I know people who regularly eat bhut jolokias - the "ghost chili" now rated as the world's hottest pepper. They're nice people. I like them. They don't seem crazy.
Appearances are deceiving.
I ate an entire bhut jolokia the other night, sitting at my dining room table with an open beer and - on the advice of the experienced - a bowl of yogurt and a few slices of bread at the ready.
I had the strange fear that nothing would happen, that I had traveled halfway across India in search of a chili that would be no hotter than an apple. I thought I was prepared.
What followed was a gastronomic mugging.
I know, I know. You probably think I'm exaggerating, or maybe just inexperienced in the ways of chilis.
"I like hot peppers," you're saying to yourself, thinking of those times - you were probably in college, maybe your early 20s - when you'd had too much to drink and challenged a friend to a chili-pepper-eating contest. You slopped down one jalapeno after another, enjoying the way it battered your system.
I used to think like that too. But that was before my encounter the other night, when I took the first nibble from the end of a red vegetable barely two inches long and weighing little more than a sheet of paper.
"Not too bad," I said aloud to the empty room. My ignorance lasted about three seconds.
It was hot. Hotter than anything I'd ever eaten. My tongue burned, I began to cough.
I knew I'd have to eat quickly, or I wouldn't be able to finish it. So I took another bite, and chewed. Then another. I ate down to the stem. I swallowed.
It's not how bhut jolokias are normally eaten - most locals use them in sauces, or chew off tiny pieces between bites of their main course - but I figured I should get the full experience (Plus, let me add, one of my editors suggested this exercise in masochism: Thank you, Ken).
The full experience?
It was awful. My eyes watered uncontrollably and my nose ran. I felt like I was gargling with acid. My hands quivered. As the minutes passed, the pain grew worse.
I shoveled in yogurt: No relief. I chewed bread: Nothing. My head felt like it was expanding. My ears felt as if hot liquid was draining from them.
The experts say beer and water do no good at such times. Maybe that's true, but gulps of very cold beer were the only things that helped me - washing away the pain for a few blessed seconds.
Twenty minutes later, I had recovered enough to speak clearly. So I called my wife in New York, where she is on vacation with our children. She laughed at me.
A day later, my tongue felt as if it had been scrubbed with a wire brush. And a day after that, a friend made me a lunch flavored with bhut jolokias.
It was a traditional meal from Nagaland, the northeastern state along the Myanmar border where my friend was born, and where super-hot chilis are a part of life. There was diced chicken and hunks of pork and a cold stew of fermented tofu beans, all spiced with the chilis.
The food was simple, delicious. It was mild by the standards of Nagaland, just one bhut jolokia or so for each dish. I loved it.
I just hope she couldn't see that my eyes were again watering.
Appearances are deceiving.
I ate an entire bhut jolokia the other night, sitting at my dining room table with an open beer and - on the advice of the experienced - a bowl of yogurt and a few slices of bread at the ready.
I had the strange fear that nothing would happen, that I had traveled halfway across India in search of a chili that would be no hotter than an apple. I thought I was prepared.
What followed was a gastronomic mugging.
I know, I know. You probably think I'm exaggerating, or maybe just inexperienced in the ways of chilis.
"I like hot peppers," you're saying to yourself, thinking of those times - you were probably in college, maybe your early 20s - when you'd had too much to drink and challenged a friend to a chili-pepper-eating contest. You slopped down one jalapeno after another, enjoying the way it battered your system.
I used to think like that too. But that was before my encounter the other night, when I took the first nibble from the end of a red vegetable barely two inches long and weighing little more than a sheet of paper.
"Not too bad," I said aloud to the empty room. My ignorance lasted about three seconds.
It was hot. Hotter than anything I'd ever eaten. My tongue burned, I began to cough.
I knew I'd have to eat quickly, or I wouldn't be able to finish it. So I took another bite, and chewed. Then another. I ate down to the stem. I swallowed.
It's not how bhut jolokias are normally eaten - most locals use them in sauces, or chew off tiny pieces between bites of their main course - but I figured I should get the full experience (Plus, let me add, one of my editors suggested this exercise in masochism: Thank you, Ken).
The full experience?
It was awful. My eyes watered uncontrollably and my nose ran. I felt like I was gargling with acid. My hands quivered. As the minutes passed, the pain grew worse.
I shoveled in yogurt: No relief. I chewed bread: Nothing. My head felt like it was expanding. My ears felt as if hot liquid was draining from them.
The experts say beer and water do no good at such times. Maybe that's true, but gulps of very cold beer were the only things that helped me - washing away the pain for a few blessed seconds.
Twenty minutes later, I had recovered enough to speak clearly. So I called my wife in New York, where she is on vacation with our children. She laughed at me.
A day later, my tongue felt as if it had been scrubbed with a wire brush. And a day after that, a friend made me a lunch flavored with bhut jolokias.
It was a traditional meal from Nagaland, the northeastern state along the Myanmar border where my friend was born, and where super-hot chilis are a part of life. There was diced chicken and hunks of pork and a cold stew of fermented tofu beans, all spiced with the chilis.
The food was simple, delicious. It was mild by the standards of Nagaland, just one bhut jolokia or so for each dish. I loved it.
I just hope she couldn't see that my eyes were again watering.
By Tim Sullivan,Associated Press
Published: Wednesday, August 1, 2007
1 comment:
Wonderfull story! Im from Argentina and Im about to buy some seeds of naga jolokia, I already have some beautifull plants growing in my balcony of jalapeños, habanero, rocoto and a very spicy species here we call them "puta parió!" translated its "holly shit!" jaja. But after reading your story I can realize nagas are a different kind of spice... definitely Im interested, thanks man! Greetings, Pablo Vaquero.
Post a Comment