Sometimes it takes going through hell to know who your friends really are. Such was my experience at Chilo's last night as I undertook the XXX challenge (eat 2 tacos covered in XXX sauce and receive a gift card, a "painkiller cocktail" and your photo added to the Wall of Flame).
The prize pack is compelling. Too compelling to ignore when "Challenge" is part of the title. And after all it's only spice, which I love. Yet, only about 20 faces grimace down from the Wall. I accepted along with my friends, Alex and Philip. Our other three friends watched from the sidelines. The guys who run the taco truck seemed worried and were rather unsupportive of the undertaking though they maintained absolute professionalism. This is not a criticism, especially in retrospect. One of the kitchen staff went to print more waivers - there was only one in the drawer. They giggled to each other like schoolchildren as they prepared our tacos. I rolled my eyes.
The tacos arrived. They were small, bright red minced chicken with a sprinkling of onion, like any other tacos you might eat. I realized the guys at the truck had closed it down so they could gather round to witness our meal. They stood in a semicircle a few steps away, cameras ready. I looked down at my unassuming set of tacos. I took a deep breath and stuffed as much of it as I could into my mouth. It burned, so I swallowed it without really taking time to chew. Besides tasting kind of bitter and salty I don't remember what the actual taste was. I took another giant bite so that it was two thirds gone. Tears streamed out of my eyes. I swallowed again and the pain set in. "Pain is only a state of mind," I told myself as I took my third bite, which was mostly tortilla, since my nerves had caused me to squeeze the filling toward the middle. I stuffed it in my mouth and swallowed, and waves of horror rolled through me.
I had never heard of a Scoville units, the units used to measure spiciness, until last night. Thus, the fact that there are between 1 million and 3 million Scoville units per taco did nothing to dissuade me. To give a sense, a jalepeño pepper has about 2500k Scoville units. When I heard that the sauce was made with a pepper called "Carolina Reaper" I had laughed. Now I felt dizzy. I looked up and couldn't see anything except the blinding lights from the phones of Chilo's staff and patrons. Philip had dropped out after half of one taco. "I think I'm done," Alex said, pushing one taco away from her.
For me, the whole challenge hinged on this moment: drop out, or suffer the 3-bite-road to victory alone. I was counting my breaths 1,2,3,4; 1,2,3,4 like they teach you in meditation classes, and as I do in marathons at the 22 mile marker. Only this was much worse. "Pain is only a state on mind." Amidst a cheer from the bar I took out half of my taco at once and continued focusing on my breathing. I closed my eyes and chewed. I took another bite so that only one remained "She's gonna do it!" yelled the guy next to me. I had to smile through my tears. Camera flashes erupted around me. I was sweating, crying, and I felt like I had swallowed a cup of bleach. As I mustered the strength to raise my arms in victory, I finally occurred to me that this pain might not have been worth it.
This is the part where I want to talk about how gracious and wonderful the crew at Chilo's are. Three hipsters walk into a bar. We think we're so tough and we think their challenge is funny (afterward we were all clutching our stomachs and staring at the Hall of Flame without seeing it, as we took turns using their bathroom). The staff at Chilo's would have been justified in overtly mocking us, but they took the trouble of doing so out of earshot (I'm assuming, since it'd be a loss not to). They took great care of us, going above and beyond to help a trio of undeserving idiots. The bartender there is one of the friendliest I've encountered in Brooklyn, but also anywhere. Regardless of circumstances, Chilo's is a really nice ambiance with great challenge-free-tacos and a good selection of draft beer.
"I puked in three different tree planters" Philip announced after the short walk home, as we reconvened in my apartment. "This is worse than food poisoning," I agreed. The three of us lay horizontal on the floor as our more-sensible and highly-supportive friends fed us plain buttered noodles and ice-cream and watched the episode of The Simpsons where Homer eats a Guatemalan Insanity Pepper. Despite everything, we all had a great time. This is something we will talk about for years, and we're looking forward to returning to Chilo's as uncompetive diners. read more