My unrefined palate

I was watching Anthony Bourdain last night, and although I love that show to no end, I found myself thinking, as always, "how in the HELL does he do that?" Bourdain is not even nearly as purposefully gross as Andrew Zimmern (whom I also love), but I still can't even comprehend his sense for adventure in regards to eating. I have never been one for experimenting with food, and I am fairly certain that as a child I was a frustratingly picky eater. Whereas most people grow out of this type of phase as they age, I have actually gotten worse.
My unwillingness to eat isn't about being weirded out by foods, possibly trying something that tastes bad, or even being in a food rut. My problem mainly stems from the rebellious phase my digestive system entered into a few years ago. Don't worry, I won't go into the gory details, except to say that there are several foods my stomach has decided not to get along with. Think of my stomach as the leader of a really catty high school clique. She will only hang out with certain, pre-approved people, and she sure as hell isn't about to hang out with just anyone who waltzes into school. And sometimes, she starts random drama with her friends just for fun. Alfredo sauce? I don't like how she dresses. Curry? She smells funny. Cheese? Sometimes we hang out, but sometimes she is SO annoying. Salad? We're BFFs, but today she said the meanest thing to me so now we're not speaking.
Needless to say, I am fairly cautious with the things I try out, and I tend to get in food ruts, because once I find something that works, I figure I'm in the clear. It's definitely affected my ability to be open minded about experimental cooking the way the cool kids are these days. I cite as an example our trip this February to The Spotted Pig. Jeremy set up a weekend in the city as a Christmas present, and part of the arrangement was to visit the restaurant, which we had seen reviewed and highly recommended in Vanity Fair (hello best magazine ever). It's one of Mario Batali's restaurants, so it already had big bonus points in its favor, and we couldn't wait to go. We got there on a Sunday for lunch, and it was packed (good sign number 1). The people eating there were unspeakably cool (good sign number 2). The staff, although heavily pierced, was extremely nice (good sign number 3). And they had prosecco (good sign number 4). That's where the good signs ended. The menu was pretty condensed and most certainly hip. I got nervous. After deciding against the egg sandwich (should have gotten it!!!), I decided to get the apple, walnut, and cheddar salad. Sounds awesome, right? I pictured heaps of lettuce and three things that I have been able to tolerate on a fairly consistent basis. What I got was a small pile of apple and cheddar slices mixed together in a heavy brownish-yellow sauce that I could not for the life of me identify. All I know is it tasted earthy, and I really didn't like it, but I didn't want to be picky and waste the money that was going to pay for the hefty price tag of this creation. Plus, I was convinced if I didn't eat it, the aforementioned unspeakably cool people around me would start throwing things at me and chanting "Olive Garden" until I ran out of the door, my head ducked in shame.
So I ate it. And I tried Jeremy's chicken liver toast (and nearly gagged it back into my prosecco). And I spent that afternoon, night, and the next two days immobilized and moaning on the couch.
I guess there are two points I am trying to make. First, I sincerely wish to be a more adventurous eater and sometimes dream of being an intrepid world traveler who can stand up to any culinary challenge, but I have resigned myself to the fact that this may never happen. Second, please don't be offended/annoyed if I balk at your restaurant choice or push the food you make for me around on my plate. It's not you; it's me.