Mr. Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine.
107 years before Anthony Bourdain, Fergus Henderson et al. lauded sweetbreads, Bloom sat down to his breakfast of champions. WWLBE? Get thee to L.A.'s equivalent of Dublin's Dlugacz, (i.e. your favorite butcher), and have yourself a breakfast fit for an Irish literary icon. Happy Bloomsday.
Note: The one-word constructions are as Joyce wrote them.