"They're kind of disgusting ... but really good," says the young man behind the counter at the kava bar. That's not exactly the reaction I was expecting when I asked about the opihi on the menu. Here on the Big Island of Hawaii I'm eager to try authentic flavors that I've never had before, but now I'm worried. While I waffle, the man, sporting nothing but shorts, sandals and a chestful of blue-black tattoos, hands me a coconut shell filled with kava. I find out his name is Sage. "You can see opihi at the beach," he says. "They're those little black shells that cling to the rocks." He's trying to make the case for me to order them, but he's effectively doing the opposite.