Watching @silentypewriter and @richmajor at Wuli Wuli in Camberwell last night shoveling down shredded pigs’ ears and duck tongues, I reflected on my lack of stomach for the Sichuan extremities being piled up before us.

My first Chinese meal was with a girl from the top of my road, when I was 13. One Saturday she took me to a local takeaway and ordered a dish I didn’t recognise with the speed and efficiency of a highly professional bikini waxer.

We sat on a bench, on the town common, eating fried rice filled with chewy slivers of egg, salty chicken and slimy beansprouts, sharing the one fork provided.

Until that point I literally had no idea such food existed. Mum and dad only liked curry and ordering a Chinese takeaway was… well in our house… something other people did. Like watching The Price Is Right.

Naturally, experiencing the basic MSG/salt/soy combo for the first time made me very happy. And while mum and dad could still never be convinced to order anything other than curry, my heart made a deep connection.

As an adult I’m now free to eat Chinese for breakfast. A thing I probably assumed aged 13, sitting on that common, I would definitely do. A Chinese takeaway remains a guilty pleasure for a Saturday – just indoors, with forks for everyone.

But around me things have moved on. Instead of the soy-gravy vehicle I had as a teenager, my local Chinese now serves authentic, Sichuan dishes like fried hog chitterlings, tripe and hot pig’s entrails, while I’m still hankering to recreate that first taste of salty chicken I had on that chilly autumn day

Perhaps my kids will end up sitting on Camberwell Green sharing an illicit Fish Head Bean Curd soup – wondering why their boring mother hates saliva chicken, smacked cucumbers, duck’s tongue and shredded pig’s ear.

For more thoughts on Wuli Wuli try these posts from: grumbling gourmet, food stories, hollow legs and rather unusual chinaman