I have a weeny stomach. Ryan tells me this all of the time. But I try not to let that hold me back. I still love almost every type of food, and with the years, I have become more and more adventurous. I have learned that the best food isn't always cooked in the most sanitary of places, so, I travel prepared with a purse filled with every type of intestinal remedy. (And when I forget and start to panic, Ryan typically has me backed up... because he knows me that well.)
Honestly, I wasn't too concerned about my stomach the first time Desmond, Sarah, and I dined together. Though the fish was new to me (again, I'm sorry fish) and each dish prepared in a Cantonese style, the ingredients weren't wildly different from ingredients I am accustomed to: noodles, rice, steamed greens, deep fried tofu, braised beef.
Dinner was another story. The first dish presented was a platter of prawns. Shrimp! I love shrimp! (I still can't grasp the difference between shrimp and prawns. Is it really only a size issue?) But these buggers were not pretty. With their heads on, beady black eyes staring into space, and spiced with that sweet mystery spice that seems to be in every Singapore dish, I started to feel uneasy. But I couldn't turn back! With Desmond, I had established myself as a culinary adventurer. Desmond seemed so excited that I was willing to try whatever he ordered... and honestly, I was proud to wear that badge.
So when he suggested ostrich, I didn't bat an eye.
The dish arrived and it looked quite good! The meat was dark, sauteed with a light (soy? teriyaki?) sauce and topped with green onions. It also tasted great. But as I chewed, I grew more and more anxious. My thoughts flitted back to the best night I've ever spent in Verona, Italy, in which I dined with friends/colleagues Claudia, Steven, and Daniel at Antica Bottega Del Vino. That night, I ate cavallo (horse meat). It was very good; prepared in a style I'd never expected: dried in paper thin slices, and then shredded and served in the shape of a nest. I thoroughly enjoyed the dish, but the entire time, I was horrified that my stomach would soon be cramping and with embarrassment I would have to return to the hotel. But it never happened.
Even though I'd been spared in Italy, I still worried and worried about the ostrich. I believed my fears had been realized when the room started getting really warm. Soon, I was sweating. Not profusely, but enough to worry. Immediately I asked for directions to the rest room.
Now let me set this up: We were dining at a seafood restaurant in the more remote industrial area of Singapore. By day, the place was hopping, but at night, so much as the sound of a rustled napkin could be heard by the chef, in the back, in the kitchen. Because we were, literally, the only patrons at this particular time, we had about 5 to 6 waitresses taking care of our every need. If I took a sip of tea, within seconds, a waitress was pouring a refill. If I dirtied a dish with, say, 2 shrimp, immediately, a waitress was switching my dirtied plate for a clean one. All eyes were on us. It didn't help that Sarah and I were caucasian. Clearly, we were tourists.
So when I stood up and asked for directions to the rest room, all eyes were on me. I concentrated my full attention on not passing out (as I felt like I would at any moment) and I made my way to the back of the restaurant.
Oh, Asian bathrooms. Why oh why would one choose a squat-toilet when you have a normal, western-style toilet just feet away. It is beyond me. However, almost every bathroom I went in (aside from the hotel bathrooms) had the option of a squat-toilet, or western-toilet. I never tried the squat toilet. Girls shouldn't have to aim. (There was one of those really advanced toilets in the Tokyo airport that has all sorts of buttons and options: music, water sounds (should you need to cover up any sounds of you own), warm water for your bum, and others. I have a picture of one that I will post.... yes, I took photos in the bathroom.)
Anyway, I spent a few minutes in the bathroom at the restaurant, ran my wrists under cold water, and returned to the table. It was then that I had to admit to my fellow-diners that I wasn't feeling well. As I assured a very concerned Desmond that it wasn't the food, I was simultaneously and silently mumbling prayers to any god listening that it really wasn't the food.
Turns out, the gods (or God) was listening. It was jet lag. It hit me like a hammer in the face. I returned to the hotel for a couple of hours to rest and was as good as new.
Once again, I survived adventurous eating.
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