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facts & arguments

Sara Kinninmont always orders the scariest thing on the menu. But she met her match with durian

Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.

Lying on the cool tile floor of a hotel bathroom on the other side of the world after being violently ill inevitably gives you time to reflect on your life choices, and what may have led you to that precise moment. Curling up with the bathmat as a pillow, I knew that my trajectory had begun well before I'd ever boarded a plane to Vietnam.

Growing up, there were few rules in my house, except for one that we followed religiously. My dad longed to raise adventurous eaters and as a result insisted that we try every food presented to us. While for most kids that might mean a tentative nibble of broccoli or a spear of asparagus, around our dinner table it meant digging into various nightmarish organ stews full of tongue, heart, kidney and brains ,or bouillabaisse redolent of low tide. With my palate trained early on, it will come as no surprise that while the majority of my classmates craved pizza and macaroni, I happily tucked into escargots with extra garlic.

It was these early forays into questionable culinary territory that laid the groundwork for my current appetite. I am incapable of going into a restaurant and not ordering the strangest and scariest thing on the menu, even if it is likely I won't enjoy it. The more uncomfortable my dining companions are the more I must have it. From skewered chicken hearts, intestines and gizzards in Chinatown to kangaroo carpaccio and pig tail at the latest hipster hangout, all are must-eats in my book. Natto, headcheese, a herring-roe sack, crickets, asparagus juice, sea urchin, haggis, jellyfish, eel, pigeon, konnyaku, tuna heart, goat, chicken's feet, tripe, alligator, musk ox, frog's legs, poi and worm larva are all just notches on my foodie belt.

While I certainly don't have what it takes to enter the Nathan's Hot Dog eating contest, that doesn't mean I'm not a competitive eater. My appetite is just as fierce. One might even say that I'm eating for two: me and my ego. I relish being the person at any given gathering that has eaten the strangest things and regaling people with play by plays; such as the time my ex shrieked like a Miss America winner and stuck his mouth under the kitchen faucet after one bite of cricket. Meanwhile, I finished the whole box. I've earned my bragging rights one bite at a time.

Surprisingly, I hadn't met my match until I saw my first durian. The famed fruit seems to do everything in its power to talk you out of ingesting it, from its spiky surface to its famed foul smell, yet I wasn't deterred. That it is feared by many, and even banned from most hotels and public transportation, made it only more enticing to me. Durian lovers compare it to an ambrosia-like custard. Haters liken it to eating ice cream while taking a poop. I'd always wondered which camp I would fall into.

I had my chance in Ho Chi Minh City. Walking back to the hotel after another pho-filled lunch, I spotted a woman selling the spiky fruit outside the Ben Thanh Market. Knowing I had something to prove, I didn't hesitate to approach the stall and procure my prize. Not wanting to commit to an entire fruit, nor to its expense, I bought just two of the fleshy, yellow pods.

Caught up in the moment, I conveniently chose to ignore the fact that it was February and durian is typically in season from June to August. Nary a thought was given to the fact that I had no idea how long it had been sitting in the 40 C heat sans shell. I was spurred on by a little voice in my head assuring me that I'd soon be joining an elite club of eaters.

I scurried back to my hotel with my little bag of what felt like illicit contraband. Knowing it wasn't welcome in the hotel, I sat myself down on the front steps and prepared myself for a putrid little picnic. Initially, I was taken aback by its lack of smell, expecting it to be like a punch to the face. I took a tentative bite, preparing for the worst, but found myself actually enjoying it. Decidedly not ambrosia, but not bad. And I felt triumphant. No guts, no glory, indeed.

The glow of victory didn't last long. Signs of trouble began later that afternoon in the form of incessant, oniony burps. A small price to pay for checking durian off my bucket list, or so I thought. Hours later, I woke up with a jolt knowing without a doubt that I was going to be sick. And suddenly, the glory was completely overshadowed by the guts resurfacing with a vengeance. Oddly, the ego remains AWOL in moments such as these, refusing to take any responsibility.

The 72 hours that ensued found me bedridden and unable to see any of the city or its surroundings. No Cu Chi tunnels or Reunification Palace for me.

Do I have any regrets? Nope. Truth be told, no one wants to know if you loved the Taj Mahal or Chichen Itza, they want to know if you got Delhi Belly or Montezuma's Revenge. Bathroom-related woes keep an audience rapt. In my case, the durian debacle is a story worth its weight in gold.

Sara Kinninmont lives in North Vancouver, B.C.