I have eaten General Tso’s chicken in Washington, DC three times. My title was a bit of a lie — the first time I ate it, I did not go running for a toilet. The second time I ate there I was physically incapable of running for a toilet — I more wobbled, literally holding the contents of my bowels in by forcibly holding my anus shut with a butt-clench of death I’ve never known I was capable of (and dreadfully hope you’re never forced to replicate).

I’ll start with the tale of the third — and last! — time I dined there. I live a block and a half north of that restaurant. Towards the tail end of summer, I left work early because I wasn’t feeling well. As the day progressed, I felt better and better, and with a new book rapidly being consumed, and my appetite returning, I decided to give the place one more try.

Everything was fine in the restaurant. Food was delicious. About halfway home, I realized I really needed to start walking faster. Of this, I will only say that I avoided crapping my pants in public, and I realized that I really really really never need to eat at Violet Garden ever again in my whole life.

This, however, was not the first time I nearly shit my pants in public as a result of violent food poisoning after eating General Tso’s chicken at Violet Gardens. The first time?

The second time I ate it, halfway back to Grosvenor (this was when I was still commuting to the area from Baltimore), I had food poisoning so bad I nearly yanked my pants down and vented said chicken all across a bright orange Metro seat. Thankfully, Grosvenor has a customer restroom, and I spent about fifteen minutes on a dirty toilet feeling incredibly better with every passing second that more crap than food I’d eaten in the last month came exploding, dribbling, roaring, and gurgling out of me.

As you might imagine, I have not eaten General Tso’s since, and I do dearly miss Bruce Lee’s carryout in Timonium, MD.