Saturday, August 22, 2009

Feel The Burn

For no reason at all today this memory jumped to the forefront of my mind. It was about ten years ago that I was down in NYC visiting a couple college friends in the Village. We were looking for a bit and I spotted the Yaffa Cafe where I had eaten once with my roommate as a freshman. So we ducked in there, got a table for six and proceeded to soak up the atmosphere.

I ordered an omelet with onions and peppers in it and jumped back into conversation. I was parched from the evenings activity and my ice water was soon gone. The place was jammed and I couldn't get a refill to save my life.

Well, the food came and I don't know if I had just misread the menu or if some unintentional slight on my part caused the waiter to retaliate, but the omelet was mostly jalapeno peppers held together with a single egg.

I was starving so I wolfed it down anyway, at one point shoveling with one hand and holding my water glass over my head with the other. I was sweaty to begin with as we had been out drinking in New York in August. Between that, the place being packed and the omelet from hell I was drenched. I think I was actually high from all the capsaicin coursing through my bloodstream.

Anyway, that just popped into my head and I thought somebody might get a grin from the imagery. I'm off to see what's spicy in the Dayton Cafe. Nite all.

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2 comments:

Pamela said...

Sorry, there's not much. I haven't been grocery shopping in almost two weeks.

Coelecanth said...

I once sat at a table with the owner of the Indian restaurant we were eating at. He overheard me asking the waitress just how hot is this dish? At this point in my culinary life I felt that the hotter the better and had discovered that often "Hot" on a menu meant "Hot for someone who doesn't normally eat spicy food."

He asked me "So, you like hot food?" "Why yes." I replied "The hotter the better." At which point he turned to the waitress and said something in, I'm guessing here, Hindi and off she went to the kitchen. Two bites into my meal I knew I was in trouble. By three bites I couldn't talk. By the end I was sweating and shaking so bad I had trouble putting a glass to my lips. The only reason I finished that meal was shear 20-something male idiocy. There was no way I was going to let him see me give up.

I've always wondered what exactly he said to the waitress. Was it "Tell the chef to use Scotch Bonnets on the Dal." or was it "Tell the chef to kill this pasty little poser." At the time I thought the latter but I became a little more charitable when it became clear a few days later that I had suffered no permanent damage. :)