered to bring me together with Melissa, his wife--"She eats disgusting things, too," he had said.