If you grew up watching Fear Factor with Joe Rogan, you already know the script:
someone eats something terrifying, the crowd cringes, and the whole thing becomes a test of willpower.

But here’s the twist.

In Colombia, the foods foreigners love to call “extreme” aren’t a stunt. They’re not “bizarre.” They’re not even trying to be edgy.

They’re just… food.

And that’s exactly why I wanted to do this.

Because I’ve noticed something: when you live abroad long enough, you stop learning countries through tourist attractions and start learning them through daily life. And few things reveal a culture faster than what people eat — especially the parts of life that aren’t designed to impress you.

So today I tried the foods that fancy foreigners sometimes label as:

Which is how I ended up voluntarily eating cow lung.

Let’s chew on this.

Here’s the honest reason this experiment matters:

In the U.S., we tend to eat maybe 40% of the animal. We build an entire food system around “the acceptable cuts.” Everything else gets quietly removed from our mental map of what food even is.

In Colombia — like in a lot of the world — the philosophy is different:

Use the whole thing. Waste nothing.
Not because it’s trendy. Because historically, it’s how you survive. It’s how you respect what you have.

So this isn’t Fear Factor.

This is cultural perspective.

And the question isn’t “Is it gross?”

The real question is: Have we been dramatic this whole time?

Before we get into lungs and blood-based dishes, let me explain where I’m coming from.

I grew up in the South… or Mid-Atlantic… depending on who’s drawing the map. And I was a picky eater as a kid — mostly because my mom was picky.

My childhood vegetable universe was basically:

That’s it.

I didn’t try Brussels sprouts, asparagus, eggplant, artichokes, okra, mushrooms, kale, or spinach until I was an adult.

Now I love them.

My mom didn’t like jelly on a PB&J… so I grew up eating peanut butter sandwiches without jelly — which is a flat-out crime. I didn’t have a real PB&J until I was an adult.

She didn’t like seafood either. My dad did. Because of him (and my grandfather), I tried fish and shellfish anyway — and now seafood is my favorite food on earth.

And my mom? She still hasn’t tried tacos or sushi.

She’s turning 81 next month.

That honestly makes me sad, because it’s like… there’s so much good stuff out there.

So as an adult I made a decision:

I’ll try almost anything once.

I even had a rule for my kids: two bites of new food.

Most people quit after bite one. Bite two is where the truth shows up.

This is my strategy — and it works weirdly well:

I treat trying new food like getting blood drawn for labs.

You don’t love it. But you also know it’s over in 30–60 seconds.

So I count in my head, take the bite, and remind myself:

This moment is temporary.

And here’s the crazy part:

About 95% of the time, it turns out great.

Worst case: you don’t like it. You take a sip of something, eat something familiar, and move on.

That’s it. That’s the whole risk.

So with that mindset… I went in.

We started at Paloquemao, one of Bogotá’s most famous traditional markets.

And let me make something clear:
Paloquemao isn’t a tourist attraction.

It’s where restaurants, families, and chefs actually buy their food. Fruits, flowers, meat, organ cuts, whole animals — if it exists in Colombia, it probably passes through here at some point.

If you want to understand how Colombians really eat, you don’t start in a modern mall.
You start in a working market.

That’s where this whole thing makes sense.

First up: lechona.

It’s a famous dish: pork cooked inside the pig with rice, shredded meat, and a piece of crispy skin that looks like it might intimidate you on sight.

But here’s the problem:

It’s delicious.

I would order it again without hesitation.

Which was unfortunate… because I knew everything after that was going to get harder.

Next stop: La Perseverancia Marketplace — one of Bogotá’s oldest neighborhood markets.

This place matters because it’s not trying to modernize Colombian food. It preserves it.

If Paloquemao is where you buy the ingredients, La Perseverancia is where you eat the classics — the kind your grandmother would recognize instantly.

The name literally means “perseverance,” and it was built around workers near Monserrate generations ago. People used what they had. They used everything. Nothing wasted.

And today, that meant I was eating things that might get tossed in Greensboro, North Carolina.

This one surprised me, but not for the reason you think.

Texture-wise? Fine.
Flavor? Honestly… kind of bland.

