Yesterday did not go as planned. It was rather exhausting, what with a work-related crisis that demanded all my attention, but at the end of the day I made it home, piled the family into the minivan (including my Mom, who'd dropped in as a surprise guest) and got to the restaurant around 6:30. This is the sign that greeted us.
Inside, the family ordered and it was my turn. "I'll have the Four Horsemen burger." The waitress paused. "Do you know what that is?" I said yeah. She asked if I wanted to take the "Challenge." I said I didn't think so. I was just there for the burger, to satisfy my own morbid curiosity. No false bravado on my part. Now I like my food hot and spicy. I make my own salsa with plenty of habaneros and serranos because even the "Nuclear meltdown" salsa you can buy in supermarkets has grown milder over the years "so people who don't like hot sauce can eat it, too." Even so, I'd heard enough about this one to fully expect it to kick my butt. In fact, I hoped it would, if only to restore my faith that some claims of "Fire, death and destruction" are more than mere hyperbole.
So I signed their waiver, holding them blameless for melting flesh, heart attacks or my spontaneously getting pregnant with a deformed mutant. I asked how many people ordered the burger but didn't take the challenge. Almost nobody, they answered. Seems that personal glory is a bigger draw than the burger itself. And out of the 4,000-plus who've attempted the challenge, only a little over 200 have completed it. One guy in particular my waitress remembered. Big, macho type with tattoos. Was quite arrogant and rude. A real bigmouth talking about how tough he was and how the Ghost Chilis would cower before him. He took one bite, panicked, leapt over the patio railing and barfed in the grassy area behind the restaurant. Oh, and there's a $20 penalty you pay if you puke anywhere other than your designated bucket. Nice.
The burger itself looked mighty impressive. It was big. Lots of peppers heaped on--the dark, shriveled Ghost Chilis, plus chopped up serranos, jalapeños and habanero sauce. I could smell the sharpness of the spices rising up. I grabbed it up with both hands (they didn't give me gloves) and dove right in.
It was hot. No arguing that. The Ghost Chili dominated the flavor, reminding me of the dark, bitter chili used in much New Mexico-style cuisine. Certainly not my beloved Tex-Mex. Not my favorite chili pepper flavor, but it was workable here. I took another bite. And another. I was starting to think I'd made a mistake in not going for the challenge. Then it hit me. The flames of Perdition billowed up from my belly, though my throat and mouth before erupting across my lips, like the explosion of the Death Star chasing the Millennium Falcon in Return of the Jedi. Sweat burst upon my forehead. My eye watered. My nose ran. My hands trembled uncontrollably. Folks, I want to be unequivocal about this: The shit's hot!
I waited for about five minutes, letting the tremors subside and the inferno in my mouth die down as I sipped a glass or two of Diet Pepsi. Equilibrium did return, and I took several more big bites, by this time downing about half the burger. There was no delay in the heat this time, or the trembling, or the sweat. It slugged me pretty hard, then went after the capsaicin-triggered endorphins, and throttled them. The ramped-up intensity startled me. I looked at the remaining half burger, and while I believed I could finish it, I would probably regret it. My goal was to eat the burger, or more specifically, consume the Ghost Chili and live to tell about it. Finishing the burger mattered for the challenge, but didn't matter to me. I downed a glass of milk, finished off my onion rings and chatted with the waitress as the family finished their meals. Then The Wife drove us home. I'd battled the Ghost Chili, and although I hadn't finished the burger, I hadn't barfed, either. I'd call it a draw.
By the time we got home, I was feeling almost normal. There was some heat in my stomach, but my mouth had stopped burning and the endorphins were cautiously peeking out from their hiding place. So we cut the birthday cake, and I had a slice. Big mistake. My stomach, so docile up until now, began to churn and lurch. I popped some antacid and swore off solid food for the rest of the night. I fixed a big glass of ice water and kept it with me the rest of the evening. After getting the kids to bed, I was feeling decent again. The Wife and I popped in the DVD of "Date Night" and settled down for some mindless entertainment. About 20 minutes in, I had a sudden, stabbing pain in my gut. Gas pain. Not entirely unexpected. I excused myself and went to the bathroom. A few minutes later, it was gone as quickly as it'd appeared. Maybe 45 minutes it hit me again, much more strongly than before. Same pattern, but longer-lasting. Also in a slightly different place. We went to bed. Midnight I was up again. And again at 1 a.m. Cold sweats and tremors had joined the party. It felt exactly as if someone had stuffed half a dozen rabid wolverines into a 55-gallon drum, thrown in a bunch of broken glass, doused them with kerosene and set them aflame, then stirred up the whole shebang with a Weed Eater. I buckled to the floor. Dry heaves hit me, and I realized the ugly truth--belatedly, six hours after the fact, my body had decided I'd ingested poison. This was much like previous bouts of food poisoning I'd experienced, only far, far more intense. And as the burst of pain moved about my gut, I understood that I'd passed the point of no return. Retch 'til the cows come home, but those peppers were too far in to come out the way they'd gone in. And so it went, every hour on the hour, all night. Eating the burger hadn't been bad. The five hours following weren't unbearable. But this, this was agony. I reminded myself that I could've forced down the rest of the burger, and thanked my lucky stars I hadn't. On the bright side, I now have a disturbingly accurate picture of the path my intestines take within my body.
Somewhere after 5 a.m. the cramping subsided. The following crosses the line into TMI territory, but this is a pertinent data point I haven't seen addressed in any other Four Horsemen narratives. After drinking quarts of ice water throughout the night to try and settle my gut, I was in need of bladder relief. I went to pee, and nearly woke up the house. It burned. Somehow--don't ask me why--my body had managed to accumulate a significant concentration of capsaicin in my bladder, and let me tell you, that is most definitely something you do not want coming out that way.
So here I am, ragged and tired, feeling like I'm living though one wicked hangover (minus the requisite headache, thankfully). For the record, I have no desire to ever challenge the Ghost Chili again. If I knew then what I know now, I'd probably opt for a dinner somewhat less debilitating. But then again, the entire reason I chose the Four Horsemen burger is because I wanted to know how I stacked up against it. Ten years ago, I'd probably have fared much better. Five years from now, it'd probably burn a hole through my intestinal walls. Curiosity sated, I'll give the Ghost Chili a wide berth from now on.
The most disappointing element out of all of this is that despite my suffering, Johnny Cash never showed up in the guise of a coyote to be my spirit guide.
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