There are some dangers to eating overseas. It's to be expected that whenever you put together a traveler, a restaurant (usually a battered wood-and-canvas kiosk half-on and half-off the sidewalk), and a foreign culture, that there's going to be some...well, disturbing encounters.

Sometimes it turns out okay. In Hong Kong I was introduced to the delightful Russian dish, vareneki -- a dumpling filled with potatos or pork. In Palma de Mallorca, Spain, I had perhaps the tastiest bacon-wrapped date cooked in olive oil that I'd ever had (okay, I'd never had one before then, but still). In Mexico I was introduced to the wonders of the gordita in all of it's varied-content glory (potatoes, beef, spicy shredded pork) -- nothing at all like the “gorditas” one can get at one's local Taco Bell.

But for every gordita or bacon-wrapped-date, there was a gamy Maltan rabbit-cooked-in-its-own-juices -- supposedly the state specialty of the island of Malta. To me, it tasted something like a...a...well...alright...a gamy Maltan rabbit cooked in its own juices. With onions.

In Pusan, South Korea, there was the grilled eel skin. On the surface, it was tasty enough. Each skin had a bit of a snap to it, a crunch, a hint of fishiness and a hint of charcoal. By the time I had eaten three, though, my head felt bulbous and my stomach felt like the eel was trying to swim back out to sea. It wasn't the most pleasant food-related experience I've ever had.

Then again, it wasn't the worst.

That would be “cendol.” It's a traditional dessert in Malaysia that contains no fewer than fifteen different ingredients. The base is shaved ice. Yummy, shaved ice. Good stuff, shaved ice. A rose syrup is drizzled over that. This is pretty good, too. A bit rich, but good. But after that it gets a bit weird. With any given spoonful the unwary dessert connoisseur may turn up noodles, red beans, or a weird gelatinous white blob that looks more like an eyeball than any ingredient in a desert containing shaved ice (or anything else) should. There's also globby rice, a grass jelly that squirms around in the rose syrup and coconut milk like a tiny tadpole, and...and...and...creamed corn.

Really.

Creamed corn.

I mean, come on, who puts creamed corn in a dessert? And why?

Why?

In my defense, I made it through half of this Frankenstein's monster of a delicacy before I couldn't bear it any longer. After a few bites, the consistency of the corn became...manageable. But when I hit the coconut milk and kept coming up with eyeballs and tadpoles, there was a problem. Eventually, even the rose syrup became cloying and heavy.

I tossed my spoon down and said, “No more! Please, for the love of all that is good and right in the world, no more!”

“No one's forcing you,” said my lunch companion.

I sighed and glared at the cendol out of the corner of my eye. “Yeah,” I said, “but I paid, like, four bucks for that.”

“It's only four bucks.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“There's corn in it.”

“Oh, yeah, I noticed.”

I took two more bites, but couldn't do more than that. There are distances I will go in the service of adventure and cultural exploration, but there must be a line somewhere. For me, I now know where that line is: anywhere that serves cendol.

There's a good chance that I'll try burnt ostrich beak with a salmon glaze if such a thing is ever offered to me. I may even eat yogurt-covered grasshoppers dipped in honey if I should cross paths with a plateful. It's possible I'll have grilled eel skin if the occasion ever arises again.

But shaved ice and creamed corn?

Not this side of deep-fried pig lips slathered with a hollandaise sauce.

The author managed to escape from all of his gastronomical adventuring with nary a sign of hepatitis, typhoid, plague, or food poisoning (okay, maybe a little bit of food poisoning); however, he's a professional, and you shouldn't try it at home.