Mojo Meets “The Man”

After many years of good and bad times, I have three taste buds that still work. One registers beer, one registers meat, and the most sensitive and rewarding one registers heat. All the rest have been killed in action. Gloriously, I might add.

I love spicy food.

You name it, I enjoy it. Tabasco sauce, hot wings, curry, Mexican, Thai, whatever. A nice sting on the lips just means the cook likes you. In the higher levels of heat, the pain becomes a masochistic challenge to my manhood. Some may say my compulsion for spice borders on the insane. Surely, someone who seeks out pain in this way suffers from at least some kind of mental illness, or is, at the least, a serious dumbshit.

Regardless of the intelligence or mental health issues raised by this behavior, I’ve been going to greater and greater lengths to get my heat fix, testing the limits of my endurance. Ordering the hottest spice setting on whatever menu I’m perusing. I’ve been working my way slowly up the burn scale, from the lowly pepperchini to the dreaded Wing Dome 7-alarm wing (sold one wing at a time, for fear of killing diners). I had mastered them all, but I had not yet become their master. There was one challenge left before me.

A few years ago, I started hearing hushed voices in the night, telling tales. Tales of a hot sauce of great strength. A sauce, of which the mere dipped toothpick’s taste, caused a deep burning in the mouth and throat. Of which a small dab on your meal could cause convulsions of pain. The only name associated with these folk tales was a mysterious and reverent mention of “The Man”.

Could such a substance exist? And if it did exist were these tall tales merely the exaggerated ramblings of ignorant peasants or flavor challenged barbarians? I knew I would have to find out, or my soul would never rest.

Several Fridays ago, I made the journey to the mythical place, “Dixie’s”, where “The Man” was said to originate. To get there, I had to go to “The Eastside”, crossing a floating graveyard known only as “the 520 bridge”. The Eastside is a desolate place, filled with the ruins of the Puget Sound’s once mighty technology industry. Now it is strictly the domain of big haired white trash, strange, mall dwelling creatures, and the uncountable hordes of heathen yuppie scum, with their larval young in tow.

It is a wasteland, which on sight fills the heart with dread and sorrow. I go to this hideous place on rare occasion, preferring the comforts of the well-fortified city. However, knowing the nature of my quest heartened me greatly. I would meet this mighty “Man”, and I would best him. Or I would die trying.

With some difficulty, my stalwart companions and I found our destination hidden just off the freeway exit. Dixie’s is a converted auto shop made into a BBQ restaurant. It is physically connected to another auto shop. The smell of motor oil mixed together with roasting animal flesh. It was sunny that day, but this place seemed to darken the sky.

“We’re doomed! We should flee!” shouted one of my compatriots.

I turned, slapping him across the face. “Pull yourself together you goddamn woman!” I shouted, feeling a deep rage, “We’ve come too far to turn back now! I will not be stopped by your wimpering!”

His cowering began to diminish, as his wits returned. We exited the car, and moved into line with a number of locals. We told them of our desire to meet this mysterious “Man”.

“You are insane. ‘The Man’ is not to be trifled with,” one of their number spoke, “you should leave while you still can!”

We stayed, and he shook his head at us. Slowly we moved forward in line, passed the outer doors and into the inner cooking chamber. This was a surprising pleasant place. The smell of cooked meat wafted across our noses, triggering our hunger. I pulled up to the counter.

Taking my order was a very nice old lady (the female half of the couple who owns the place). I asked for the beef spare ribs meal and she prepared my order promptly. I paid the bill and hauled my meal out to one of the tables on the patio.

The ribs were well cooked. Tender and juicy, sliding off the bone. The house BBQ sauce was itself unremarkable, being neither particularly smoky, sweet, nor spicy. The rice and beans were delicious, and the cornbread and lemon cake were both delicious. As I was finishing my meal, I wondered what all the fuss was about. Had we journeyed all this way for nothing?

