I love hot things–hot food, hot showers, hot dogs…and have always fancied myself as having a virtually cast-iron palette. The hotter, the better. Ghost pepper chili? Yum! Habenero anything? Bring it. I laugh in the face of so-called “hot” things.
That was before a seemingly-innocuous visit to our local Firehouse Subs. What began innocently enough as a stop for a tasty sandwich turned into a nightmare whose effects can still be felt today–literally.
We had never been to Firehouse Subs but, being the patriotic supporters of police and firemen that we are (cue eagle fly-by), we decided to give it a try. A decent selection of sandwiches were available and we made our choices.
While we were waiting, I noticed a fairly large selection of hot sauces lined up on the counter. A sign pointed out that these sauces were helpfully labeled 1-10, depending on their relative heat (10 being the hottest). Being the cocky, hot-sauce mocking guy that I was, I instantly searched the assembled bottles for the “10″s. I did not find any 10s but found a “9″ that looked worth a shot, so I pulled it from the counter and waited for my sandwich.
The sandwich came and I applied a small drop for trial purposes.
Nothing.
Then I applied about a teaspoon to the sandwich. This time, a little heat but not much. “This is a nine?!?!?!?!” I asked with incredulity and incredible self-assurance. “What wimps,” I thought. “If this is a 9, how lame must a 10 be?”
After telling Jen how super-lame the 9 was, she started building me up, telling me how I should take those hot food challenges that we see Adam Richman take on “Man vs Food”. “Yeah, I should. I’d totally dominate,” I confirmed.
Feeling even more arrogant, I searched the counter again for that elusive “10″. This time, Jen helped. Well, Jen’s eagle-eyes spotted a bottle on another part of the counter. She assured me that this was labeled a “10.” I removed the top and took a sniff. It smelled almost sweet. Pfft! This stuff smelled harmless. A “10″ indeed! Confident from my earlier brush with the 9, I applied a teaspoon-sized dollop of this sauce, Mad Dog 357, to my Italian sub. I immediately noticed its very dark red color and viscous consistency. Undaunted by these tell-tale signs, I eagerly took a large bite, including the entire teaspoon of sauce, and began to work the sauce over my tongue so that I could savor the so-called “10″ and then mock its alleged hotness.
This lasted all of about five seconds. That’s about how long it took until the fires of Hell were suddenly transported into my mouth.
At first, I tried to maintain the facade, as if nothing were wrong and as if I could handle what was happening inside. Ego quickly gave way to necessity as I started quickly scrambling for my drink, a chip, a cracker…anything to absorb or neutralize the napalm that had been launched into my throat. Now I’ve never been the victim of a true napalm attack but this felt like I imagine that must–a searing substance that sticks to you, that you cannot get off of you while it continues to sear your flesh. Thus went Mad Dog 357.
The mad dog now seemed to be actively attacking my throat like a…well, like a mad dog. My eyes were watering by this time and I was sacrificing all dignity in search of something that would quell the fire now blitzkrieging toward my stomach. Nothing worked, however. Jen, seeing my obvious distress, even sought out a glass of milk for me, which I would previously have never accepted but for which I now shamelessly begged. My mouth and throat were on fire–an intense burning unlike anything that I have ever experienced.
Then, it hit my stomach. “Hit” is probably too gentle of a word. “Assaulted” or “bitch-slapped” might be more apt. I instantly felt nauseous and a sudden, overriding sense of complete helplessness washed over me. Nothing that I was doing to alleviate the burning was working. Even worse, the burning was intensifying and the feeling of it in my stomach was such a weird combination of burning and indigestion and discomfort that it took the experience to an entirely new level of suffering. The realization that I was going to have to endure this for the next 20 minutes or so, at least, with no chance of relief evoked a feeling of near panic in me.
Jen was very supportive and didn’t remind me of my earlier cockiness. There was no milk to be had but she helpfully pulled bread from her sandwich to feed to me in a vain attempt to stem the blaze now engulfing my gastro-intestinal tract.
To make a long story short, the fires eventually did go out. After about 15 minutes, the overwhelming discomfort started to wane and, within 30 minutes, was gone. That is, until the next morning.
So, what’s the lesson we’ve learned, kids? 1) Mad Dog 357 is to be respected and consumed in extreme moderation. 2) Don’t be cocky, it will come back and bite you in the arse (literally). 3) Marry a good woman–a woman good enough to not laugh at your pain, even when you’ve been annoyingly cocky.
P.S. The label actually said “10+++” which Jen either did not notice or helpfully left out. Lesson 4: respect the label.