Ok, I left you hanging a wee bit yesterday with my tale of spicy food, so let's jump right on into it, ok? Welcome, blah blah blah Tuesday, blah blah blah gentle readers, blah blah blah bad pun.
Fast forward all the way to the year 2000 or 2001. Ok, now hit Play. Thank you. I was living with a couple of friends in downtown Santa Barbara, and we walked to many of the local eateries on the weekends. One afternoon, Dusty and I made our way to Chilango's, a nearby casual Mexican food place. It was an odd time of day, so I just ordered one taco and Dusty didn't get anything. The man behind the counter asked which of the salsas I wanted on it, and I pointed to one that looked like it tasted good. "No, you don't want that one; it's very spicy," he said. Before I could select another, Dusty started calling me names for being afraid of the challenge. "That's ok, I'll have that one," I said. "Are you sure?" he asked. I'll admit that I was frightened by the fact that he felt the need to ask me twice, but I said I was sure. One carne asada taco with just cheese and salsa would be ready soon.
After my number was called, we took a seat and I prepared for my first bite. I saw a lot of salsa on it, but remained confident that I could handle whatever spice level I got myself into. "Here goes," I said, and I took a large bite. Immediately, my eyes opened wider than they ever had before. Dusty picked up on this, and asked, "Do you want a drink?" I nodded as emphatically as one can nod. He was only gone for about thirty seconds as he purchased a cup for the fountain drinks, but it felt like forever. Seemingly in slow motion, he put ice in the cup and then pushed it against the lever that dispensed Coca Cola. He came back to the table and I immediately reached for the cup. "Oh, you want this?" he asked as he pulled it back. "Hold on," he said, and he took a sip and pretended to contemplate it for a second. I didn't find this funny, and I grabbed the cup from him and started gulping.
"Come on, Pete," he said, "It can't really be that bad, can it?" I pushed the plate toward him, and for reasons unknown, he took a bite from the other side of the taco. Please note: I am not exaggerating here. I do occasionally, but this is an accurate retelling of the tale. For the next half an hour, Dusty and I sat there passing a cup back and forth, refilling it, then passing it back and forth some more. Half an hour. Every time we thought the unbelievable burning sensation was over, we'd take one breath and realize that it still hurt like the dickens (or like reading Dickens, at least). Our eyes were watering, our noses running, and our stomachs very full of soda. We didn't talk for that entire time, because when I'd start to, I'd have to reach for the drink again immediately after one word.
After that half hour, we were able to speak a little and breathe with it only burning a little. One bite each, and that's what it did to us. We noticed the guy behind the counter laughing a little at one point, and I wanted to yell at him but that would've involved the ability to talk. On our way out, I very softly said to him in Spanish, "If other gringos ask for that salsa, please don't serve it to them." He said that he put it on everything and didn't find it very spicy anymore. I think Dusty and I both had the same thought: "Dude, fuck that guy."
On the walk home, in very short sentences, we talked about how unbelievable that experience was. In a heartfelt tone, he apologized for not giving me the drink right away. "I didn't know it was that serious," he said. "It's ok, man, you had no idea." "Why did I take a bite?" he asked. "Got me, but I'm kinda glad you did."
With normal people, the story would end there. We're frickin' morons though, so it continues. When Dusty and I got back to the house, we told Jon and Dave all about the experience. It turned into a rather heroic tale, so it was only a matter of time before we were all planning to go back as a group to each do an entire taco. I wish I could explain that logic (or illogic in this case), but I can't. All I know is that it went from a harrowing, awful experience to one that I was looking forward to doing again with more of my friends. It was going to be like a club - an exclusive club for complete idiots, but a club nonetheless.
