Aug. 13--A friend of mine is a spicy foods addict, the kind of guy who grimaces, cries, pants and contorts his arms and fingers in twisted angles to emote his physical pleasure through pain. He owns a collection of extreme hot sauces, the ones with colorful labels and titles referencing the devil, your butt and poisonous snakes.
"Why do you eat this if it gives you so much pain?" I'd ask Ryan.
His justification: "It gives me a rush."
The guy's a sadomasochist.
I'm reminded of this because of Burger King's forceful marketing push for its new Fiery Chicken Fries, which my colleague Lindsey Compton wrote about here. (Spoiler alert: They're not good.) Granted, there's a hefty segment of America, at least on social media, mocking the processed chicken fingers, but for every derisive tweet under the #fierychickenfries hashtag, there's one of excitement over the idea of what one Twitter user called (in context, a compliment) #stupidspicy fries. Meanwhile, consumers are lapping up everything from ghost pepper candies to haba pizza offered only when the peppers are at peak potency to bags of Doritos peppered with surprise mouth-burning chips. In school cafeterias, Flamin' Hot Cheetos are the new Capri Suns. BK's chicken fries are simply the latest in the quest for the Next Extreme Spicy Food.
Better to get your kicks from hot wings than heroin. At least the endorphin rush spicy foods provide is legal. And yet, it's the opposite of every other rush Americans delight in. Take bungee jumping, or sky diving. The thrill there is about facing down the very real possibility of pain, and the elation of coming out the other end unscathed. With, say, a quadruple-pepper burger, the pain is unavoidable. Where's the thrill in that? Why are Americans so enthralled by extreme heat?
Scientists have long said the pain is the point; your body produces endorphins to battle the displeasure, so ultimately you end up feeling good. But that doesn't tell the whole story.
Curiosity certainly plays a role. Ads for the Fiery Chicken Fries use the phrase "offensively spicy," which is a strange gambit of reverse psychology to intrigue consumers enough to bite. It's like a swimsuit magazine teasing "extra homely models on page 14!"
Then there's the West Loop's High Five Ramen, a 16-seat subterranean ramen counter known for serving two of the spiciest bowls of ramen in the city. On the menu, under the flagship bowl, is this warning: "There may be pain, suffering, sweating, discomfort and a creeping feeling of deep regret that is followed by pure sensory euphoria." Intriguing, right?
Your neighbors think so, at least: Lines can stretch more than an hour long on weekends.
I tried High Five's standard bowl not too long ago. There's a citrus brightness to it, perhaps from fruity Sichuan peppercorns that adds that mala tingly numbness to the broth. The runny egg yolks provide partial cooling relief, but I couldn't finish even a third of the bowl (and I can handle my spicy foods). It's not pleasant to eat; I wouldn't order it again (though I might go for the half or no-spice version, which is available). For the sake of whatever spike in endorphins, the flavor imparted by the long and delicate process of making tonkotsu broth is wiped away in a hail of chilis and peppercorns.
Thing is, there's one bowl even hotter called Kanobo Spice. Its menu description: "Face numbing, tear jerking, belly warming, unbearable spice. There is no relief. Kanabo style is too spicy for most to enjoy. Please don't order without careful consideration."
On one hand, kudos to the kitchen staff for sticking to their guns. They present a bowl that says: "This is the ramen we like, take it or leave it." On the other hand: Words like "unbearable" and "no relief" are now treated as if they're not pejoratives. Perhaps we've been trained that extreme spiciness -- and let's leave aside the fact that it might be deleterious to your health -- is no big deal.
But most of all, the push toward heat ... and more heat ... and more heat ... is driven by ego.
I have no doubt a certain segment of the population orders and enjoys this spicy ramen, or the various hot wings around town that do extreme spicing. But then I think of Jake Melnick's XXX Wings challenge, which says if you can finish a basket of its habanero/ghost pepper/Trinidad scorpion wings, your name will forever be enshrined on its "Wall of Flame."
(Side note: You must sign a waiver first before ordering this. This may be presented as tongue-in-cheek -- hoho, let's not get the lawyers involved! -- but think about it: In a court of law, this document might be evidence enough of relinquishing legal responsibilities. For chicken wings!)
Yes, we're just talking about a wall at a bar. But it represents the victory people attach to surviving, even thriving (or pretending to thrive) on these dare-spicy foods. You can stand the heat, therefore, you're macho. Go on YouTube and search for "Jake Melnick's Wing Challenge." You'll find many videos of (mostly) young men huffing their way through a basket of the XXX wings, napkins scrunched in fists, heads held high. Me, I don't need my toughness measured by tolerance to pain. I suppose I could go bungee jumping with a defective harness. But I'm not gonna.
kpang@tribpub.com
Twitter @pang
