Steak tartare is one thing. This is one of the few memories that still makes me shudder.
It happened on a train quite a few years ago. My mother and I had decided to get a picnic at M & S for the journey and had found all sorts of good things. Making the mistake of shopping when we were hungry, we bought far too much: little samosas, lamb koftas, sun-blush tomatoes, among other things. And some appetising-looking chicken pieces, in breadcrumbs. We probably had in mind a rather delicious version made by my godmother, Hilary, which she used to make for an annual picnic at Hever Castle. Another story. Back to the train. We must have bitten into our own chicken pieces simultaneously...and then looked at each other. The insides were raw. In fairness to those who had sold it, the package (which we had not read in our haste to buy before our train left and then eat) made it very clear that the chicken pieces needed cooking first. Before then, I had always regarded the expression "stomach-churning" with suspicion. No longer.