We went out to eat at a local place that caters to students, primarily.
Noticing that they had hot wings on the menu, my father and I decided to
split an order as an appetizer. The old man's from Texas, you understand,
and is responsible for my chile addiction. Having had many orders of wings
over the years, we were not impressed by the usual disclaimers that
accompany the hotter versions. Besides, once you've eaten a habanero or
two, you know that no chile can actually kill you.
No big deal.
The wings arrived, in pool of almost fluorescent red sauce. A quick sniff
confirmed my initial impression: straight CRYSTAL, a nearly generic Tabasco
knock-off... it has a characteristic vinegary odor and mild tang. The stuff
is harmless. The old man and I came to approximately the same conclusion
and same strategy: mop up as much of the sauce as possible with the wings.
This might have been a good plan... had we been in possession of all the
facts.
Sticking the sauce-sodden chicken appendages directly into our mouths, in
unison, might likewise have been a good plan... had we, as I've said, been
in possession of all the facts.
As you, being omniscient, realize... this was not CRYSTAL, or at least not
*just* CRYSTAL. In less time than it takes to say "sweet jesus," a similar
realization came to my father and me.
Now, there is but one simple prayer among Texans: one asks, not for mercy
from the chile's powers of persuasion (for that would eliminate the whole
point of the thing), but for the strength to wear the mask until some other
poor bastard has taken a mouthful. Since it was unlikely that anyone else
at the table was going to try the stuff, we were free to discuss the
situation.
Speaking, however, was difficult. In words of one syllable or less (the
most that could be expected under the circumstances), it hurt like hell.
We're not talking about heat, here. This felt like I was having a 1 inch
diameter tongue stud installed, with a hammer. There was no perceptible
flavor... this was a pain-only experience.
Machismo, or generations of chromosomes denatured by the Texas sun, made us
eat all the wings. The place was air-conditioned, but two of us looked like
we had just finished a double shift in a steel mill. We asked the waiter, a
bit hoarsely, what was in the sauce. He said he didn't know, but would find
out for us.
Yes, it was CRYSTAL, but the chef/inquisitor had added DAVE'S INSANITY to
the hottest wings.
DAVE'S INSANITY and ENDORPHIN RUSH are essentially the same thing:
unmitigated capsaicin oleoresin. If there is any flavor at all, it's a
slightly tarry paprika taste. No one uses these for flavor. One time, and
one time only, I knowingly ate a teaspoon of ER on a piece of french bread.
These are ugly, misanthropic compounds, devoid of any socially redeeming
qualities.
Except for one.
The endorphins released in response to this toxic waste washed over me like
the decade between 1967 and 1970. I shuffled into that place a tired,
hungry and a slightly grumpy (I get cranky when I'm hungry) middle-aged
office-worker, but I floated out a blissed-out beatific bodhisattva.
Come to think of it, a few of those wings might be tasty about now...
Gary
("Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in
private and wash your hands afterwards." Heinlein)