I fancy myself a lover of spice. For years now I've been adding red pepper flakes, Burn Baby Burn (all proceeds go to the Huey P. Newton Foundation - put your fist in the air), jalapenos and whatever other fiery bit I can get my hands on into whatever it is I am eating. Spaghetti sauce, you bet. Stir fry, most def. Lentil soup, no doubt about it. If it's going into my mouth, chances are the heat is on. And if you are fortunate enough to be sharing a meal with me, it’s highly unlikely I'll take your heat tolerance into consideration (unless you are five years old or younger). In short, good luck to ya.
The military maintains the philosophy that when someone is confronted with all their worst fears it will help eliminate them. Hence, in training they get you wetter and colder and more sleep deprived and more sore than you've ever been and then explode stuff near you - just to show you that you are strong enough to survive it and even, in some cases, be high functioning. I pretty much subscribe to this philosophy when building a tolerance to spicy foods.
My gauntlet of sorts took place in 2002, in Thailand, in a boat, amidst the well known floating market. At the time I was staying firmly convicted about my vegaquarian eating habits and moving through that country on a diet of rice and noodles with a green veggie or two and maybe a reconstituted fish ball now and again. It meant I missed out on certain delectable dishes like coagulated pig’s blood soup, a bummer, but I rolled with it. My habits were annoying to street vendors who would give me the curious "why's a farong like you not eating meat?" look and then serve me noodles or rice suspended in oil with chilies.
I had managed on that diet fairly well. I was popping acidophilus pills to keep the good flora neutralizing the new water and food bacteria I kept introducing to my intestines. The success rate had been quite high. And then we went to the floating market.
If you do a Google search for the Damnoen Saduak floating market, there is no shortage of images. In all of them you will see narrow, hollowed out boats, coasting under the weight of brightly colored fruits and vegetables, fabric, ceramics, toys, woks, you name it, it’s floating and being steered by folks of all ages and genders moving slowly and smoothly, a veritable soft core, bumper boat experience. The other thing you may universally observe is the color of the water: brown, green, murky, and fairly still except for the movement inspired by the boats…no one is swimming although upstreaming someone may be using the river as a toilet.
It’s a very sweet and unique experience that I highly recommend. What I don’t recommend (unless your stomach is lined with stainless steel), and you may have enough common sense for this to not ever cross your mind, is hitting up the soup boat as she passes. The base of many soups is water and when you are floating on a river full of the stuff chances are the cook isn’t hauling it from somewhere else. And that’s how I ended up with a steaming bowlful of river water soup filled with rice noodles and, for lack of ingredients other than meat (to the dismay of the soup maker), four heaping scoops of chili flakes. A wiser person might have assessed the situation and thought better. Not me….when in Rome.
I was determined to get through that bowl: to not waste food, to eat something authentic, to not be a prissy tourist. My mouth was aflame, it seemed probable that whatever water bugs I was sucking down were being killed instantly by the acid fire coursing through my digestive tract. I made it through to the last noodle, returned the bowl to the soup lady and continued bumper boating for the remainder of the hour, sweating in the muggy air with a full belly.
That evening, back in Bangkok, we found ourselves headed to an Indian restaurant searching out dinner. The feeling hit me four steps outside the door as we approached. I can’t remember ever walking to the table, just making a B line for the bathroom. I remember little about that room, maybe a slatted wood door that I stared at as the world melted around me and liquid fire exited my shocked system. I was sweating, hunched over, light headed and the blood had certainly drained from my face. Minutes passed with the passing of all my insides. On fire.
When I finally made it back to the table I was on the green side. And it was obvious. But I had survived what probably remains one of my lowest travel moments – and it wasn’t even that low. Our memory likes to whitewash trauma. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so much hurt in the stomach, and yet, it passed and I managed to back it up with another meal within the hour. And I proved to myself that four scoops of chili was digestible and not deathly. That was the turning point.
There’s no going back. I’d like to think that now, after years of spice and liquid fire making a home inside of me, if confronted again with river water chili soup I could handle it and might not even get temporarily crippled.
Here’s to being high functioning in the heat of battle.