A scream of pain behind me in the distance answered this question. I could see the owner, a large man, aggressively taunting one of his patrons, who was coughing and choking. “Take it like a man!” I heard him shout.

This, I knew immediately, was my adversary. In his hands was a small bowl of what could only be, “The Man”. It appeared, from the horrified look of the sauce’s victims, that the mighty substance was indeed a force to be reckoned with. Women, who were treated to a merciful toothpick taste, blushed and panted in obvious discomfort. The men-folk, given a small dab on their food choked, shrieked and cried on contact. This was indeed the sauce I had sought for years.

Slowly making his way through the other diners, he finally approached our table. I looked up wide eyed, some mixture of sheer terror and unbridled excitement coursing through my veins. I had saved one of my ribs for the event. Shaking inside, I put up a brave front. That is, until one of my compatriots spoke.

“My friend here,” he said, pointing at me, “says he thinks your sauce isn’t that hot.”

My calm expression immediately crashed into one of panic. He had sacrificed me so he would not face The Man’s wrath. I was doomed, indeed.

The owner turned to me, “Oh really, you motherfucker!” He dalloped a spoonful on my rib.

I looked at the sauce for a moment, stunned by its hideous beauty. Although terrified, I knew I must persevere. I would conquer, or be conquered. All had led to this moment. My inner-strength, along with my composure, returned. I picked up the rib, looked up at my would-be tormentor, consumed the sauce-covered portion, and smiled.

I could immediately feel the spice working. It was certainly hot, but not more so than a good 6-alarm wing.

“It’s got a little kick to it,” I said, smarmily.

The man standing before me was enraged by my lack of overt suffering.

“Want another ‘un, boy?” he growled.

Two of my other companions (the ones who had not betrayed me), were moaning and suffering from their small doses. I nodded happily. He slopped another large spoonful onto my plate. As he did I could feel the burn of the first hit becoming more intense by the moment.

I greedily consumed this second section. The pain was suddenly very real, as was the peyote-like nausea. This sauce was, to put it mildly, toxic.

Whatever its ingredients were, they were obviously not meant to be eaten by man. My tormentor looked on happily, sure that he had beaten another fool into the ground with his concoction. He had not. I remained calm, hiding the pain and stomach revulsion.

“Take it like a man!” He chuckled cruelly. “You want another one sucka?”

I stared at him in open defiance. “Yes please,” I said politely.

Gnashing his teeth in frustration, he slathered another spoonful on the remains of my meal. “We ain’t scared of you motherfucker!” he shouted. The oedipal insult seemed to be one of his particular favorites.

I looked down upon this third serving, hesitated from the already crippling pain. Then I consumed it as I had the previous two.

My vision was starting to blur, sweat pouring from my forehead. The pain was now overwhelming. But I continued to stare him down.

“Not bad,” I said arrogantly.

He shook his head, a defeated expression crossing his face. He grumbled, more vehemently than before, turned around, and walked into his building.

I had won. I had defeated “The Man”. I had become master of the spice.

Put the price was such terrible pain. This was certainly the hottest thing I’d tasted. My body went into shock. After the owner was out of site, I began trembling and weeping. My crew, with our mission accomplished, fled quickly back to the safe confines of the city

For roughly half an hour afterwards, I was very close to vomiting. The painful burning in my lips, mouth, and throat continued for another hour after that. The horrifying hallucinations of five dimensional intelligent spiders continued for the rest of the night. The rest of the weekend was spent with fists clenched, cursing against whatever vile gods had allowed “The Man” to come into existence, as my bowels violently rebelled against the physical laws of our universe.

But I emerged stronger. Better as a spice aficionado and as a man.

I had faced the ultimate culinary challenge, and emerged not only alive, but thriving. I am now the king of spice. I can proudly declare that I have met “The Man”, and that I bested him.

Every one should have such a moment in their lives.

 

Posted by Captain Mojo at July 02, 2003 07:12 PM | TrackBack