I've nearly finished this jar f pickeled chillis in the last 30 minutes, my ears burn, my nose is running and I dare not contemplate what awaits me in the morning, but I just can't stop. the initial sweetness of the vinegar is amazing, the heat is murder though.
The patchouli-scented hippy wholefood place near me sells great big jars of chilli peppers stuffed with feta. The first jar I got was absolutely divine and the contents disappeared very swiftly, the next two had very leathery peppers and seemed a bit crap. At fucking £8 a pop or something it's not something I plan on buying again, which is a bit of a shame.
Lidl do good antipasti chillis filled with feta, give em a go mate.
Btw op here, my arse was on fire the next day... thank god for my bidet, a quick rinse and all was right with the world. A must for any spicy enthusiast.
I once ordered some chilli sauce with a cheap takeout. I was expecting the average chilli sauce from such an eatery - pretty hot, comprised of little more than chilli flakes and vinegar, but nothing outrageous. This vicious brew, though, must've been secured from the devil's own digestive tract. Within moments of the first soggy chip my mouth was ablaze, assaulted by the kind of searing, white-hot heat that even the smallest and nastiest chillis struggle to effect; there was an acrid, smouldering aftertaste that I can only assume signalled the sudden passing of most of my embattled tastebuds, and after that only pain remained.
Unfortunately I'd already unceremoniously dumped the entire contents over my "meal", such as it was, so the only course of action was to rejoin battle with the grim determination that seizes the inescapably fucked. I endured, sirs, but my will flagged before the fouled foe could be conquered. Decimation of my gustatory and olfactory systems vis-à-vis capsaicin overdose is a situation with which I have oft been familiar, but the uproar in my stomach was simply too much to bear. Practicality also called for my surrender; I wasn't able to see where I was walking, and with this faculty already dangerously impaired prior to consumption I decided to call it quits and ditched the remains in a gutter. I would offer a heartfelt apology to the relatives of any vermin that chanced upon the fallout. May the deceased rest in peace.
In His divine benevolence, God smiled upon my ringpiece the next day and I suffered no great secondary ordeal. I get the feeling my colon has never quite forgiven me, though, and today we are more housemates than friends. I stick to mayonnaise these days.
Yours is no mere adventure, but the very path to chilli martyrdom. When the Lord calls you into his company, your effulgent balloon-knot shall be kissed by generations of devoted pilgrims. On a velvet cushion.
January 1st, 2001. A date etched in the memory of 3 people because of the mighty chilli. I am giving away a family secret here, one that will haunt me for the rest of my days.
December 31st, 2000. Ah, new years eve and my first one of legal drinking age, a night to remember. Months before a very good friend had thoughtfully booked us in for an curry followed by a night of intoxication at a hotel. A good 20 or more of my best friends would also be coming. Once at the curry house we all get on the larger and the waiter asks what we would like, as usual the girls tend to opt for a masala and the guys go for madras/vindaloo, with deserved smug looks from the vindaloo guys. I however opted for a jalfrezi, a curry I am more than familiar with. We were on our 3rd round of drinks when the main meal arrived... much to my suprise and delight my Jalfrezi arrived on one of them sizzling plates and was full of these very fruity looking whole chillis as well as big lumps of tomato, it looked delicious and it was a monstrous serving. The fumes emanating from my dish had the table in tears. A mere hint of what was to come. This was my chance, today was the day that the vindaloo chaps would bow down to a true master of spicy. I was grinning from ear to ear as I scooped up my first mouthful with a peshwari naan. My memory becomes a little fuzzy from here, maybe it was the stella artois. I remember the sweat. and I remember going for a shit in the curry house. but most of all I remember the heat. Oh the heat, the kind of burning that requires pint after pint wash it away, well at least numb it. I finished the meal, a triumph... although it had taken me 20 minutes longer than everyone else. In a hurried motion, dripping with sweat I was dragged out of the Indian and onwards towards the hotel.
The night went on and I gradually got over my experience in the curry house and ended up copping hold of this fat chick for the rest of the night. I got fucked and all was good.
I woke up in a haze but in my bed which was good, a burp that tasted of sambuca brought memories of the drunken snogs with the fat girl. I threw on my dressing gown and proceeded to the medicine cabinet in the kitchen, my mum called me from the living room and I proceeded to have a chat with them about the previous night.
My stomach gurgling, by sphincter begging for the release of the built up gasses, I thought I could sneak out a silent one, I knew it would be deadly but I'm good at passing the buck. I snidely parted my buttcheeks, guaranteed silence you see.
"splat" I heard it before I felt it, all eyes travelled to the site of the sound, mine too. we saw it in unison, a surprisingly large pile of shit was growing in between my feet. my sphincter couldn't contain the forced build up behind it. for a moment I stood there in shock while my arsehole spluttered away. realisation hadn't quite caught up with me, this was one of them rare slow motion moments, as my eyes lifted from the floor I made eye contact, first with my dad, then my mum.
Then reality hit me like a bus. I ran leaving a trail of shit behind me, ditched the shitty dressing gown on the outside of the bathroom door made it to the toilet but rather than sitting on it I dived head first spewing a fountain of very very hot chilli and sambuka into the toilet whilst the last of the shit sprayed out of my ring piece. I gurgled out a scream as the burning sensation tore my chocolate starfish and throat apart. My mum didn't have to follow, I wish she hadn't.
I was literally crying with laughter, I thank you for sharing such a beautiful story.
I once had a curry that disagreed with my stomach, I had to power walk back to my house, by bottom cheeks literally wobbling. I sprinted up the stairs, with every stride i let out a fart. I dropped my trousers before entering the bathroom, I didn't quite reach the toilet before I released a stream of thick poo, it splattered across the floor in a line. I managed to sit down before the rest came pouring out.
Jesus Christ people, stop shoving chillis down your gob, they are poisonous. I like my curry spicy not painful. >>2960 doesn't sound like a pleasant morning experience.
>>2968 They are not, or rather, they are not to the point that killing yourself with them is physically nigh on impossible. Agreed, though, the bravado approach to "as hot as possible" is not sensible, but... nought wrong with a bit of burn to get the endorphins going.
If you got anywhere near the point of killing yourself with them you would probably wish they had killed you long before, seeing as your digestive system would be burning. and the ring of fire would be hot enough to melt steel.
I find that a fucktonne of rice is usually the best thing to have with a curry. Avoid drinking any fluids during the meal, just use the rice whenever you feel the need to drink, lots of rice after the last bit of curry too... make sure the rice hasn't been mixed with the sauce because that defeats the object of the rice.
Chilis, can't get enough of them, in any form. Szechuan pepper, though, evil little death-bombs of stingy mouth-numbing horror. I wish I'd learned to roast them earlier, in their raw state, they really don't enhance a meal. (End of public service announcement, might save someone some pain)
>>3060 It's usually a combination of three things:
Firstly, and most obviously, there is bravado; I don't think that needs any explanation. Second is that different people have differing sensitivity for capsaicin, so some people quite simple don't feel it as strongly. And last, but not least, there are literally chilli addicts; pain causes an endorphin counter-response which can become quite addictive (see also: runner's high).
I once made spiedini of monkfish (skewers of the meaty fish on stripped stalks of rosemary - very nice since you ask) and did a sauce from lime zest, oil, and razor-thin strips of scotch bonnet peppers. Mark me, as the ghost said in Hamlet, for these little blighters certainly did.
No chilli I have ever experienced comes close to the ruthless ferocity of these infernal waxy pods. Beware.
