America is indeed a melting pot. One of the most apparent examples of this is the amazingly endless variety of (mostly) delicious foods you can find in any decently metropolitan city.
New York City is as diverse as all the movies show it to be. It is full of people that hail from places as near as Brooklyn and as far away as Pakistan, Brazil, and Oz. Okay, maybe not Oz, but if it existed I'm sure you'd find a little neighborhood in Queens full of Scarecrow's cousins. And as is the case anywhere, with all of these people, comes incredible food. Though NYC has literally dozens of restaurants, bars, and delis per block, one of the most amazing parts of the food culture here is the wonderous food trucks and carts. More specifically - the halal trucks with their street meat gyros, falafel, and chicken and rice. As a vegetarian, I am often told at most carts that the falafel is sold out. That doesn't stop me from asking the next cart half a block away.
Since my girlfriend, Mira, is amazing, I usually make my co-workers jealous with the packed lunches she makes me. You know the type. Made with the kind of love that drives a person to wake up 3 hours earlier than their work day demands in order to make fresh salad and sammiches for the woman she loves, complete with occasional post it love notes stuck to the Tupperware lid. Every so often, however, the salivating caused by the delicious smells from the food carts cannot be ignored any longer, and my healthy salad is forsaken for a spur-of-the-moment decision, wrapped in enough guilt to make a Catholic priest's head spin.
One of these spur-of-the-moment decisions happened while on my last project which placed me in Midtown West for three weeks. After two weeks of walking by The Halal Guys on 53rd and 7th multiple times a day and watching Jason scarf down multiple chicken and rices, I couldn't resist any longer. As Jason headed toward the smoothie cart for his pre-meal snack, I decided to join my friend Kelsey at the halal cart. I stood in line, more than eagerly awaiting my turn. Finally, after what seemed like 45 minutes (realistically about 6, but you know what the combination of hunger and amazing food smells can do to a person's sense of time) it was my turn.
Me: Falafel and rice please
Mr. Halal Guy: Onions and peppers?
Me (the South Indian girl): Yes, please - extra onions if you could. Thanks.
Mr. Halal Guy: White sauce?
Me: Yes, please.
Mr. Halal Guy (as he is already starting to pour it): Hot sauce?Â
Me: Yes, please... Can I have more?
Mr. Halal Guy (looks at me, hesitates, pours a bit more): Okay?Â
Me: Uhm.. a bit more please.
Mr. Halal Guy (as he covers the rest of the visible rice with hot sauce): Okay?Â
Me: Perfect, thank you. Can I get a couple pieces of pita too? Thanks.
Kelsey and I met up with Jason and walked around the corporate jungle in search of a place to enjoy our food outside. Sadly we found none (read: we were far too excited about our food to do more than a 30 second scan of the visible half block in our eyeline). We decided to meet Jessica upstairs in the sad looking room that was this office's excuse for a break room. As I tore open the bag to get to the deliciousness that lies within, all I could think of is a quote I had seen scribbled on the wall of Ample Hills Creamery, the best store made ice cream in all of Brooklyn - "I love you. Get in my belly."
With all the excitement of a five-year old (or even a grown woman in her 20s) in FAO Schwarz, I gushed to Jason about the hot sauce that had turned the entire aluminum pan (and everything in it) red. He gave me a look that read "oh no.. you didn't...did you?" Jason knows that my traditional Indian upbringing has developed into a love for spiciness that manifests itself in my eating raw habanero peppers, dousing my food in Sriracha, and starting every dish I cook with jalapenos. I wasn't concerned - Jason is, after all, a protective brother when it comes to me. He always has my best interests in mind, no questions asked. I unfolded the sides of the pan and took off the paper top. His mouth dropped.
Jason: D, be careful.
Me: Yo, you know me. I got this.
Jason: Yeah but these guys are different. Trust me. Their hot sauce is hot.
Kelsey and Jessica join Jason in his warnings, though their not having had the hot sauce at this particular cart meant that their warnings went unheeded, chalked up to the fact that neither of them much appreciates the scorching levels of spicy that I live for.
