I consider I've been pretty lucky in the genetic lottery. Sure, I'm as near to ovoid as an erect hominid can physically manage but, while my parents gifted me with male pattern baldness, the capacious eyebags of a dolorous spaniel and a two-inch lateral scoliosis, I also have a resonant baritone singing voice and an excellent memory for trivia. Best of all I seem to have missed out two traits that trouble normal mortals: I don't do guilt and I've yet to find a food that disgusts me. This is good news for a food writer - pretty much anything from Japanese natto to recently smothered ortolans are going to be fair game.

Which is why I was so sanguine when Guardian Films asked me to eat snails. C'mon guys. Try harder. I've done the lot. Mum says I ate them raw in the garden at two; I can hoik down a couple of dozen petits gris without pausing to suck the garlic butter out of my moustache; hell I've even foraged my own garden snails and fed them to my daughter. Ah yes, said the director, but what if they weighed about a kilo each and were as big as two clenched fists? Have you tried Giant African Land Snails?



I suppose the most remarkable thing about African Land Snails is how much they resemble the rest of the family. Physiologically they appear identical, just, frankly, sodding huge. The 'foot', the rubbery appendage with which your average garden snail can cling to a rock or, we are told, slide unharmed along the edge of a razor is at least as big as the palm of your hand. This is important because this is the bit that, according to my expert guide Abiodun Olawunmi of the admirable A2 Delicious restaurant in London's glittering Catford, was the only part we were going to eat. I'd gladly fill you in on the whole process of shell smashing, guts removal, washing with alum rocks and boiling for ages but you'd be better off watching the video above for the full, rather astonishing effect.

So the final and most important question is, how did it taste? Well it didn't, exactly. Like whelks, boulets, garden snails and pretty much the rest of the edible gastropodia, there's not a chance that any evanescent snailish essence could survive the rigmarole of desliming and rendering edible - but that's not the point. The remaining texture was utterly unlike anything else I've ever put in my mouth. Abi's hot pepper sauce was a gently brewed assault of flavours that would have converted a well-worn espadrille into a worthwhile meal. In fact I'll go on record saying that I'm prepared to eat a McDonald's hashbrown thingy if Abi's sauce is to hand, but the snail's foot adds a textural matrix somewhere between an undercooked artichoke heart and the cartilage from a premiership footballer's knee - with just a tad more disquieting crunch.

Did I enjoy it? Hell yes. It's rare to find a totally new combination of flavour and texture and it was privilege to be shown how to prepare it properly. Will I be knocking up land snail at my next dinner party? I'm ashamed to say, no. I'm not sure I could find anyone to share it, but do try Abi's sauce with a less challenging protein - I did chicken thighs last night - and I guarantee you won't be disappointed.