[CH] WSJ Article
Ashkenaz, Scott (Scott.Ashkenaz@kla-tencor.com)
Mon, 15 May 2000 13:41:21 -0700
May 15, 2000
From Tabasco to Insane: When You're Hot, It May Not Be
Enough
By DAN MORSE
Staff Reporter of THE WALL STREET JOURNAL
Dave Lutes sells about 8,000 cases of ultrahot hot sauce
a year.
The last time he tried some of it himself was three years
ago, on a tortilla
chip in Albuquerque. "I almost went down," Mr. Lutes
says, recalling the fit
of wheezing, tearing and hiccuping the stuff caused.
That's because "hot" doesn't quite describe the latest
hot sauces. Things
have gone way beyond Tabasco, the Louisiana red-pepper
standby, as
hot-sauce makers escalate the most absurd arms race in
the history of
condiments. Even the sauce makers admit it's hard for
anybody to make
fine distinctions between products that are so much
hotter than hot. And is
something truly palatable when it is as potent as the
pepper spray used for
self-defense?
The quest makes business sense: Every day, all across the
country, macho
guys walk into little stores that specialize in hot
sauce, puff themselves up
and ask: "What's the hottest thing you got?"
The little stores get their products
from purveyors like Mr. Lutes
(pronounced "Loots"), a burly
49-year-old who runs Hot Shots
with his wife, Cathy, 50, from an
8,000-square-foot warehouse in
Charlotte, N.C. The Luteses don't
make the hot sauce; they distribute
it. Cathy Lutes, a former
high-school teacher, has also
sworn off the ultrahots. "You see
what it does even when it gets on
your skin," she says. (It burns.)
The Luteses also sell a fire extinguisher -- in the form
of BurnAway, spray
bottles of hot-sauce antidote (soaps and oils) to spray
on affected skin.
And the Luteses ask customers to sign optional
disclaimers before buying
certain brands, particularly Dave's Insanity Private
Reserve and Pure Cap,
which are among the hottest of the hot. It's a "food
additive," the disclaimer
warns. Don't drink the stuff or you'll regret it.
Or worse. The hottest hots, stuff like Blair's 3 a.m.
Reserve, could kill you,
says Marlin Bensinger, a chemical engineer at Chromtec in
North Palm
Beach, Fla., who tests pepper extract -- a resin of
capsaicin, the chemical
that makes peppers hot and gives some of the ultrahots
their kick. (It's also
used in repellents that halt charging grizzly bears.) Mr.
Bensinger fears that
somebody might swill ultrahot pepper sauce on a dare, get
it into his lungs
and go into respiratory arrest.
Consumers, meanwhile, still clamor for the hottest. So
the Luteses'
suppliers -- manufacturers of such brands as Ground Zero,
Cyanide
D.O.A., and Sudden Death -- vie for the honor. To stay on
the cutting
edge, the Luteses rely on friends, including Grant Lane,
39, who runs
PyroPepper.com (www.pyropepper.com) from his house on
Lake Lure in
the North Carolina mountains. "It has to do with taste
buds," he says.
Mr. Lane dabs toothpick samples onto his tongue. A
half-second later the
grenade goes off in his mouth. "I enjoy it, and I crave
it," he says. When he
makes spaghetti sauce, he has to cook up a milder batch
for his wife.
The Luteses also take to the road to gather intelligence,
as they did in
March at the annual Fiery Foods trade show in Nevada.
There, at the
Reno Hilton, hot-sauce maker Paul Feagan presents Mr.
Lutes with a
4-inch-tall bottle of his latest concoction, Da' Bomb ...
The Final Answer.
It's got a drawing of flaming A-bomb superimposed on a
background of
skulls and crossbones. Da' Bomb claims to be the hottest
sauce ever,
scoring 1.5 million "Scovilles."
Wilbur Scoville invented the heat gauge in 1912. His
method was to ask a
five-person tasting panel to see how much sugar water it
took to eliminate
the hotness of a pepper. On this scale, it would require
1,981 gallons of
sweetened water to neutralize a teaspoon of Da' Bomb.
High-pressure
liquid chromatography, or HPLC, is a more modern, albeit
expensive, way
to accomplish the same objective. But as in DNA testing,
results are
usually challenged if they don't go your way.
Mr. Lutes looks at Da' Bomb, and eventually carries it
over to a booth
occupied by the legendary Dave Hirschkop, the
32-year-old, baby-faced
granddaddy of ultrahot sauces. "Still the HOTTEST. Still
the Best,"
proclaims a sign at his booth. "Shake Well and Good
Luck!" the labels
add. Mr. Hirschkop's Insanity Sauce is the Luteses' No. 1
seller. The two
men stand on either side of a counter, exchanging
pleasantries. Mr. Lutes
suddenly rolls Da' Bomb toward his good friend.
Mr. Hirschkop picks it up, with utter disdain.
"Ffffumphhhh," he says.
"Says it's 1.5 million Scovilles."
"Send it to a lab," Mr. Hirschkop says. "Let's see."
Mr. Lutes himself is concerned about Da' Bomb's awesome
retail price --
$40 for one little bottle. Most of the sauces he carries
retail for less than
$10. But he tries never to underestimate the consumer
appeal of
combustibility -- something that was hammered home to him
seven years
ago by a cop.
