He knew from the moment the bowl arrived he had made a terrible mistake.
It was broth. Broth. Even the guttural sound of the word suggested something nasty. Something deeply unpleasant.
It was broth like your Ma used to make with a great big shin bone in a giant pot for a whole week of dinners. On Monday it was disgusting. By Friday you were wishing for death.
The texture was cloudy. No, murky was a better word. Like when you were a kid and you put your welly into the mud at the bottom of a puddle.
But it didn’t taste like puddle water. Good God no. It was so much worse.