'Sometimes the chicken': food poisoning hits home

I've done the odd bit of traveling. Nothing seriously off the beaten track, compared to many adventurous people I know, just enough to lay claim to a little cred when it comes to matters such as eating safely in unfamiliar environments. Living in Indonesia ages ago, back in the 90s, I learned the basics: when purchasing street food, bring  along your own crockery (for fried rice or noodles) or check that fresh paper is used for wrapping (martabak-- stuffed pancakes, or satay). Drink tea rather than water in other people's homes. Don't trust food just because the restaurant looks fancy; in fact, you're better off with the wandering outdoor snack merchants because you can see what they're doing. Generally, don't order salad and say no to ice. The same applies to in-flight meals: if you wouldn't eat it on the ground, don't do so at altitude. Peel your own produce.

A favorite food: dried salted fish. Pangandaran, West Java.

Pretty simple, really. In my 18 months there, I never got sick, not from food anyway;  perhaps the odd touch of malaria.

Toronto has two annual restaurant festivals called 'Winterlicious' and 'Summerlicious'. Other than the stupid names, they're great. You can go to some of the city's best dining establishments for a reasonable prix fixe meal. Husband and I decided to participate in January, and selected-- oh the irony-- a restaurant specializing in Indonesian/ Malay cuisine, on a charming block of Baldwin Street, not far from home. We walked there on a Thursday night and were a little disheartened to see that it was a rather plain establishment, mostly empty, with a soft-rock station playing over loudspeakers. Our expectations diminished but we gave it the old college try. Husband ordered a seafood curry. I chose a dish called 'Nasi Lemak'  which translates directly to 'fatty rice', but is actually rice cooked in coconut milk with an array of side dishes.

I warily sampled husband's seafood curry. I am always a little reluctant to order seafood in Toronto, which is further away from the sea than anyplace I've ever lived. I know, I know, freezers, flights, etc. Still. Get me to an ocean and I'll eat fish. It was fine. I liked my own meal well enough but couldn't finish it, so I passed it to hubby, as is my wont, and he managed to down my remainders. We declined dessert and wandered home.

Yes, devastation struck late the next night-- me-- and the following day, less intensely-- husband. The timing was poor: we had our children's piano recital on the Saturday morning, and cousins arriving from Buffalo Saturday afternoon to join us at the AGO (Art Gallery of Ontario) to see the final day of the Turner exhibition. Poor cousins. Poor us. Husband had to appreciate Turner's magnificent use of colour while jogging hastily toward the exit.  Wrung out, I hobbled through the rooms slowly, resting when I found a free bench.

We knew where the fault lay. Since Thursday night, husband and I had eaten our meals either separately or with our children, and on Friday evening, with a guest. None of them  (fortunately) were affected. Nous accusons. Once recovered, I phoned the restaurant and left a message reporting what had happened, and warning them to be cautious serving their Nasi Lemak. The manager phoned me back the next day. He was a little defensive and dubious, asking why we blamed their cooking. I described the timeline and the other incriminating circumstances. To his credit, he capitulated and accepted the charge.

"But I just don't understand," he mused. "The Nasi Lemak is such a clean dish. We get the sauce in a jar, and the pickled vegetables too... that dish, we never have trouble with it. Sometimes the chicken... yes, sometimes the chicken. But not the Nasi Lemak!" He urged us to come there again and said they would do something for us.

That's just what I'm afraid of. But it was sweet of him to offer.