Foods of Mass Destruction

I have a very bland palette.
I mean really bland. I am able to detect a single grain of common table pepper in a bowl of Kraft Dinner. I don't like ketchup because it completely overpowers anything it's put on. And as for "hot" food...

I can't begin to enumerate the number of times I've been offered something that looks like it might be spicy. Such offerings invariably go something like this:
"Hey, Ken, try this."
Ken eyes it suspiciously, looking for telltale signs: smoke, an inner pilot light, a subtle vibration...
"Is it hot?"
"No. Not at all."
"Yeah, right."
"No, really, there's hardly any spice in it at all. It's just really flavourful."
Ken looks at it again, holding it up to the light, examining it from all angles. No steam. He dips a finger in. It doesn't burn through his skin. He gingerly pops it into his mouth and begins chewing.
"Hmmm, this isn't ba---HOLY FUCK! WATER! WATER! YOU ASSHOLE, MY THROAT'S ON FIRE, WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT SHIT?!!!"
Like as not, "that shit" is somebody's idea of "mild" sauce.
I still remember the time my father tricked me into trying something genuinely hot.
"Here, Macaw, try this," he said, as he handed me a little pickle.
"Is it hot?"
"Naw. It's a little pickle."
I love pickles.
My father is a legendary practical joker, so I was still a tad wary.
"Yeah, right. What is it, really?"
"It's a piri-piri. It's Portuguese for 'little pickle'."
I popped 'er in and crunched with gusto.
"Hey, this isn't ba..."croak...gasp...wheeze..."Haaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!"
My throat exploded. There's just no other way to put it. I searched frantically for liquid nitrogen. Not finding any, I then looked for a solid nitrogen bar to chew. Still no luck. At this point steam was jetting from both ears and every drop of moisture in my body was swimming down my cheeks for its very life.
I grabbed for a glass of water and upended it over my rapidly charring face. Some of it even made it into my mouth and down my throat.
"Uh, Kenny..."
"Wha----YAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"
"I was going to tell you that water makes it worse."
LESSON #1: If you eat a supernova disguised as a small pickle, do NOT drink water afterwards. Water has the same effect on piri-piris as it does on grease fires. Nobody tells you this beforehand, the better to laugh at you as you do the sweaty jiggy-dance.
Eventually I was directed to the milk, and downed about half a gallon. The pain began to abate.
Then I wiped my still-watering eyes.
LESSON #2: If you EVER handle a pickle-shaped H-bomb, do NOT then stick your finger within three hundred miles of an eye socket.
I scrubbed my hands down, you know, in water, because Lesson #1 hadn't sunk in yet. Then I went to the bathroom. And wiped.
LESSON #3...

Piri-piri is Swahili for 'pepper-pepper'. Some of them have a rating of 700,000 Scoville Units, according to online sources. (If you don't know what a Scoville Unit is, think of each unit as a ton of TNT.)
I know people who nibble these things like they're...little pickles. These people look human, but they're obviously cyborgs with throats made out of titanium. How anyone can detect any sort of flavour at all while they're searing their esophagus bewilders me to no end. Why, though, is perhaps the more pertinent question. Some of the side effects from eating virulent chilies include shortness of breath, nausea, and a feeling like you might pass out. And these things are supposed to be GOOD for you?

*****

Today, we went to a Vietnamese/Thai restaurant. I had tried one in downtown Kitchener a month back, and found it surprising tasty. And cheap. And very filling. Most shocking, not hot at all. Of course, I had deftly skated through the menu avoiding any little peppers denoting spiciness...just to be safe, I didn't order anything above or below a spicy item, in case the heat...spread...somehow.
Today, I ordered a variant on what I'd had last month: a vermicelli bowl with shredded pork, pork meatballs, and a spring roll. Very tasty, and well within heat tolerance limits. I also decided to get a little adventurous and try the sour coconut chicken soup.

Many years ago, at a wonderful place in Parry Sound called The Creamery, I tried a Strawberry Cheesecake Milkshake. The thinking behind this little food experiment went something like this: I like strawberries...I like cheesecake...I like milkshakes: I will love this!
I didn't. It was gross. Cheese and milk shouldn't marry in your mouth...it's incest.

A customer called me up at work this morning and said "We bought some Egg Nog Ice Cream last night and got home and had a bowl..." and I'm thinking "I like egg nog...I like ice cream..."
"...and it was truly God-awful. Can we PLEASE return it?" And then I thought "...because if I leave it in the house, it might contaminate the rest of my food!" "Of course", I said.

Likewise, today: I like sour stuff...I like coconuts...I like chicken...I like soup.
Well, four rights make a colossal wrong. The smell tipped me off before I raised a spoon to my mouth. Imagine the heady aroma of your great-grandma's underwear, worn a week straight. Now imagine a bowlful of it. And to think I actually took a spoonful of this stuff and ATE IT.

It got into my mouth and started trashing the place immediately. My brain struggled to analyze the gustatory assault. My face contorted and Eva waited to hear me say "that's interesting..."

"Interesting" is my code word for "I think I'm gonna barf". I use that word when I'm afraid my dislike for whatever I'm eating might possibly offend somebody who has bought it for me. This soup, let me tell you, was mighty interesting. So interesting, in fact, I couldn't even say the word. One spoonful had rendered me speechless.

I took another spoonful for confirmation. Yes, we have a winner: this is the new champeen, the absolute most evil thing I have ever tasted. It belongs on Fear Factor with the hundred-year-old eggnog and the moose testicles. Both those things might have actually been present in the murky depths of my bowl today.

Wordlessly I shoved the bowl across the table at Eva. The ritual predates our marriage, although this was a reversal of its usual form. Normally, she's the one shoving things at me, with the subtle colouring of her face that signals "This stuff is horrible! You gotta try it!"

She tried it. And then tried really hard not to retch.

I must say that the disgusting nature of this soup is entirely a personal thing: no fault of the chef at all. If only I'd known...