So for anyone who may not know me personally, I should begin this entry by stating that I am white. I am white as hell. I’m whiter than a polar bear blinking in a snowstorm in Nunavut. My diet consists generally of food that is as sad and bland as you would expect, because I am a stereotype and any type of spice basically turns my digestive system into its bitch in about twenty seconds.
Naturally, it makes complete sense to start off this project by subjecting myself to the hottest taco in a Mexican restaurant and then adding their hottest possible sauce.
Enter Tres Carnales.
Basically, these are the guys to go to if you want legit Mexican food in Edmonton. We’re a city that consists almost exclusively of Steakhouses, Sushi restaurants, and a metric fuck-ton of Donair shops, so perhaps that shouldn’t mean as much as it does, but that’s definitely high praise.
On this particular day I decided that immolating my tastebuds was on the menu, and my friend Liam decided that watching me suffer was the best possible way to spend a Monday.
So upon asking the nice lady at the till what the hottest taco they had was (the Tinga Mixta), Liam decided to throw me under the bus and ensure we had a side order of their hottest possible sauce just waiting to destroy me in the wings. They delivered it to our table and it looked so innocent. So serene. So safe.
Instead, this innocent little cup of sauce doubles as Hades’ own personal mouthwash, and I had booked myself a one way ticket on the pain train. To ensure I was treating myself to that Doublemint Life, I decided to double my pleasure, double my sadness, and therefore also dumped on a healthy helping of the standard chili sauce they serve to the mere plebs who want to dropkick their tastebuds into the next century.
At this point I figure the best way to describe the next several minutes of my life is through seven thousand words worth of pictures:
It is not nearly accurate enough to say that my tastebuds were on fire. Fire implies a level of heat that can be tamed. I sweat. I teared up. My sinuses simultaneously cleared and replicated the Great Flood. Every single tastebud in my mouth collectively decided to revolt, and ensured that my entire esophagus was coming down with them. Beelzebub himself grabbed my mouth and escorted it to the circles of hell, then set up a nice little cot for it where he could cuddle up and keep it warm in the night.
It was warm, is what I’m trying to get at.
Liam, meanwhile, was enjoying every second of my misery.
Deciding that one taco burning its way to my colon’s spectacular demise was not nearly enough, I loaded up a second taco with even more of the chili sauce/devil’s anal leakage combo, and threw it down the hatch to percolate. I then decided it would be hilarious to make myself wait until at least five minutes had passed before I would allow myself any water to cut the burn.
It went about as well as you’d imagine.
I’d like to say that this is the part where I emerge victorious from my fight with the tacos and took the heat like a champ, but that would be a damn lie. I lasted the full five minutes, but I tapped out after two tacos. I demolished my entire glass of water in two gulps. I ordered a generous helping of guac and chips to try to mitigate my pain, and literally had to mop up my own sweat.
It was not my most attractive moment.
Still, it’s now six hours later and I haven’t died, so I’m taking it as a win. Two out of four death-tacos ain’t bad for a kid so white she could blind a solar eclipse.
Now I’m off to dinner: white buns and butter, because I’m not fucking tempting fate here.