bobnboguslavski.com Blogs - News

View All Blog Posts

Bookmark and Share
On a great stag night two days before the wedding, Bob was out with groom Dudley Steele and another dozen buddies from England, Spain, the Netherlands and Germany in Puerto de la Cruz on Tenerife's north side. Rounds of warm-up beers were followed by dinner at an Indian restaurant, where "somebody" decided it might be interesting to see how much heat could be put out there in one dish.

When the owner came to me, I turned to him. “Some of the lads are from England, and
like their food very spicy, sir. Not Spanish, white man, or even English vindaloo spicy.
Please make it extra
Indian spicy. I used to live in India. You know what I mean. Do your
best, please.” I laid down the gauntlet in challenge to his piquancy prowess.

“I make extra very special for you, sir,” he replied, smiling, and with a knowing gleam
in his eyes.

                                                                              ***

Our appetizers arrived. We were hit by the pungent wave of heat and spice wafting from
the one dish given extra attention. The owner beamed as he placed the plate in front of
me on the table. I knew from a distance, without a taste that he had risen to the challenge,
and then some.

Before us was a plate with half a dozen peppers stuffed with a selection of ground chilies,
unidentifiable little 
lumpy bits, and white clumps of some sort of cheese-looking substance.
Death peppers deluxe!

“Right, then,” said Roddy fearlessly. “I can handle it. Let’s do it together. No excuses, or
a bollocking.” Dudley, Mr. P, Roddy, and I each took a pepper confidently in hand.

“Remember lads, if it’s too hot, take some of the raita.” I pointed to the bowl on the table
beside the pepper plate. “No water. Or anything else. It will only make it worse.”

The four of us each popped one in our mouths and bit down. Like a shot, Roddy reached
for the raita bowl, and downed a healthy swig straight from the bowl, bypassing the spoon.
Serious stuff.  Mr. P’s face froze in horror. His jaw unhinged as he spat out mangled morsels
of pepper onto the plate. He turned red and his eyes teared.

My mouth exploded in a firebomb, with intensity I hadn’t experienced since I’d left India
three years ago. I could tolerate it though. I warmed up and felt sweat developing on my
brow.

“Jesus fuckin’ H. Christ, Bogus,” snarled Dudley, after he swallowed two spoons of raita
in rapid succession. He likely wanted to add more scolding, but couldn’t. Mr. P followed
and did the same, silent in his suffering, but his watery eyes clearly revealed his state.

“Bobby Bo was merely providing the opportunity for those that wanted an amped up
appie adventure,” I said.

“Right fuckin’ cunt you are,” retorted Roddy.

“You asked for it, mate,” I said calmly.
Innocent.

A few were clearly unhappy with this initial part of  our dining experience, and a bit miffed at Bob, despite their professing being tough guys in the HOT 'n SPICY department.

So, just what exactly had gone down here? We had very likely just been “ghost peppered” in that dish. On the Scoville scale of measuring the “bring the heat” factor, the Indian Ghost Pepper, or bhut jolokia (and a few other names), is way up there at the top.


Until 2013, that puppy was reputed to be the spiciest pepper out there. It has since been surpassed by the Carolina Reaper, and for a time by the Trinidad Moruga Scorpion and related derivative Butch T.

But hey, don’t take this pundit’s word for how hot these things are. Here's a nice intro from someone in the trade with some good narrative and background information.



Here are a few more folks that tried, and who wanted to share their experience. Pop one of these suckers in your mouth, and watch the mirth and mayhem unfold.


Our next hero contestant, RapidResponseKing (aka Tedy), needs to be admired for aiming to take in several in rapid succession. 
 

Our full-of-energy gal, GloZell Green, wasn't yet hip to things like water and soda NOT being a good idea here to fight the fire, even when she was munching on a lower intensity habanero


When stuff goes sideways on you here, know ito have some dairy around (e.g., milk, yoghurt, sour cream, raita or other fine things of that ilk.) to help douse the flames.

And sometimes, Momma knows best, as in “Just don’t do it!” We had to get a mention in there of her, what with Mother’s Day going down tomorrow.


Even if U a hottie, your sorry state won’t get spared when it comes time to bring the heat and take your ass down (as Bob likes to say), "faster than a piñata at Carlos Slim Helu’s surprise 50th birthday party."



And then, at the very end of this transforming culinary experience, after your having received that consumng warm embrace on the inbound path, one might find that gift of pure joy getting recycled through the outbound, backdoor end. So brace, and beware, Bobbolin(o/a)s. 


But hey, it’s all just like the tagline points out, on this bag below, as taken from Bob’s own pantry. 



Things like this, they ain’t be teaching your ass in school. That’s why Bob hits weddings across the world, where one can find oneself in all kinds of crazy situations and funny encounters in exotic locations. As some single cat traveling between continents, you pick up a few things along the way. And you can read all about it here, since life's too short for boring reads.