Holy cow and gizzards! (Or, I'd like a splash of urine on my grilled kidneys, please)

I'm into part II, with Leopold Bloom. This is strong stuff: "Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine."

Do grilled mutton kidneys really taste like that?

I'm noticing how Bloom's interior monolog is different than Dedalus's. Different characterization altogether. I'm starting to have a grudging admiration for Joyce in this regard. I mean, after all, no author can accurately portray with words a person's inner thoughts.

I might have to eat my words of the previous post. Lightly sauteed in urine.