Pulling Over
At the time, Mr. Lutes was starting up Hot Shots, having
spent years in the
restaurant-supply business. He had just pitched some
Insanity Sauce to a
Mexican restaurant in Atlanta. The owners had insisted
everyone share a
fingertip taste. Mr. Lutes joined in this camaraderie to
seal the deal. But
while driving home, he rubbed his right eye, and the
tears started streaming
down his face. He pulled his car off the road and flushed
his burning eye
with water. He remembers the incident so well, he says,
because he had to
explain it to the policeman who stopped to check on him.
The cop said he was from Texas and could handle anything.
He stuck out
his finger. Mr. Lutes poured on some hot sauce. The cop
gave it a lick and
started dancing and twitching in a fairly dramatic
demonstration of acute
discomfort. When the pain subsided, he bought the last
three bottles Mr.
Lutes had on him.
Ultrahot is a small niche of the $500 million-a-year
salsa and hot-sauce
market. And the Luteses were in the right place at the
right time in the early
'90s when hot-sauce sales took off. The mainstream
suppliers were doing
well, too, led by Tabasco sauce, made by McIlhenny Co. of
Avery Island,
La. The company today claims to have a 30% share in
supermarkets and
more than 50% in the whole "food service" category, which
includes
restaurants. Paul C.P. McIlhenny, the company's current
president and
chief executive calls the hottest upstart superhots "the
lunatic-fringe labels."
As the Luteses' business grew, they added hundreds of
sauces to their
lineup, many with wacky labels such as LiquidStupid, PMS
in a Bottle and
Pain Is Good. To get the stuff hotter than a habanero
pepper, some sauce
makers started to add distilled pepper extracts. And the
boasts broke out
like the sweat from a jalapeno.
By 1998, hot-sauce middleman Tim Eidson had had enough.
HottaMo' Betta office in San Luis Obispo, Calif., he sent
120 hot sauces
out for HPLC testing, which can cost $60 a bottle and
gets results that are
reported in Scoville units. Even as Mo' Hotta published
its findings (the
winner was Mad Dog Inferno), the race toward mutual
assured destruction
grew hotter, eventually passing 100-times Tabasco on the
Scoville scale.
Catchy Names
Labeling and memorable names are important, even with the
fairly hots,
which make up about 35% to 40% of the Luteses' business.
"We can send
you some Screaming Sphincter inventory if you need it,"
Mr. Lutes tells a
couple he runs into in Reno. Andrew Przlomski, an
urgent-care physician
from Manitowish Waters, Wis., and his wife, Pepper
Przlomski, own two
locations of Doc's Hot Shop. Customers arrive by pontoon
boats in the
summer, snowmobiles in the winter. "Biggest hot shops in
Wisconsin,"
Pepper Przlomski says.
"Chef Ivo. He killed me," Dr. Przlomski says, explaining
a recent tasting.
"They get you pretty good?" Mr. Lutes asks.
"Yah, he noooked me."
Still in Reno, it's time to go see Chef Ivo Puidak of the
Galena Canning
Co. of Chicago, which makes salsas and hot sauces, among
other things.
"I got some people telling me about your Blasting Sauce,"
Mr. Lutes tells
him. The two start putting together a deal. Mr. Lutes
orders a bunch of
cases of Blasting Sauce, and Chef Ivo tosses in some
dynamite blasting
displays.
Chef Ivo also sells Mr. Lutes on still other combustible
comestibles,
including Blasting Powder, a barbecue meat rub, and some
fiery salsas and
jellies.
Further up the heat scale, though, flavor is sacrificed
to what's known as
the "Burnt Cat Hair" effect. There's a product called
Habanero 750
(meaning, 750,000 Scovilles) that has an eyedropper for
its lid. Habanero
chilies, of which California's red savina is a popular
variety, are often said
to be the hottest of them all.
Clearly, Habanero 750 is a food additive to be used with
discretion, as
stated on a detailed warning label hammered out by a team
of Boston
attorneys. "I agree, as indicated by my opening of this
box, as follows in
connection with my purchase of this product: Due to the
extreme hot
nature of this product, this product shall be used only
as a food additive.
This product can cause serious injury if directly
consumed, ingested or
applied to the body... . This product is to be used only
at my own risk... . I
am not inebriated or otherwise not of a sound mind."
Then there's The Final Answer. It's got a small serving
straw hanging down
from the inside of the cap and a warning label, features
that only serve to
entice some people. "They say, 'This is perfect for my
idiot friend Ed who
always claims to eat hotter foods than anyone else,' "
says Dave DeWitt,
who runs the Fiery Foods show.
Bottom Line
Mr. DeWitt, known as the Pope of Peppers, has written 25
books on the
subject, but at home in New Mexico, he has only one use
for the ultrahots,
and it's not on food. Every spring, he and his wife, Mary
Jane line the
bottom of their doorways with it. "We've noticed we have
fewer roaches
when we do that," he says.
For now at least, humans seem to be holding up. Blair
Lazar makes
something called 3 a.m. Reserve, a recent batch of which
topped the
charts at two million Scoville's. Mr. Lazar says he has
seen people eat a
full teaspoon before, and walk away: "I don't know what
planet they're
from."
Perhaps Sparks, Nev. Forrest Hill first picked up some
Insanity Sauce
three years ago at a gourmet food store in Toledo, Ohio.
Sampled one
drop. Says it scared him off for six months. Now, the
39-year-old hotel
executive eats the stuff twice a day. In the morning,
with his bacon and
eggs. At night -- a thin layer mixed with dinner, to his
wife's dismay.
Mr. Hill says when he was five, growing up in Sparks, his
father tried to
get him to quit sucking his thumb by dousing it with
Tabasco. Young
Forrest only asked for more.
Write to Dan Morse at dan.morse@wsj.com