I got some Thai food last night.
As is always the case when I get Thai food, I asked the waitress to make it extra hot, and, as is always the case, she replied with, “Are you sure? I don’t think you want it extra hot.”
As is always the case, I responded, “Yes, I do. I wouldn’t have asked for it extra hot if I didn’t want it extra hot.”
As is always the case, she said, “Extra hot is really spicy. Most people that ask for their food extra hot find that the food is hotter than they can handle.”
As is always the case, I was annoyed and snapped back, “I’m not most people. I know what extra hot means, and I would like my food extra hot, please.”
The waitress was finally persuaded, and soon returned with my food, prepared extra hot, just as I had requested. “Good luck,” she said. “It’s really hot…”
“Thanks,” I said half-heartedly, extremely irritated that she didn’t think I was man enough to eat a plate of extra hot food. I quickly grabbed my fork and shoved some of the food into my mouth to show her that I could handle it.
As soon as that first bite hit my mouth, I realized that it was really, really hot; so uncomfortably spicy, in fact, that I thought the inside of my mouth would instantly disintegrate. Sweat poured out of my forehead and every drop of blood in my body rushed into my face. Just one bite in, I was already in severe pain.
I’d be darned, however, if I was going to let that waitress see my pain. She publicly underestimated my manliness, and I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of thinking she was right. So I kept shoveling the food into my mouth, never looking down at my plate, but instead staring her down with every forkful. “You don’t think I can handle food this hot, huh?” I thought. “Well, are you watching this?”
The sweat continued to rain off my head, and the spiciness had my nose running uncontrollably. My tongue felt like it was being cut by razor blades, and the only flavor I tasted was “hot.” It was a truly miserable meal.
But I finished it. I then dropped a few bucks on the table to cover my bill and a meager tip for my know-it-all waitress, gave her an evil but confident glare, and exited the place. I had proved what I set out to prove: I am all man, and no amount of hotness is too much for me to handle. Try to deny me my spicy food, Waitresses, and risk being humiliated.
Unfortunately, you never realize how hot food is until the next day. What your mouth can handle on Thursday, your butt has to deal with on Friday. I’m afraid no amount of pride could offset the extraordinarily intense agony I endured this morning as the Thai food exited my body like liquid, hot magma. And I’m sure that the pain will stay with me for a while. Abuse like this is bound to leave lasting scars on anyone’s body.
Yes, the pain will last, and it will likely affect how I walk, how I sit, and what I wear for the next week or so. But, if I could go back, would I change my actions at that Thai restaurant? Not a chance. Because every uncomfortable chair I sit in and every miserable step I take will remind me of my victory Thursday night, and no amount of hotness can obscure the taste of victory.
