Hot Stuff

The other day one of our son's friends was at our house for dinner — we had tacos — and used to our children's lack of ability to eat spicy foods, I warned him when he picked up the bottle of hot sauce on the table.

"Joe," I said as he picked up the bottle and started shaking it onto his tacos. "Be careful, that sauce is hot."

"Oh, this one isn't so hot," he breezily replied. "I use it all the time."

The little SOB. (This is not a criticism of his mother, who is actually a kind and gentle woman.)

Now, I would have characterized the sauce he was using as medium hot. Our children won't go near it. It reminded me of the time I was eating dinner at a friend's house when I was 12 or so. My friend's father was a huge man — a former lineman in the Canadian Football League — and I was a skinny, pre-pubescent kid. My friend's Mom served chili and plopped a bottle of Tabasco sauce on the table. My friend's father, whose name was Marvin, grabbed the bottle and gave a couple of shakes over his bowl of chili. I, who have always liked spicy food, did the same.

No one else wanted any Tabasco sauce. Marvin glanced at me, then picked up the bottle and gave it a couple of more shakes over his chili. I tasted my chili and did the same.

Suddenly we were competing. He added more Tabasco sauce, took a bite of his chili, then a tiny sip of water from his glass. I did the same. Then we both did it again.

Beads of sweat were appearing on Marvin's forehead. I felt some on mine as well. Everyone else had stopped eating, watching this huge man and skinny kid attempt to act as if the blistering hot food they were consuming was as bland as cream of wheat.

There was only a little left in the Tabasco bottle. Marvin gave his food one more shake of it. I did the same and the bottle was empty. We both ate in silence, not drinking any water or attempting to look anything but cool. We were both wiping the sweat from our faces.

Finally, we finished and sat back. We both looked at our cool, tantalizing glasses of ice water. We smiled at each other, determined not to crack.

My insides were burning. Marvin must have been in as much pain as I was. Suddenly, there was an unspoken signal and we both grabbed our water glasses and drained them in one motion. We raced to the kitchen, refilled our glasses and drank, Again and again.

Finally, the flames were out. We staggered into the living room and Marvin, a man of few words, clapped me on the shoulder. Apparently I'd passed some sort of test.

I ate dinner many times after that at my friend's house. I noticed his mother never served chili again.