Worst. Meal. Ever.

Today’s story comes from a piece I started earlier this year after I read “The Battle of the Red Hot Pepper Weenies” by David Lubar from the short story collection of the same title.  My students wanted to know about different foods I have tried: best chocolate, weirdest texture, hottest (like the story), grossest, etc.

I’m not really sure about the hottest thing I've ever eaten.  It’s possibly Dave’s Insanity Sauce, which my brother dropped into a dish of mac and cheese.  I cried brimstone for hours.  I don’t really go in for the super melt-your-teeth-out hot stuff, though.  I prefer flavor over potency.  That’s why I usually stick to milder sauces—the flavors are richer and enhance whatever they are added to.   But when it comes to stuff that’s painful going in as well as coming out, there is definitely one episode that stands out.

When I was serving as a missionary in southern Spain, my companion and I were working in the small pueblo of Andújar.   Through some acquaintances, we met an elderly woman named Conchita.  Her family had all moved away, so she was rather lonely.  We would visit with her fairly frequently and help her around the house or do her shopping as she was getting on in years, and life had not been very kind to her.  One day, out of the blue, she invited us over on occasion to eat.  We didn't even know she could cook as she had mostly been eating cold foods—ready-made packed foods or fresh fruits or bread.  That and the fact that her eyesight was going (quickly) gave us cause to be little worried.

Reluctantly, we accepted her invitation, and she immediately began planning a menu for us.  She set the lunch two weeks ahead.  Why so far off, we didn't know.  Maybe she had to wait for her pension to clear or for her new teeth to come in the mail, but whatever the delay, for the next few weeks, she would tell us of how she was preparing the best feast ever.  “Just like I used to,” she would exclaim.  And then she’d clasp her rosary and escape to some far off time only her mind could see.  We began to get a little worried.

The day of the appointment came, and we arrived at Conchita's apartment with a blend of anticipation and trepidation.  The table was only set for two.  When asked why she wasn't eating with us, she scowled and growled, “I've already eaten.  Don’t you know I can’t eat all this rich food I've prepared?  It’d kill me off for sure!”  Hesitantly, we slid into the wobbly hardback chairs.

As quickly as she could shuffle in, the first course was served: soup.  Not too bad, right?  Heh heh.  I wouldn't be telling this tale if it wasn't disgusting.  The soup was a lukewarm watery broth with lumps of overcooked spinach, not-so-cooked eggplant and some chunks of cold dried and salted fish—cod, I believe.  Elder G— spluttered as the first spoonful crossed the threshold of his mouth.  I wiped my eye and tie and shirt.  “Super delicious!” he pronounced.

My hand shook as Conchita turned to me.  “What do you think?”  I gulped it down, trying not to let anything touch my tongue on its way down.  I grimaced; hopefully, to her it would appear that I was smiling.  Gave it too thumbs up, and made a supposed-to-be-yummy sound.  Really, I was trying not to gag and spit.

We squirmed and swallowed for the next hour or so, trying our hardest to avoid drinking the warm gazpacho she sloshed together in a semi-clean pitcher.

When we couldn't bear any more, we excused ourselves as politely as we could (It still took about twenty minutes to get out the door.), and we headed home.

As we walked down the apartment building stairs, both of our stomachs audibly expressed their displeasure.  We glanced at each other knowingly, and without a word, we started moving double time back to our place.  Stream poured from my forehead, but it wasn't just from the heat or the pace we moved at.  The outward signs of my insides’ rebellion started to manifest themselves.  I burped and re-tasted the helping of landfill I had forced down my throat.  My stomach lurched, and I looked over at my companion.

Elder G— appeared worse than I felt: white face, glasses slipping, I thought he might faint on the spot.  Suddenly, he threw off his backpack and demanded the keys.  “I’m not going to make it!” he burbled, and he took off sprinting, leaving in in the dusty road.

Five minutes later I stumbled up to our fourth-floor hole-in-the-wall.  My pace had slowed to a crawl as the cramping gradually grew worse.  The front door swung in the light breeze.  Shoes, pants, and shirt littered the hallway.  As I took in the disheveled state of affairs, I heard a scream of relief coming from the bathroom down the hall.  I’m not going to mention what else I heard (or smelled).  I'll leave that to your capable imagination.

Let’s just leave it by saying that we didn't work much (or very far from our apartment) for the next few days.  And we never ate with Conchita again.