Whenever I see one of Jack's dishes, I am reminded of her occasional countryman (depending on which day of the week it is), James Joyce:
Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencod's roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
ETA: ...whereas Joyce's love letters remind me of Jack-adjacent RussInCheshire. If you ever want to be horrified, google "james joyce" fart. You have been warned, this is the literary equivalent of Lorraine's growler.