“FUCK”
May require the toilet paper be placed in the freezer the night before.
I’d ask them if they have anything spicier, but I doubt they give two fucks.
one restaurant here has this scale:
- mild
- European hot
- Indian mild
- normal
- hot
Why does the scale stop at 7? It should go to 11, for those who need that “extra push over the cliff”.
Oh it does, but not in a restaurant. You need to go to a government toxic waste storage facility for 11.
I want to hang out at this restaurant just so I can lean over and smarmily tell people who order something at spiciness level “fuck” that it’s actually pronounced “phởck.”
There was this great little hole-in-the-wall Mexican place in Pasadena (CA) that I’d eat at every couple of weeks. Once I ordered the special, and as I’m eating it it is … really really hot. But, I figure, I’m just a gringa so I’m not gonna be a baby about it.
And then the chef comes out of the back and says “I am so so sorry, but we accidentally spiced your food twice and it has double what it’s supposed to. Would you like a new meal?” Oh! It wasn’t just me?
I declined a replacement and took my leftovers home. They were even more delicious the second day - somehow the heat was mitigated by overnight refrigeration.
being of a family of solid German and English DNA and culinary traditions, I used to be an absolute baby when it came to chilies; no tolerance whatsoever. sad days. hot wings at a joint I used to work at–where I could fiddle with the dosage–were my gateway. just prior to that, my roommates burst into peals of laughter when I exclaimed “Jesus Christ!” and ran to the sink to Karen Silkwood my tongue after they gave me my first tiny dab from their bottle of “rooster sauce” (sriracha was not then in common parlance.)
thankfully, today, I’m 'bout-it-'bout-it. I knew had arrived when, in the 100% latino kitchen I later worked at, I was able to hang with the sauces for the off-menu tacos they’d make for themselves. not gonna lie, they were hotter than I’d have preferred, but no way in hell was I going to turn down those delicious tacos! Salo and Elighio shared a look and a nod when I vacuumed down the first one designed to make sure I never asked for their food again; felt pretty cool I tell ya what.
I ordered sukiyaki one day at a favorite Thai restuarant, thinking it was going to be similar to Japanese sukiyaki – sort of sweet.
It was not sweet, it was “fuck” hot. They did not make it White People Hot. I will usually finish an “oh my god”, blinded and shaking, but this stuff I had to give up on after a few spoonfuls because of the physical pain.
The waitress helpfully told me “next time you order something you like!”
pixels. i see them. right?
Fair play, it was frightful. I spooned the chicken of Hell
in a sauce of rich yellow brimstone. The valley boys with me
tasting it, croaked to white Jesus. And only pride drove me,
forkful by forkful, observed by hot mangosteen eyes,
by all the carnivorous castes and gurus from Cardiff
my brilliant tears washing the unbelief of the Welsh.
-Les Murray, Vindaloo in Merthyr Tydfil
Just last week I was describing the house made salsas at a new taco place I’d taken a friend to as “mild, white people, and hot” - dude next to us nearly choked to death laughing. 
But he also agreed.
I saw that the scale went to 7, and my mouth immediately started watering.
I’m kind of a pepperhead (which had only occasionally imperiled my family).
Image link for the BBS.
Only time I can say I’ve run into “Fuck” hot was unexpectedly eating a whole bird’s eye pepper thinking it was a pickle.
That was quite a surprise.
The way I’ve always seen it, spicy foods are a challenge. I can push my limits and all it costs is pain. It’s not like I’m going to actually hurt myself if I eat something way too spicy.
Sidetrack: a guy I grew up with “doesn’t have a sense of piquance”. I’ve seen him take a whole tablespoon of flashbang sauce, grimace and bitch about it tasting gross. But he’s not affected by the spiciness at all.
Or a Spinal Tap concert !
Odd thing is No. 7 translates from Korean as “cowardice”.
\m/ \m/
LOL 'S brill. There are times I have encountered misunderstandings with restaurants about spiciness.
There was (maybe still is) an Indian restaurant in Porter Square, Cambridge - directly across from the train station where I had to wait some nights. They offered a decent lamb vindaloo on the menu, designated as being “spicy” with a little hot pepper symbol on the menu. But over several weeks of eating there, the dish seemed to be getting prepared more mild every time. Finally I had ordered a vindaloo which was tasty, but not even really hot at all. So I made up my mind to say something, should I order it again.
So, sure enough, a few days later I was in the mood again while I was in the neighborhood. I mentioned to the waiter that it was not hot anymore, and asked for it be prepared genuinely spicy. I knew I was in trouble! The waiter looked like he was trying to subdue his amusement when he brought the dish over. Before I had even finished one of the papadum I could see cooks peeking around the corner to see if I was eating it. LOL So I was eager to try it, and sure enough they made it FUUUUCK hot. It was really good, but I was instantly sweating bullets, and within a few seconds I felt like I was aglow like an incandescent bulb. Within a minute, the endorphins were so thick that I was stoned. One of the cooks came over to ask me if it was spicy enough for me, and I told him that yes >gasp<, it was great. He and his friends sneaked back into the kitchen, probably in stitches over watching me eat it. Good times!
