Ever bite into something you wish later you didn’t?

I’m sure we all have. It might have been nauseating, rank or downright disgusting but in this day and age, we generally only have to be afraid of a foul taste.

I read somewhere recently, and I’ve heard it for years, that we in the U.S. have the safest food supply in the world. Individual Americans I’m sure use more cleaning products than some entire small countries in the south Pacific and if your refrigerator doesn’t get cold enough, there are more than enough replacement units at Super-Duper Bargain Bin Store down the street that your Cool Whip need not thaw.

But I recently bit off a bit more than I could chew at a local restaurant. I won’t name it and I bear no ill will toward them, but part of the meal included chicken a little fresher than most would’ve liked.

I had the chicken tenders, slathered in hot sauce, with what I can only hope at the time of this writing wasn’t accompanied by an invisible side of salmonella.

It wasn’t until about half-way through the tenders that I cut one in half and took a long, hard look at what I was shoveling down my throat and chasing with a hefty amount of diet soda. It’s something that I just didn’t think to do.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve probably eaten my share of medium-rare steaks and runny eggs — more than my share if my waist line has anything to say about it — but battered, filleted and fried chicken chunks ain’t something you eat undercooked, no matter how much bleu cheese you have on hand. Bleu cheese has its own dubious origins, but that’s for another column. It’s one of those items, like yogurt, you’re not really sure how to tell when it’s gone bad.

I started doing a little research on what I’m sure could be the ultimate worst-case scenario here: A full-blown case of salmonella poisoning, complete with diarrhea and stomach cramps so bad you think you ate a pine cone for breakfast and washed it down with a tall glass of gravel.

Eight hours, one Web site said, before any symptoms might or might not show up. Another — 12 to 72.

Twelve to 72? How will I know if it’s the slightly cooked chicken that got me sick if I’m doubled over my toilet in three days wishing for a quick and somewhat dignified death? God knows what I’m liable to eat in the next three days.

I’ve worked in restaurants before and I’m sure our friendly neighborhood fry cook just had a few too many goodies in his basket or, facing an order clock, was a little too eager to push the food out on schedule. And to some extent I blame myself for not being a little more watchful of the deep fried spicy poultry goodness I was eating.

So here’s to Pepto Bismol and plenty of anti-biotics. I just hope they come up with a cure for bird flu by the end of the week.

By Michael Davis