He enjoys describing any aspect of a dinosaur: its footprints, the color of its skin, its fossils, its molecular structure, its habits, its individual atoms, its psychology, its destiny. Anything, as long as he gets to describe a dinosaur.
Today, this evening, on the way home, he was telling me that he thinks that more techno and hiphop musicians needs to sample the dulcet sounds of a dinosaur, when I interrupted him, "So, you're a chef, and you seem to have a lot of privileged information about what a dinosaur is like, right? Why haven't you mentioned what a dinosaur tastes like?"
He looked angry at first and then sad, and then he looked away. We rode for ten minutes in silence - a different kind of silence than the shyness before.
Finally, as he was getting out, he glared at me, tears in his eyes, and said, "It tastes like chicken, okay? Except kind of chewier, with a spicy acidic tang, but basically like chicken."
I just got email from him, saying he doesn't want to carpool with me any more. He explained himself very clearly, using three distinct (but passionate) velociraptor metaphors to express how upset he was. I still don't get it.