A little while later, Greg was up in SB visiting us, and we knew the time had come. We marched into Chilango's with nervous smiles and each ordered one taco with the really hot salsa and a large drink. We pushed a few tables together, had napkins and drinks easily within reach, and dove in. After my first bite, I just chewed and swallowed as fast as I could. I took another big bite immediately after - before my brain could protest - and then another until it was gone. My thought was that if I let it all build, I could eventually ride it out. If I paused too long between bites, there would be no way in hell I'd be able to go back for more. The five of us sat there, sweating, drinking, and communicating solely via eye contact for the next twenty minutes. "You guys weren't kidding," one of them said. "How is that even legal?" asked another. The club was formed.
"Technically," Dusty said that evening, "Pete and I have each had one more bite than you guys, so you need to go share a taco to get to our level." The next week, Jon and Dave did just that so we would all be on the same level. Another week later, Dave got his roommates Brian and Adam to each eat a taco and join the club. They kind of cheated in my opinion, because they ran across the street to an ice cream shop to get fire-quelling assistance from the cold dairy products. It didn't really spread much more than that, from what I know. I'm totally fine with that, because a club is only as good as its stupid members.
Part of me really wants to go back there next time in SB to see how I'd hold up against the salsa. My lovely wife doesn't understand why I would want to put myself through something like that more than once, and I can't blame her. It doesn't seem to make any sense. The way I look at it though, it's a challenge that I can meet head on and overcome. It's not easy, which is good, because then there wouldn't be much sense of accomplishment. I don't bungee jump, skydive, or even snowboard, so eating the Chilango's taco is my adventure sport. My next trip up there, I think it might be time to come out of retirement. I can almost feel the burning from here.
After my number was called, we took a seat and I prepared for my first bite. I saw a lot of salsa on it, but remained confident that I could handle whatever spice level I got myself into. "Here goes," I said, and I took a large bite. Immediately, my eyes opened wider than they ever had before. Dusty picked up on this, and asked, "Do you want a drink?" I nodded as emphatically as one can nod. He was only gone for about thirty seconds as he purchased a cup for the fountain drinks, but it felt like forever. Seemingly in slow motion, he put ice in the cup and then pushed it against the lever that dispensed Coca Cola. He came back to the table and I immediately reached for the cup. "Oh, you want this?" he asked as he pulled it back. "Hold on," he said, and he took a sip and pretended to contemplate it for a second. I didn't find this funny, and I grabbed the cup from him and started gulping.
"Come on, Pete," he said, "It can't really be that bad, can it?" I pushed the plate toward him, and for reasons unknown, he took a bite from the other side of the taco. Please note: I am not exaggerating here. I do occasionally, but this is an accurate retelling of the tale. For the next half an hour, Dusty and I sat there passing a cup back and forth, refilling it, then passing it back and forth some more. Half an hour. Every time we thought the unbelievable burning sensation was over, we'd take one breath and realize that it still hurt like the dickens (or like reading Dickens, at least). Our eyes were watering, our noses running, and our stomachs very full of soda. We didn't talk for that entire time, because when I'd start to, I'd have to reach for the drink again immediately after one word.
After that half hour, we were able to speak a little and breathe with it only burning a little. One bite each, and that's what it did to us. We noticed the guy behind the counter laughing a little at one point, and I wanted to yell at him but that would've involved the ability to talk. On our way out, I very softly said to him in Spanish, "If other gringos ask for that salsa, please don't serve it to them." He said that he put it on everything and didn't find it very spicy anymore. I think Dusty and I both had the same thought: "Dude, fuck that guy."
On the walk home, in very short sentences, we talked about how unbelievable that experience was. In a heartfelt tone, he apologized for not giving me the drink right away. "I didn't know it was that serious," he said. "It's ok, man, you had no idea." "Why did I take a bite?" he asked. "Got me, but I'm kinda glad you did."
With normal people, the story would end there. We're frickin' morons though, so it continues. When Dusty and I got back to the house, we told Jon and Dave all about the experience. It turned into a rather heroic tale, so it was only a matter of time before we were all planning to go back as a group to each do an entire taco. I wish I could explain that logic (or illogic in this case), but I can't. All I know is that it went from a harrowing, awful experience to one that I was looking forward to doing again with more of my friends. It was going to be like a club - an exclusive club for complete idiots, but a club nonetheless.
