Gastronomic Ironman

Can someone explain to me, why in countries where the temperature stays 100F in the shade, people like to further torture themselves by eating spicy foods? They are like an uncomfortable prisoner sweating to await a verdict, who decides to drink a glass of milk, despite being lactose-intolerant, just to "kick things up a notch." Tomfoolery, I tell ya!


Coming to India was the equivalent of Gastronomic Ironman for me. I've spent 31 years successfully avoiding spicy foods,

• despite growing up in a Louisiana household,
• despite living near the Mexico border, and
• despite having friends and family who enjoy torturing one another with "who can eat the more spicy dish game."

31 years and I plop myself into a country where spice is unavoidable. Combine this with the fact that Malayalam is completely an unfamiliar language, I'm probably allergic to the herbs that are included in the dishes (e.g., cilantro), and that many of the "cooler" things to eat consistent of fruits (ewwww!!!).


Nonetheless, having been raised with southern values, I am required to eat the food presented to me by a host. Whether I want the food or not. Thus, my culinary adventure moves as such:

• Day 1 -- rice, with tortillas (not called nan, but something with a p), spicy red hot sauce, and a coconut based vegetable curry thing.
• Day 2 -- same thing, but this time the rice was fried.
• Day 3 -- same thing, this time the rice had eggs fried in.

On day 3, a non-profit staff member commented that I eat extremely slow. Though I have been taught to chew thoroughly, I had to shamfully admit to the group that I was no fan of spicy foods. They were shocked. Severine remarked she would have never guessed had I not said anything. My mother would have been proud, up until that moment of honesty.

Finally, on day 4, the same dishes came, but the rice had chicken. This time there were no partners to share this meal with. The serving had been ordered especially for me. I could not hope that someone would take an extra portion and spare me the pain. So, the really nice lady, who brings the tea served rice onto my plate. "Oh, if that were the only thing on the menu today, I would be pleased," I thought to myself. Then, she spoons out the red hot sauced chicken, and dips her spoon in again for a little extra flavor. I sigh internally. Her spoon dips a third time, and I politely say "no." She insists on serving more, to which I smile and wave my hand "no." Dear God, I wonder, does she want to see me in pain? She stops, looks at me quizzically, and then starts working a bag that she just calls "sauce." It's the color of red hots candy, and she wants to put it on my plate. I can't have that. It's too much. I duck, I dodge, and gently take the spoon from her and say I will do it myself. I tell her not to worry. I hope I haven't offended her. I really want to have my final cup of tea this afternoon!

She leaves the room and I stare at my plate. I bring a mixture of the rice, chicken and red sauce to my lips. Immediately, my stomach does a somersault, my eyes water, the tip of my nose develops a small twitch, my lips tingle, and a small amount of drool attempts to drool to soothe the pain. My stomach is still raw from the previous days of eating spicy food and it screams it would rather starve than eat any more. Despite the late of will of my stomach, obligation makes me spoon yet another bite into my mouth.

Today, my final day, I have no nan (that "p" version) to soften the blows. As per custom, they have given me boiling hot water, tinted rose to wash down the food. As if to add injury to insult to my sweating. I eat, I eat, I try not to think. I eat all of the rice and enough of the spicy chicken and sauce to not be rude. I tap out and run to the sink to wash off my face and hands which still tingle from the spices.

At 2:30pm, with finger tips still reddened and my innards grumbling their discomfort, my lips are brought again to a smile. My favorite tea lady has brought me chai. And once again, we are friends.