If you gave it to me chopped up and didn’t tell me what it was, I might assume it was just a cheaper cut of beef.

It needed seasoning. The sauce helped. But overall, the fear here wasn’t taste — it was the idea.

And that’s a theme you’ll see again.

Verdict: Not bad. Mostly mental.

Okay. This one was personal.

I’ve had chicken liver before, and it has that same… unmistakable aftertaste that some people love and I just don’t.

It starts like beef. Then it goes somewhere else.

I’ve heard liver is good for you.

But I’m going to be honest:

I’d rather die a year earlier than make this a habit.

Verdict: Not my thing.

This was a redemption moment.

Oxtail isn’t scary once you realize what it is — it’s just meat cooked around tail bone, tender as it gets when it’s done right.

And this?

Really tender. Really good.

Verdict: Would absolutely eat again.

This is one of those “working-class invention” drinks.

Beer was expensive. Soda was cheap. Mix them and you get something that stretches your money and still gives you a little beer.

I tried it.

It wasn’t bad… but I’d never order it again.

It’s like… sweet, not very fizzy, and the beer doesn’t really announce itself.

Verdict: Fine once. Not repeating.

Now we’re in the deep end.

Pepitoria is a traditional dish from Santander — chopped goat meat (including organs) cooked with rice, blood, herbs, spices. It’s old school. It’s “nothing wasted” in edible form.

I expected it to be like haggis (which I actually like).

But…

Haggis is better.

I took two bites. That’s enough to know it wasn’t for me.

Verdict: Respectfully… no.

I’ve had it before. Still not my cup of tea.

Anything fried has an unfair advantage — you could fry a turd and it would probably come out “acceptable.”

But chunchullo has that weird aftertaste and chewy texture that keeps reminding you what it is.

If I’m rating whether I’d order it again:

Verdict: 4/10. Last time, probably.

(And yes, I immediately needed a “mouth reset” afterward.)

This is one of the most underrated expat survival hacks:

When you push yourself into unfamiliar territory, have one reliable comfort option ready.

For me, that meant a burger and fries from a place I love — because sometimes your brain needs reassurance.

Trying new things is easier when you know you can return to familiar.

Let’s not overcomplicate it.

Chicharrón is fantastic.

Real chicharrón isn’t the bagged pork rind version. It’s skin, meat, fat — the holy trinity — cooked into something that tastes like bacon’s more intense cousin.

If you like bacon, you’ll love this.

Verdict: 8–9/10. Absolutely.

Bonus: if you’re keto/low-carb, this is basically edible fuel.

The final boss.

This is the one that made me pause and do the “blood draw” mental trick.

Because the thought is brutal.

The texture looks flaky. The idea is worse than the flavor. And then someone points out the holes — arteries? air pockets? — and your brain tries to leave your body.

But here’s the thing:

It tastes… fine.

Not ribeye fine. Not filet mignon fine.

But fine.

Flavor: about a 6/10.
Texture: also about a 6/10.
The thought process: 0/10.

This is the perfect example of the whole point of the video.

The fear isn’t the food.
The fear is your own mental image of the food.

This one was wild because it was… boring in the best way.

Heart? Not bad. If I didn’t know it was heart, I wouldn’t have known.
Gizzard? I’ve had gizzards before — this one was smoother than expected.
Neck? Mostly bones, not much payoff. Not gross, just… why bother?

The soup itself? Totally normal tasting.

Which again proves the point:

A lot of “scary foods” aren’t scary because of flavor.

They’re scary because of labels.

Here’s the line that stuck with me after all of this:

Colombians don’t eat strange food. Americans just got fancy over the past three or four generations.

Our great-grandparents probably ate plenty of this stuff. And in a lot of Europe and Asia, none of this is extreme. It’s normal.

So if this made you uncomfortable?

Good.

That’s the point.

Food says a lot about a culture.

And this one says:

Maybe the real fear factor isn’t cow lung.

Maybe it’s confronting how selective we’ve become.

60 seconds of courage can unlock a lifetime of flavor.
Worst case, you don’t like it. Best case, you discover something you’ll love forever.

Those are pretty good odds.