I loves me some spicy food. Love it in a borderline unnatural way, a way that’s illegal in some countries and a few southern states.
The spicier the better. If my mouth doesn’t burn, my eyes don’t water, or my nose doesn’t run, she’s not spicy enough.
If I go out for Thai food and they ask “How spicy you like it?”, pointing at the 1-5 Star Spicy Chart, I tell ‘em “Fuck that! Gimme SIX stars, bitches!”
They usually argue, try to talk me out of it. “But you’re a stupid cracker,” they tell me. “You can’t handle SIX Stars!”
And to that, of course, I say “Nay!” (and throw little fits until I get my way), laughing in the face of their six stars as I throw down my super nummy basil/chicken/noodle dish.
Unfortunately, there’s one foe that continues to kick Our Hero’s ass each time he dares call it out: the habanero salsa.
So there’s this burrito cart downtown I like to hit up from time to time for lunch. Not my usually burrito guy (there are like 4-5 of them in this one parking lot), but a place a couple doors down I tried out once because they had such a long line. Figured those people waiting couldn’t all be moronic douchebags with no taste.
Just most of ‘em…
Anyway.
First time I tried the place, I walked up and ordered my burrito. Few minutes later, they called me up to pick up my order. We had the usual conversation:
Them: CHICKEN BURRITO!!! No sour cream!!
Me: Right here!
Them: Salsa?
Me: Yes, please.
Them: Which kind you like?
Me: What have you got?
Them: Green and red. Which one?
Me: Screw that. Give me the shit you hide from the gringos.
Them: No.
Me: Que?
Them: No. You can’t handle it. Green or red. No habanero.
Me: Oh, habanero, is it? That’s the one I want. Nay. Give me two.
Them: <various words in Spanish to the guy behind the grill that I can only assume involve cursing me and my offspring> Very well… but be warned, señor. This bag contains the hottest, most ass-blowing-outest salsa you can find at this or ANY OTHER BURRITO CART. Good luck, and may God have mercy on your soul!
You know, typical banter you might have with any food service professional.
And so I walked back to the office, ready to scarf down their chicken burrito-y goodness and laugh in the face of their “hot” salsa.
I sat down at my desk, pulled the burrito out of the bag. Unwrapped the top and took out the first of two small salsa cups.
“‘Be warned, señor,” I said to the salsa, mockingly, then poured a healthy portion on the grilled tortilla so lovingly holding my soon-to-be-converted-to-poo chicken, beans, and friends. I took a bite.
“Not ba…a.a.a.a.a.a.a.aahahahahahahhah!!!!!!”
Sweet zombie Jesus! That shit was HOT. Hot enough to satisfy my eye/nose/burning tongue criteria in the first bite. Muy, muy caliente!
Of course, Our Hero isn’t defeated that easily. I continued to eat the burrito, adding fiery habanero salsa to each bite until, when I finally finished, both tubs were empty.
Smug and full, I kicked back and went to work, thinking I’d defeated a worthy foe.
Then, about 30 minutes later, round two started.
My stomach started twitching, twisting, burning. I ran to the bathroom and…
Well, you all can imagine what happened next.
And what happened again 15 minutes later.
And 15 minutes after that.
I was cocky. I met my match.
And yet, here we are, months after that first fight, recovering from yet another afternoon in which I challenged the habanero.
And lost.
Six times I’ve gone back to that place, each time demanding another shot at the salsa, each time going home a loser.
Oh, and each time putting my wife through hours of “my tummy hurtses.” She loves that.
