I’ve eaten awful food overseas, but this was the worst. I couldn’t refuse

I was once invited to a friend’s house in China for a hotpot, during which a dish of pigs’ brains was set on the table. They were slimy, pink and webbed with blue veins. I knew it was only a matter of time before I was invited to eat one.

Different cultures, different foods: it pays to be polite.Credit: Jamie Brown

The tolerance of travellers for unfamiliar food depends on a range of factors, from their adventurous spirit to wishing not to offend a host. Normally, I give most things a go, but when a pig’s brain was hauled out of the hotpot, I thought I’d reached my limit.

It was now as grey and soggy as congealed porridge and had expanded in size. It wasn’t something quickly swallowed: it was going to take several bites.

This was long before China decided getting rich was glorious, and I knew this meal had probably cost the family a week’s wages. I was an honoured guest: my host’s university teacher, and in those days a rare foreigner to boot.

And so I swirled my pig’s brain in sesame oil and kept on eating until the whole thing had slithered wetly down my throat.

I ate a lot of odd things in China: cow’s stomach, stinky tofu, snake, eels still wriggling on the plate. I’ve eaten odd things everywhere: horrible goat’s cheeses, fish eyes, Brussels sprouts. The pig’s brain was the worst.

The pig’s brain was the worst thing I ate in China, but I’d do it again.Credit: iStock

Yet, I’d do it again. It’s a privilege to be invited into someone’s home for a convivial meal, and I always leap at the chance. I’ve eaten awful food with a Russian granny, but so what? The Russian granny wasn’t awful.

It’s a moment of delight, as a traveller, to be asked by locals to share their food. Here, try this: and before you know it, you’re munching on some appalling thing made of liquorice or yak’s milk or fermented Japanese beans.

Nothing has ever killed me, although admittedly, it’s sometimes hard to maintain a polite face. By sharing food, you make a connection. Sharing food with someone you don’t know is curiously intimate.

The first night I spent in Brazil, two ladies at a restaurant table beside mine passed titbits over for me to try. I’ve forgotten everything else, but I haven’t forgotten that – and I’ve looked on Brazil positively ever since.

There’ll always come a time when travellers are offered something to eat that they’d rather not. If you have strong religious reasons not to eat pork, or are philosophically opposed to eating meat at all, fair enough. Give a polite explanation; people are more tolerant than you might think.

If you have no reason other than dislike, concentrate instead on what you might have to gain. Sure, I really didn’t want to eat the goat I saw killed and dismembered in front of me in Turkey, but the bigger picture was that I spent three days with a gang of locals in Marmaris, abandoning the sights and living the Turkish life.

Did I want to eat fruit bat in New Caledonia? Not really. But because I did, I’ll forever remember Henri Fairbank sitting wrinkled and lizard-like over his gin-and-tonics, telling me improbable stories about island life and why you shouldn’t make love before the yam-planting begins.

For the record, the bat was simmered in red wine and garlic and didn’t taste too bad, although the bones were pesky. I bet I ate some far nicer things in New Caledonia, but I’ve forgotten all about them.