This might have been a good plan—had we been in possession of all the facts.
Sticking the sauce-sodden chicken appendages directly into our mouths, in unison, might likewise have been a good plan, had we—as previously indicated— been in possession of all the facts.
As you, being omniscient, realize—this was not Crystal, or at least not just Crystal. In less time than it takes to say “sweet Jesus,” that same realization formed in my father’s head and my own.
Now, there is but one simple prayer among Texans: one asks, not for mercy from the chile’s powers of persuasion (for that would eliminate the whole point of the thing), but for enough strength to wear the mask until some other poor bastard has taken a mouthful. Since it was unlikely that anyone else at the table was going to try the stuff, we were free to discuss the situation.
Speaking, however, was difficult. In words of one syllable or—if possible—less (the most that could be expected under the circumstances): It. Hurt. Like. Hell. We’re not talking about heat, here. This felt like I was having a one-inch diameter tongue stud installed, with a hammer. There was no perceptible flavor—this was a pain-only experience.
Machismo, or generations of chromosomes denatured by the Texas sun, made us eat all the wings. The place was air-conditioned, but two of us looked like we had just finished a double shift in a steel mill. We asked the waiter, a bit hoarsely, what was in the sauce. He said he didn’t know, but would find out for us.
Yes, it was Crystal, but the chef/inquisitor had added Dave’s Insanity to the recipe. Dave’s Insanity and Endorphin Rush are essentially the same thing: unmitigated capsaicin oleoresin. If there is any flavor at all, it’s a slightly tarry paprika-like taste. Some folks say they recognize the flavor of burned cat in these sauces—but they never confess exactly how they know it is the flavor of burned cat.
