The Life of the Grasshopper 



We pronounce favourably upon the caliph's 

 delicacy. It is far superior to the Cicadae 

 extolled by Aristotle. It has a certain 

 shrimpy flavour, a taste that reminds one of 

 grilled Crab; and, were it not that the shell 

 is very tough for such slight edible contents, 

 I would go to the length of saying that it is 

 good, without, however, feeling any desire 

 for more. 



My curiosity as a naturalist has now twice 

 allowed itself to be tempted by the dishes of 

 antiquity: Cicadas first; Locusts next. 

 Neither the one nor the other roused my 

 enthusiasm. We must leave these things to 

 the powerful jaws of the negroes and the 

 huge appetite of which the famous caliph 

 gave proof. 



The queasiness of our stomachs, however, 

 in no way decreases the Locusts' merits. 

 Those little browsers of the burnt grass play 

 a great part in the workshop where our food 

 is prepared. They swarm in vast legions 

 which roam over the barren wastes, pecking 

 here and there, turning what could not 

 otherwise be used into a foodstuff which is 

 passed on to a host of consumers, including, 

 first and foremost, the bird that often falls 

 to man's share. 



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