A little while later, Greg was up in SB visiting us, and we knew the time had come. We marched into Chilango's with nervous smiles and each ordered one taco with the really hot salsa and a large drink. We pushed a few tables together, had napkins and drinks easily within reach, and dove in. After my first bite, I just chewed and swallowed as fast as I could. I took another big bite immediately after - before my brain could protest - and then another until it was gone. My thought was that if I let it all build, I could eventually ride it out. If I paused too long between bites, there would be no way in hell I'd be able to go back for more. The five of us sat there, sweating, drinking, and communicating solely via eye contact for the next twenty minutes. "You guys weren't kidding," one of them said. "How is that even legal?" asked another. The club was formed.
"Technically," Dusty said that evening, "Pete and I have each had one more bite than you guys, so you need to go share a taco to get to our level." The next week, Jon and Dave did just that so we would all be on the same level. Another week later, Dave got his roommates Brian and Adam to each eat a taco and join the club. They kind of cheated in my opinion, because they ran across the street to an ice cream shop to get fire-quelling assistance from the cold dairy products. It didn't really spread much more than that, from what I know. I'm totally fine with that, because a club is only as good as its stupid members.
Part of me really wants to go back there next time in SB to see how I'd hold up against the salsa. My lovely wife doesn't understand why I would want to put myself through something like that more than once, and I can't blame her. It doesn't seem to make any sense. The way I look at it though, it's a challenge that I can meet head on and overcome. It's not easy, which is good, because then there wouldn't be much sense of accomplishment. I don't bungee jump, skydive, or even snowboard, so eating the Chilango's taco is my adventure sport. My next trip up there, I think it might be time to come out of retirement. I can almost feel the burning from here.
Enjoy your day, friends, and I'll see you back here tomorrow. Remember, no one's holding you back from emailing ptklein@gmail.com with Car Watch items, stories, questions, yo mama jokes, or anything else in your head.
3 comments:
I'm with your lovely wife. Why, in the name of all that's holy, would anyone want to have more of what almost killed him the first time? You must be loco in the cabasa. And what goes in must come out. How badly did it burn twice?
I think it is very healthy to do some completely stupid things with your friends. My friends and I used to go around construction sites and tip the port-o-potties (Andy Gumps) over. I think we once did like 30 in a night. I guess that might be classified as destroying private property and therefore be a tad more destructive than eating spicy salsa. Maybe there is no correlation here whatsoever. Sorry to waste your time. At least I can spell "cabeza".
Peter, you are hilarious. This completely reminded me of two things:
1) I had an unconventional calculus teacher in high school. The class started at 7:20 am, and he always started with a topic completely unrelated to calculus. (Sometimes he would talk about words, sometimes would bring in a picture, etc. Amazingly, we still learned calculus.) One day, he decided to bring in a sampling of peppers that fall along the Scoville Heat Scale and told us all about the scale and how peppers are rated. Of course, high schoolers that we were, we had some macho guys in the class. When the teacher showed us the "super hot pepper" (how do you like that for its technical name?), one guy said "it couldn't possibly be that hot." So he took a bite. Then he sat there and showed us that he was macho and that it wasn't a big deal. About 30 seconds later, he bolted out of his chair so fast that he knocked it over and ran out to the water fountain where he stayed for most of the class. If that wasn't bad enough, his buddy said "He's a wimp. It couldn't be THAT hot." So the idiot did the same thing. Geez. What is it with guys?
2) My dad LOVES spicy food. Ask Jason. He'll tell you about the variety of pepper flakes and hot sauces on top of the microwave in the kitchen. One day when I was around 10, I remember that we went to a ribs/wings restaurant where he decided to get one of the spiciest things on the menu. I don't remember the actual name, but I do know that it was probably something like "So HOT That Steam Will Pour From Your Ears" Wings. In order to get them that hot, the restaurant actually had him try a bite then SIGN A WAIVER. That's right. A waiver. Man, he thought they were hot. Not sure if he ordered them again.
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