How hot could it be? This wasn't Jackson Heights, where the entire South Asian population settled in the immigration influx. Where everything you eat is categorically high level of spicy by default. This was Midtown. A lot of corporate suits - generally white men - who think Flamin' Hot Cheetos need a gallon of milk as a chaser, and tourists who were only interested in photographing the food to show to the folks back home. Eating a bite of a Thai chili causes panic attacks and heart palpitations. Wusses, all of them. How bad could it really be?
All eyes were on me and my red rice. I smiled, looked around while shaking my head in amusement and swallowed my first bite. The smile started to fall, and my friends weren't breathing. Had it happened? Had I just encountered the third ever experience of my life in which I had been bested by a hot sauce? The first experience was in a bar in Baltimore with one of my best friends Tachi, when my loose hand poured too much Voodoo Hot Sauce all over my half of the quesadilla. Tachi had to coach me through the process of water followed by fries followed by beer and water again to try to lessen the sweat dripping from my forehead. The second was when my law school best friend and cooking buddy, Anthony, bought me a bottle of Da Bomb, a hot sauce with a Scoville score of 1.5 million (15 times the scoville units of a habanero pepper). I decided to put a single drop (yes, it came with a pipette) into a huge pot of pasta and succeeded in pepper bombing my entire apartment and almost killing both my roommate and myself in the process. For about a day and a half after the incident, our eyes stayed red and coughing fits were not uncommon.
I was in denial. Surely this couldn't be happening. It was me, after all - queen of hot sauces, champion of spicy. I wiped my nose (which was starting to drip after the first bite) and readied another forkful.
Jessica: Don't eat it!Â
Jason: Seriously D... don't.
I stared at the rest of my plate, the remaining $5.93 left from my 6 dollar purchase, pleading with me to remember that the wastage of food is a grave offense in my book. I picked up a piece of pita, checked it for any speckles of red, and decided to keep going. Then it happened. My ears started to ring, the heat reached my ears, and my glasses started to slide down my nose due to the sweat that crashed through my bangs like thousands of tons of water through a badly constructed dam. With what I foolishly hoped was some restraint I half-sauntered, half-sprinted to the communal fridge where there was salvation in the form of milk. Ignoring the office manager's sign reminding the employees that milk was ONLY for coffee and tea, I poured out a full cup of whole milk, drank it with the quart in my hand, and filled it up again before heading back to my food. My water cup and Cherry Coke Zero sat sadly to the side, knowing they had been benched for the rest of the foreseeable future. The Jordan of the hot sauce game had arrived.
At this point, my friends were sure this was a bad idea. They individually expressed their concern - very smart, logical, and rational arguments as other lawyers tend to do. Then Jason said it. "You just CAN'T eat that! And no, that isn't a challenge!"
It was too late. The phrase that probably would drive my usually restrained and reasonable brain into âjump out of a plane into the ocean without a parachuteâ mode - you can't. His attempt to save me from hot sauce annihilation backfired, and no amount of insistence on his part that a challenge wasn't offered could change my mind. I would eat the rest of the rice. Challenge. Accepted.
I kept eating. One bite. One swig of milk. One bite. One swig. One bite. Two swigs.
Kelsey, Jessica, and Jason kept staring, words of caution at the ready in case I decided to waver in my resolve. I didn't. I was determined. Besides two extra large falafel balls (which were also covered in red) and a few pieces of lettuce, I ate it all. The brown-skinned girl turned a beet red (yes, apparently that is possible contrary to what the past few decades had taught me) and numerous napkins were littered around the table, soaked with sweat from my forehead. The top of my head was emitting so much heat through my hair that I could have heated 230 Fifth's entire rooftop bar and my sinuses had never experienced such a purge in their life.
The rest of the story isn't worth telling. I spent the rest of the workday feeling like the war was being waged inside of my stomach - and I was the Confederacy. I went back to The Halal Guys last night, out of nostalgia and a little bit of doubt as to whether my previous defeat had actually been as crushing as I remembered.
...I got hot sauce on the side.
They mean it, they are different.