My buddy, Zack, does not eat pork. For him, it's a dietary restriction of his religion. Whenever we're out grabbing a bite to eat, I'll abstain from getting a pork dish, because it genuinely makes him uneasy. I personally can't imagine life without a good BLT, but I get it. Unless you're a cajun - those guys will eat anything - we all avoid certain foods.
Sometimes it's a texture thing - I'm looking at you, fried liver.
It may be genetic. I happen to be in the unfortunate minority of folks for whom cilantro tastes like soap. Happily, I did avoid the trait in the genome shuffle that renders the vast majority of mainland Asians lactose intolerant. Life without rum raisin ice cream would be pretty bleak.
Sometimes, it's just plain crappy, bad luck. An acquaintance of mine knew an award-winning barbecue pit master who was bitten by a lone star tick. Through their saliva, these ticks can pass on a specific carbohydrate not produced by humans. Some unfortunate souls, like our pit master, develop a severe allergy to anything containing this specific carbohydrate. Guess where this molecule can be found in abundance. Yup - red meat.
Being able to cook a prime rib to perfection and never be able to partake again is kind of an apt description of hell.
I've mentioned previously in the social ether my disdain for cornbread. Here's another unpopular opinion: I don't like shrimp. When people find out, the reaction is usually, "Dude! You grew up on the Mississippi Gulf Coast! You're a stone's throw from waters plied by one of the finest shrimping fleets afloat! And you don't like shrimp?!"
Yep. I'll gladly help you negotiate a bargain with an incoming skipper to fill your ice chest with their fresh, daily catch, but I won't be joining you for dinner. I'm not allergic to shellfish, I just don't like the taste. Maybe it's psychological. As a kid, when Dad and I went fishing, our bait of choice was shrimp, preferably ones that were a little past their prime. Maybe in my head, I'm just like, "Yeah. I don't eat bait."
It's not that I'm inadventurous - I'll willingly venture beyond my comfort zone. On occasion, I've found myself presented with gator, snake, and emu - absolutely none of which tasted like chicken. At a large, regional gathering of the (Filipino) highland clans, I once was served up some black bear. Not gonna lie - it wasn't bad. I've even sampled haggis (from those other Highlands), for crying out loud. I just know that my comfort zone has a discrete, definitive edge. I can't say exactly where it is, but I know it when I see it.
It may be the ingredient list. Even though I willingly sampled haggis in the UK (because teenage me didn't know any better) it was a hard pass on the blood sausage. In the Philippines, there's a similar dish of pork stewed in spices and pig's blood. My aunt once served it up for Andrea and me on a visit shortly after our wedding. I instantly recognized the dish and politely declined. Andrea was also aware, but wanting to establish her street cred with the family, she took a healthy portion. I'm giving her the side eye to gauge the reaction, but she genuinely enjoyed it. Yeah. My girl is pretty hardcore.
Another dish that's a hard pass for me is balut. This is the ubiquitous street fare on any major roadway in the Philippines. For the casually unfamiliar, here's a hint. It was once featured on Fear Factor.
Balut (ba - loot') is a boiled, half-gestated duck egg.
The instructions for handling this gastronomic entry are as follows. Crack open the top of the shell and slurp out the broth. Afterward, you peel the egg and eat the contents whole, maybe with a dash of salt and vinegar. I imagine you just tend to ignore the crunchy bits.
Dude. There ain't enough ketchup in the world.
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