Back in the halcyon days of the late '90s, I worked at a mainframe computer facility in downtown Carson City, Nevada. During my brief tenure on the day shift, I'd get an hour off for lunch and would have to figure out where to grab food from the sparse selection of eateries within walking distance. Eventually I figured out that there was an actual Thai place that was just outside of the appropriate walking range. I think I was actually late getting back to work every single time I went to eat there, but it seemed worth it to go somewhere that wasn't a so-so sandwich place or a greasy Chinese food restaurant that also served sushi, because...Asia!
I digress on purpose:
Growing up, I was rather sheltered from scary things on TV and in movies. This led me to imagine that scary movies and shows must just be the most hideously terrifying things ever, ever, ever. I built this up in my mind to the point that I was absolutely terrified of the mere concepts of horror as expressed in the commercials for scary movies and shows. Because of this, I avoided the hell out of scary movies, often even changing the channel when commercials for them would come on. So it wasn't until I was in my early teens that I actually watched my first horror movie. I was hanging out with a friend who had access to a video rental membership and a parental note that said he could rent R-rated movies. Since it was "his" membership, he got to pick out the movies with little input from me. His selections were Club Paradise (which I accurately predicted would be terrible) and A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors. I was really not happy about the prospect of watching a horror movie in some weird basement with no one but my friend and myself in the house. But my friend insisted and I didn't want to seem like a big baby, so I went along with it. To none of my surprise, Club Paradise was a turd. And very much to my surprise, I ended up enjoying Dream Warriors. It was funny, gross, clever, creative and tense. But it wasn't actually all that scary! What the fuck had I been on about? What was the big fucking deal? I felt dumb. I felt embarrassed. I made it my mission to find horror movies that were actually scary. I've happily found quite a few over the years. And to this day, I still enjoy watching so-so horror movies in pursuit of finding the rare ones that are actually scary. But I tell this story to illustrate something about me. The disappointment after I've built something up in my head sometimes spurs me to more vigorously pursue that which I'd feared.
So it was, on a much smaller scale, with the unimpressive five-star spicy level. I realized that I'd been craving some spicy fucking Thai food, but had hemmed and hawed at first, wimpily wasting time with three stars when five stars couldn't even do the job. I decided I was going to get some spicy fucking Thai food!
On the next visit, the server asked me, "How spicy, one to five stars?"
I replied, "Ten."
"Ten? It's one to five."
"Ten stars," I insisted, "very spicy."
"Ten stars?"
"Yes."
With a shrug, she wrote it down and put in my order.
And it was delicious. Really prominent heat, but not enough to destroy my face or hamper my ability to go back to work and be among other humans for the rest of the day. I made it a habit to ask for "ten stars, very spicy" the next few times I went. I thought I'd established a rapport.
Until on one such occasion, my ten-star request was noted as usual, but the food I ended up getting was not spicy at all. And I don't mean that I was so inured to spicy foods that the considerably spicy food in front of me that'd torture and inflame the mouths of mere mortals had no effect on my superior palate. I mean someone in the kitchen forgot to put in any hot peppers at all. Nothing. The food was still flavorful and otherwise properly prepared, but there was just no hint of spicy heat. None. It was literally as though I'd asked for zero stars. I needed to eat and was probably already going to be late getting back to work, so I skipped complaining about it, ate my food and went on my way. No biggie. Shit happens...
But the next time I was there, I decided to mention it. Because I was craving my spicy Thai food fix and definitely didn't want a repeat of my previous zero-star experience.
"How many stars, one to five?"
"Ten...but...sorry...last time I asked for ten stars...and the food I got wasn't spicy at all. I think someone just forgot to add the spicy ingredients. Can you make sure it's really ten stars this time?"
"Sure, sure. Ten stars."
The server walked to the kitchen to put in my order. As she passed me going back the other direction, she casually tried to reassure me.
"I told the chef that last time you got ten stars and said it wasn't spicy enough."
"Oh...that's not really what I said."
A terrible feeling came over me. She'd turned my innocuous complaint about a minor kitchen misstep into something that sounded very much like a challenge. I waited anxiously to see whether her minor rephrasing of my request would yield horrific consequences. I was entirely justified in feeling anxious.
When my plate of pad kee mao
arrived, it was just red, red, red. Pad kee mao is not normally red.
It's a dish also known as "drunken noodles" and it normally consists of
broad noodles tinted brown with soy and fish sauces, swimming on the
plate with basil and hot peppers and veggies and chicken. Pad kee mao
does not normally look like it's been drenched in a marinara sauce made
of pain and revenge.
I believe I exclaimed "Oh, wow!' out loud.
I'd accidentally insulted the chef's ability to properly spice a dish and he'd repaid me with murder. I truly believe that chef was making an attempt on my life. This was supposed to be the day I died and stopped bothering them with stupid requests about weird spicy levels that weren't on the menu. The chef wanted to laugh to himself from his hot stainless steel lair while the coroner wheeled my fat body out of his place forever on a gurney.
I hesitated, staring at the plate smothered in crimson.
I replied, "Ten."
"Ten? It's one to five."
