It’s late afternoon in sunny Palau and I’m standing in a local restaurant, waiting for the waitress to return with a bowl of bat soup.
The delicacy’s reputation may have been well and truly trashed during the COVID 19 pandemic, but it continues to be a local favourite in Palau, where life feels disconnected from the rest of the world.
It’s one of the standard menu items at the Carp Restaurant, an unassuming place, only accessible by an unpaved road and filled to the brim with an unusual combination of Hello Kitty merch and Japanese baseball memorabilia.
The restaurant has got great reviews on Trip Advisor, with diners raving about the authenticity of the Japanese food and generous portion sizes. Which makes me wonder about the size of the fruit bat my friend Lizzie is going to be tucking into.
The waitress is a friendly Filipino woman and when we ask if it’s possible to see how bat soup is cooked, we aren’t surprised when she shakes her head. It was worth a shot. But then she asks if we’d like to meet the chef?
“The bats are soaked for five days to get rid of any bacteria before being boiled for three hours.”
Moments later a tiny, incredibly feisty 87-year-old Japanese woman bounces into the room. She’s excited to meet Australian media and launches into a long and expressive tale about her life that is supremely entertaining, if perplexing, as neither Lizzie or I speak Japanese.
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She darts back into the kitchen to bring out the soup. It’s like a bat has fallen backwards into a vegetable broth and drowned. It’s a full bat – claws, wings, eyes and a full set of tiny teeth.
“Fruit bat soup is local favourite in Palau — where life feels disconnected from the rest of the world.”
Lizzie takes a couple of sips of beer for courage. I take more and I’m not even eating. Before she can take a bite, the chef is back with a gift. A whole fresh fish. She tells us we can have half. She brings out a plate of bananas and two more beers, before she heads back into the kitchen.
Which means its time. Lizzie picks up a serrated knife and slices down the middle of the bat, pulling the fur back to expose its chest. The vibes are less dinner and more postmortem but maybe that’s because bat soup has never been on my ‘must eat’ bucket list—even before the pandemic. However, Palauans seem unfazed by the bad press, and locals are happy to hunt and eat furry forest-dwelling mammals.
After cutting the smallest possible slice of meat from its chest, Lizzie takes a bite of bat and I hold my breath.
She screws up her face, then nods. I’m expecting her to tell me it tastes like chicken but apparently it’s more like a darker meat. Perhaps unsurprising given we have just been told the bats are soaked for five days to get rid of any bacteria before being boiled for three hours.
“The vibes are less dinner and more postmortem but maybe that’s because bat soup has never been on my ‘must eat’ bucket list — even before the pandemic.”
Though she thinks it’s the presentation rather than the taste that’s problematic, a second bite is more than enough for Lizzie, and I don’t think
I’ll ever eat again but the chef is bringing out more gifts of sashimi and beer. We don’t want to offend by refusing her hospitality so we tuck into some sashimi and I take the beer as a traveller. I reckon I’ve earned it after watching the bat soup event unfold. 
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