So I’m at a bar in Adams Morgan. It’s a nice bar with good people, good music, and beer. My buddy says, “hey how ’bout some nachos?” I concur.
Then he says, “do you like hot sauce?” I do.
“Try this, but just a drop.” I do.
2 beers, a glass of milk (yes milk), and a handful of nachos later I can still feel the burn. Alas, not in that Schwarzenegger at Gold’s kind of way. No, this burn is creating those flaming streaks like the Delorean leaves in Back to the Future.
Now, in the hungover afterglow of morning, I head to the interweb to see what the #&%k I was eating (and only one drop!): Great White Shark Predator Hot Sauce.
The bartender, sensing my friend’s glory/my pain comes over with a teeny little bottle. He’s holding it with napkins. He doesn’t want to chance that the contents will come anywhere near exposed skin.
“Here, try this!” he says cheerfully. I decline out of respect for my internal organs. My friend however has more courage (or he’s more drunk?) and agrees.
His sauce of choice: Da Bomb Final Answer Hot Sauce.
Same results as with me, but I actually saw beads of sweat dripping from his brow over this one. This stuff is powerful enough to run cars on. Hotter than Calcutta in August. I swear this stuff burns your tongue from inside the bottle. It makes Tabasco look like Kool-Aid. Etc. etc. etc ….
Ultimately, a good ol’ drunken night was had by all. And I filled my quota of Scoville units for the next 50 years.