"Ten stars," I insisted, "very spicy."
"Ten stars?"
"Yes."
With a shrug, she wrote it down and put in my order.
And it was delicious. Really prominent heat, but not enough to destroy my face or hamper my ability to go back to work and be among other humans for the rest of the day. I made it a habit to ask for "ten stars, very spicy" the next few times I went. I thought I'd established a rapport.
Until on one such occasion, my ten-star request was noted as usual, but the food I ended up getting was not spicy at all. And I don't mean that I was so inured to spicy foods that the considerably spicy food in front of me that'd torture and inflame the mouths of mere mortals had no effect on my superior palate. I mean someone in the kitchen forgot to put in any hot peppers at all. Nothing. The food was still flavorful and otherwise properly prepared, but there was just no hint of spicy heat. None. It was literally as though I'd asked for zero stars. I needed to eat and was probably already going to be late getting back to work, so I skipped complaining about it, ate my food and went on my way. No biggie. Shit happens...
But the next time I was there, I decided to mention it. Because I was craving my spicy Thai food fix and definitely didn't want a repeat of my previous zero-star experience.
"How many stars, one to five?"
"Ten...but...sorry...last time I asked for ten stars...and the food I got wasn't spicy at all. I think someone just forgot to add the spicy ingredients. Can you make sure it's really ten stars this time?"
"Sure, sure. Ten stars."
The server walked to the kitchen to put in my order. As she passed me going back the other direction, she casually tried to reassure me.
"I told the chef that last time you got ten stars and said it wasn't spicy enough."
"Oh...that's not really what I said."
A terrible feeling came over me. She'd turned my innocuous complaint about a minor kitchen misstep into something that sounded very much like a challenge. I waited anxiously to see whether her minor rephrasing of my request would yield horrific consequences. I was entirely justified in feeling anxious.
 |
| Not Pictured: My quivering, fearful soul. |
I'd accidentally insulted the chef's ability to properly spice a dish and he'd repaid me with murder. I truly believe that chef was making an attempt on my life. This was supposed to be the day I died and stopped bothering them with stupid requests about weird spicy levels that weren't on the menu. The chef wanted to laugh to himself from his hot stainless steel lair while the coroner wheeled my fat body out of his place forever on a gurney.
I hesitated, staring at the plate smothered in crimson.
I ate it.
I ate the whole thing.
Through searing pain, I heaved raspy breaths around mouthfuls of the spiciest food I'd ever put anywhere near my face. I started sweating so much, the server brought me extra napkins without me asking for them. I couldn't see it, but I could feel that my face and neck were as red as the not-marinara on my plate. My nose started running and wouldn't stop. My ears started ringing. I'd like to imagine that other diners started hurriedly paying their checks and leaving to escape the disgusting spectacle, but I was far too focused on the task in front of me to notice or care.
In between frequent sips of sweet Thai iced tea, I ate every damn last scrap of food off of that plate. And it hurt. And it was glorious! It was transcendent! I passed through a spicy, vengeful, noodly birth canal to emerge a screaming newborn babe.
I was a red-faced, sweaty, panting mess. And I loved every painful second of it. I stumbled back to work high out of my mind on hot, spicy endorphins.
The chef didn't succeed in killing me. He only succeeded in strengthening my resolve. On subsequent visits, I would remind the server about the REALLY hot food I'd had there and ask for them to do it again, vigorously gesticulating upward toward the ceiling "Twenty stars! Very, very spicy! All of it!" And the food was never quite as hot as on the day the chef tried to end my life with capsaicin. But I think I'd passed some sort of test that day. The chef always used a reasonably excessive amount of hot peppers after that and I was truly never disappointed eating there again.
And it was good.
I ate the whole thing.
Through searing pain, I heaved raspy breaths around mouthfuls of the spiciest food I'd ever put anywhere near my face. I started sweating so much, the server brought me extra napkins without me asking for them. I couldn't see it, but I could feel that my face and neck were as red as the not-marinara on my plate. My nose started running and wouldn't stop. My ears started ringing. I'd like to imagine that other diners started hurriedly paying their checks and leaving to escape the disgusting spectacle, but I was far too focused on the task in front of me to notice or care.
In between frequent sips of sweet Thai iced tea, I ate every damn last scrap of food off of that plate. And it hurt. And it was glorious! It was transcendent! I passed through a spicy, vengeful, noodly birth canal to emerge a screaming newborn babe.
I was a red-faced, sweaty, panting mess. And I loved every painful second of it. I stumbled back to work high out of my mind on hot, spicy endorphins.
The chef didn't succeed in killing me. He only succeeded in strengthening my resolve. On subsequent visits, I would remind the server about the REALLY hot food I'd had there and ask for them to do it again, vigorously gesticulating upward toward the ceiling "Twenty stars! Very, very spicy! All of it!" And the food was never quite as hot as on the day the chef tried to end my life with capsaicin. But I think I'd passed some sort of test that day. The chef always used a reasonably excessive amount of hot peppers after that and I was truly never disappointed eating there again.
And it was good.
And that is how "awesomesauce" was born
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