Hot Pursuit

Our brave intern packs heat at Chabaa Thai's Spicy Contest.

by Sam Tremble

Illustration By: Ryan Casey (CLICK IMAGE FOR LARGER VERSION)

The walls of my stomach are melting. I pound on my belly, trying to smother its contents like a campfire. Through tears, I glance at my bowl: It's still half-full of habaneros and hot sauce-soaked oatmeal. I wipe my eyes, resolving to wolfishly gulp it all down, and that's when I realize there are traces of chili oil lingering on my fingers. I finish my breakfast with my eyes shut and then grope my way to the shower. I swear it sizzles when it hits my flushed face.

I've spent the last 70 days training myself to endure painfully spicy food with the testicular fortitude of a heavyweight boxer. With Manayunk's Chabaa Thai Bistro's second annual Spicy Contest looming in the distance, I've inhaled habaneros whole and sucked hot sauce straight from the bottle, my mouth burning constantly with a sting reminiscent of cheap liquor. I've even turned down offers for free haircuts: I need my ratty locks to hide any sign of sweat from the prying eyes of the judges' panel. Yup, instead of dedicating my time and energy to more noble pursuits (organizing a protest of the war, Racing for The Cure, finding a job, etc.), I focused it entirely on expanding my capsaicin capacity.

Chabaa owner Moon Krapugthong started the contest last year to promote her restaurant and raise awareness of Thai culture. The competition consisted of one registration round and a final round featuring five competitors. To register, hotheaded hopefuls were required to sign a liability waiver and order an item off the menu at an impressive spice level, ranging from a minimum four stars to a maximum 100 stars. A high-ranking server then judged the applicant's game face in comparison to his or her requested spice level. A week after the Valentine's Day registration deadline, the final round was held. The five finalists would eat a spicy appetizer, salad, soup and entree before a panel of judges. Whoever could join the clean plate club at the highest spice level without breaking a sweat would be awarded a $1,000 gift certificate to the restaurant.

Like everything else, one's disposition for spicy food boils down to nature and nurture. My palate, a genetic pastiche of various Eastern European and U.K. origins, is predisposed to handle potatoes, cabbage and dirt. I was raised primarily on cookies and hot dogs; my mother used to clean out the freezer by feeding me tubs of Turkey Hill.

Training began Dec. 14, leaving me exactly two months before the registration deadline, plus a practice week before the final round. I started off with a handful of small green Thai chilies, a few long greens and two jalapenos raw while my roommate filmed my reaction with his digital camera. (I needed a stony expression if I wanted to win this thing.) But the kernel of my eventual failure was already planted: I had no poker face. Still, my ability to endure increased, and I built my tolerance for pain like a circuit drunk builds his route.

On the last Saturday in January, while thousands marched on the Capitol, I biked up to Manayunk to register my spice level. I ordered tom yum soup and requested a side of extra chilies to show I was serious. The waitress needed to bring the green curry I ordered as an entree back to the kitchen three times to make it hotter; compared to what I'd been eating, the curry tasted like a Cadbury Creme Egg. She was so impressed with my 60-star spice level that she brought me a Thai iced tea, on the house. I was in.

In the few weeks between registration and the contest, I intensified my routine and incorporated chili training into my daily life: I popped a habanero before jogging over the Ben Franklin Bridge for an added boost of adrenaline and endorphins; I baked habanero flatbread and dipped it in Blair's Jersey Death Sauce, a brutal specialty item my roommate ordered from extremefood.com; I concocted Death Sauce smoothies, salad dressing and, yes, even toothpaste. While preparing habanero stir fry, death vapors rose from the pan and nearly choked the life from my friends and roommates. But like a chronic stalker, I had built strong internal defenses against the pepper spray. In consideration of those around me, I refrained from frying chilies and began blending them in a food processor instead, adding various hot sauces to enhance the flavor. The resulting paste became the basis of my diet (not to mention my stool composition).

On the day of the competition, I made breakfast in a blender, depleting the last of my pepper stores. I chased that with a bike ride to Main Street and a refreshing Pepto-Bismol cocktail.

As it turned out, my pasty capsaicin creation closely resembled the sauce Chabaa used to dress its kai yang, a grilled chicken appetizer and the first dish in the contest's four rounds. (As a vegetarian, I opted for tofu in all of my dishes.) Next came som tum, a traditional papaya salad speckled with shrimp, followed by tom yum soup and, in the final round, green curry, the spiciest item on the menu. The five contestants ate in opposing rows, while the judges sat at a table perpendicular to us. We nervously made small talk in between courses to show how much we were "enjoying" ourselves. Overall, the dishes registered well below my threshold for pain. I was hopeful for the judges' decision.

Unfortunately, I had my ass handed to me by a young skinny woman named Johanna Heskamp. She ate with gusto and a dry brow. There were no tears in her eyes, only the knowing twinkle of a natural. She understood that the contest was about taking pleasure, not stoically enduring pain, which was the fundamental problem with my approach. After the judges announced her victory and handed her the $1,000 gift certificate, everyone wanted to know her secret. "I guess I just don't have any taste buds," she offered.

Pedaling home, the sign at the end of Main Street mocked me: Come Again! In life, there is no come again — you either go for 10 or settle for a conciliatory runner-up dinner for two. I'm not really sure what the big off-season ahead holds for this washed-up chili-champ wannabe. Training the next generation of raw talent seems too cliched. Blair probably wouldn't hire a loser for a taste-tester. I think I'll settle for a haircut and some Turkey Hill, sans Death Sauce.

(editorial@citypaper.net)