The spice is right

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.

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.

Fish out of agua

Much like Star Trek movies, Mondays keep coming back. So here we are gentle readers, and I hope this past weekend was good enough to sustain you until the next one. (Speaking of Star Trek, by the way, I read last week that the actor who plays Sylar in "Heroes" is going to play a young Spock in a movie due out Christmas 2008. That's a fantastic casting job in my opinion. I don't know if they've cast the young James T. Kirk yet or not, but I'm pulling for Will Ferrell. Sure, he might be too old, but how awesome would that be? "Very" is the only answer.)

Last week, I wrote about being an outsider in a situation. I talked about the positive experience I had at the Mana concert with my wife, being the sole gringos in our section and soaking it up. I made reference to a less-than-pleasant outsider experience I had, and today I shall tell that story.

Picture a world much like the one we know. The only difference is that in this world, the internets had not yet exploded into the phenomenon we know. Yes, gentle readers, this world is actually our own circa 1998. Back when we thought 2007 could still be filled with flying cars and the metric system. Not really, but it was a little while ago.

Way back in '98, I was still a student at UCSB and loving every bit of life. I was still double majoring in English and Spanish. Therefore, most of my days were spent reading and writing in either of both languages. My Spanish classes had an interesting trend as the quarters went by. In the Intro to Spanish Lit class, about half the students were native Spanish speakers and the other half of us were not. Intro to Spanish Linguistics was probably closer to 60-40 in favor of los hispanohablantes. By the time I got to 16th Century Spanish Lit (as in from Spain) or other upper division courses of that nature, I was one of the only gringos around. Usually this wasn't a problem, but "usually" tends to mean "not always."

Because of the extra attention I had to pay in these classes just to understand what the professor was saying, I was very quiet as I went about my class business. You can imagine my surprise when in my Modernism in Mexican Lit class, the professor stopped and pointed to me. "What's your name?" she demanded in Spanish. I answered, probably looking as startled as I felt. She then asked if I knew what a particular word meant. I didn't recognize the word, so I said as much. "Class, who wants to tell Peter what that word means?" she asked. After a second, a guy raised his hand and defined the word. The professor looked back at me with an odd look of triumph and told-you-so-ness. I slunk back into my chair and tried to remain even less conspicuous for the remainder of the class.

The very next class, a similar thing happened. We were discussing a novel we read, and completely out of nowhere the professor said, "Peter, what is the largest state in Mexico?" Still embarrassed but now a little pissed off too, I told her I didn't know. "Class, tell him," she said smiling. All together, the class muttered, "Chihuahua." I nodded as if to say, "Ok, I'll know that one next time you randomly ask me." I had no idea why she was picking on me in front of the class, but I had a feeling that talking to her about it would just exacerbate the problem. And my parents always taught me not to exacerbate in public places.

A couple of weeks went by without incident, and I was eternally glad for them. I didn't have the highest confidence in those classes, and while I usually had a few fellow gringos around me for study groups, I was practically alone in this one. (I say 'practically' because there was a white woman but she very rarely attended classes and knew the professor well from previous quarters.) Then we had an assignment on sonnets. Our task was to either write a three-page essay on a particular sonnet or write a sonnet of our own. The choice was clear for me, and I wrote the fourteen lines out, sticking to the specific rhyme scheme and syllable count found in Spanish sonnets. When the day came to turn them in, she asked us not to put our names on them and the class would vote for their favorites. She took the ten or so sonnets and taped them to the white board. After we all walked by them and voted for our favorites on secret ballots, she counted them up and announced that two tied for the most votes. Some guy's which was kissing ass by being about his love for Modernism in Mexican Lit and mine. She asked who wrote what, and when I raised my hand for mine, she looked as shocked as one possibly can. It was almost as if I'd told her that I memorized all the Mexican state capitals or something as ridunkulous as that.

"You wrote that?" she asked, extremely incredulously. "Yes," I told her, pleased that she may view me differently in the future. "Did somebody in the class help you?" she asked. That did it. I was pissed off now. "No," I said, still politely. She looked around the room to see if anyone would contradict my statement and admit that he or she helped me. When no one did, she looked back and me and nodded as if she would accept that as truth...for now. I was steaming though, and sometimes a guy just has to exacerbate when his blood is boiling like that.

Fortunately, her office hours were right after class. I trailed her there, but not close enough that she noticed. I sucked it up and went in, under the guise that I wanted to chat with her and see if I could break through the icy exterior and become friends. The first thing she said after I came in was, "Some people find me intimidating, but I don't think so." We talked some more, and when I couldn't explain myself as well as I wanted to in Spanish, I switched to English. Her demeanor completely changed in front of my eyes. As she tried responding in English, she became sheepish all of a sudden. She stammered a little, and mid-sentence asked me in Spanish what the English word for something was. It all clicked right then and there. Her own English insecurities working at an American university caused her to react negatively to the lone gringo in her class. She almost even admitted as much, and asked me a couple of English grammar questions before I left.

From that day on, she left me alone in class. There was only a week or two left, but it still made a difference. I made a point of thanking her in English after the last class, just to childishly feel like I had the upper hand in the relationship. (She hadn't given me a grade yet, so I wasn't very accurate.) Still, I will never forget her tone as she asked the class to inform the poor outsider as to the biggest state in Mexico. It was an eye-opening experience, and I hope I took the brunt of her insecurities so that los gringos who followed in my footsteps had an easier time.

So there you go, gentle readers. That's my more negative outsider experience. I could make some grand general statement about people treating those unlike them poorly because of their own fears and insecurities, but it's not that kind of blog. Have a great day, and I'll see you here tomorrow. As always, ptklein@gmail.com is just sitting there in front of you, making puppy dog eyes and asking you to play with it.