No matter what you might have heard, human flesh does not taste like chicken. That is such an ancient cliché, you really wouldn't believe how old. Does rabbit taste like chicken? Does horse? Does frog for that matter? No. They are distinctive. Human flesh is a beautiful, subtle flavour. The texture is something like pork, but the flavour is more delicate, sweet like lamb but indescribable unless you have tasted it yourself. Think now. How would you describe what beef tastes like, to a poor soul who has been an unfortunate vegetarian all his life?

There are no words.

The most curious thing is the variety. I am a gourmand, I must admit. I adore new flavours, textures and sensations, and there is infinite variety. I am always imploring others to indulge themselves, to be adventurous. Particularly in these modern times, when domesticated creatures have been bred into subservience, into accursed convenience. Yes there are subtle variations in breed, from an Aberdeen Angus to a Texas Longhorn to an African Tswana, but once sampled they are all much the same. Which appeals to the modern world: you know what you are getting.

But ah, humanity. Each one of you has a different diet, a different life. Different skin, different muscle tone. You have all eaten different herbs and seasonsings throughout your life.

North Europeans are bland but the fat makes excellent crackling. The white flesh is superb when roasted. I once made a family feast, a particularly glutonous event. I cleaned and trimmed the torso, and split the spine neatly with a cleaver, down the line of the vertebrae, dividing it into four portions of ribs. Males are usually better for this, though one needs a large oven to accommodate four portions. They are excellent basted with a mixture of honey and Madeira in equal parts, which reduces to a thick sweet sticky glaze that bubbles in the oven most satisfactorily, and is glorious on the tongue.

Curious to say in these racially conscious times, but I enjoy all varieties of humanity. A lifetime's immersion in spices gives Indians a glorious fragrance. Ah the years I wandered in that beautiful land, rich feasts in the backstreets of Madras and Bombay, the rich colours, the drowsy heat, the heavy scents and flavours. Such a land of richness and complexity, of teeming life and present death, I threw myself into its cuisine, occasionally cleansing my palate on the bland delicacy of North Europeans in their Calcutta palaces.

Africa, a continent of open skies and vast mountains, of herds as far as the eye can see, dark skinned, full-flavoured and gamey, perfect just cooked on an open fire.

And the East, what can I say? Delicate flavours in such teeming variety, the nutty Malay, the creamy Thai, and the infinite openness of China. There is truly no such thing as Chinese, as all connoisseurs know. It is a vast land that freezes in the north and sweats in the south, with every range and taste of people, suffused with ginger, enriched with chilli, delicately stir-fried with noodles and fish sauce.

There is even a profound difference between men and women. The skin of women is soft and pliant, excellent for roasting for the skin is tender and kept moist by the fat beneath the skin. The legs make perfect hams, hung and smoked with apple-wood, a discovery of which I am particularly proud. Men are often tougher, though not always, and I have on occasion enjoyed those lissom boys that are somewhere between the two. Men's flesh is more robust and better for flash-frying in oil and butter, finished with a splash of port or burgundy, or as a warming casserole flavoured with bay, cooked slowly with a selection of winter vegetables.

Offal, I have never been particularly fond of. It is the plumbing, the scaffolding that keeps the meat and grows it, and for me, I would argue, it has little food interest when there are such other riches available. Not that I have not sampled it all, of course. Lungs, entrails and so on are bland scraps. Hearts have some value stuffed, but are tough. I am not wasteful though, I boil them up to feed to my dogs, who tear them with their sharp teeth and wolf them down with gratitude. Heads I have no use for, though if shaved and properly cleaned, a tedious and time-consuming process I might add, I do on occasion boil them up to make stock.

Brains are a curious thing. They are soft, and spongy. When raw their texture is almost like a delicate soft mousse. They can be fried in slivers with finest pancetta, served on a bed of fresh spinach, rocket and fine salad leaves, scattered with shavings of truffle and Pecorino Romano. They have a soft, mushroom-like consistency, but I find their appearance is too self-evident for the casual table guest.

The tongues of man are an interesting delicacy, much finer than the gross lolling greyness of cow or sheep, and something I partake of on occasion. But the true prizes are, of course, the kidneys, and the liver.

I am old-fashioned, I am not ashamed to admit it. On a cold, crisp winter's morning, there is nothing, nothing better at all to break your fast upon, than a pair of youthful devilled kidneys, my own recipe, sautéed in butter and a generous splash of Amontillado, with mustard and paprika, served on slices of crisp buttered toast.

But ah, the liver. What greater prize of richness is there, that great organ of life that does so much, and gives so much in return. It is sneered upon too much, as the tough tubular monstrosity served grey with onions in public institutions. There is far more to it than that. But one must merely be careful in one's selection. The secret of all fine cuisine is to select the best ingredients, the best available for the recipe in hand. An ageing specimen tackled off the street is no use at all, its liver holed and pitted by the modern privations of drink and pollution. Cities are a marvellous thing, but too much indulgence, even I admit, is bad for the palate.

No, no. I have found the secret. My ideal choice are the farms and valleys, the simple places. Well I remember a feast I prepared, for which I was the toast for many a year. The secret, I was asked? Ah no, my secrets are my own I said, for if you knew, you might better me! But I will tell you. It was a farm in the Loire, where I had been enjoying the air and the wine and the smell of France. A farmhouse, remote, rustic, a perfect setting with fattening geese clucking in the yard. And a farmer's wife so young and ripe, round faced and plump, smelling of fresh bread, smiling and wiping her hands on her apron as she met me at the door. A perfect liver, rich and brown, stuffed for months with butter and cream, pastries and sweet wine. I did only the best for her and made an outstanding pâté, the rich brown liver minced with her own goose eggs, garlic, truffle and the finest cognac I have ever possessed, given to me by Napoleon himself.

Such a delicacy, it made me laugh to myself at the dinner table, remembering the first time. Lilly she was called, my first, the first. Beautiful nut brown skin with just a thin layer of fat. Strong muscles, tall, smooth and intelligent. She had a real vitality, a lust for life. How could I resist? It's no wonder she was too much for Adam, bovine lump that he was.

I'm afraid I had no subtlety in those days. Bare hands and a cooking fire were all I had. The fire sizzled and cracked as the rich fat dripped onto the coals, and I snatched great lumps of meat from the flame, my teeth tearing through the rich blackened skin. I gorged myself on the red meat half cooked and running with juices. I sucked the bones and supped the marrow. I gorged on every scrap of flesh, my first most heavenly experience. There was nothing left.

I must have looked a sight when poor Eve came along, blackened by the smoke and covered in grease and juices, sitting fat and swollen in a pile of bones. Thin she was, and half starved. A diet of only fruit is not enough for a growing girl, you know. I pitied her, poor thing. She'd been attracted by the cooking smell. Mute and skinny, she squatted at the edge of my fire, sniffing the air. What could I do? For the first time I felt ashamed. There was nothing left.

And then I saw the sweetbreads. Offal has never held much appeal to me, as you know. They were still warm from the fire. "Come here" I said, beckoning with glistening, greasy fingers. She edged a little nearer, fascinated by the flames. She licked her lips, but looked uncertain. Poor thing. I held out the sweetbreads. "Here you go" I said, "its good for you. Just think of it as an apple." She snatched it from my hand and scampered away.

So that was it. Caused a terrible row for us all, of course, but in the end, do any of us really regret it? It's been with us ever since, you know, in every one us, you and me.

Don't give me that look. I can see you, right now, where you're sitting. You're thinking. You're thinking, That's not true. That's disgusting.

But I wonder what it tastes like.

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