Not like stove hot. Like hot hot.
Once, I was posted up in a booth behind a tourist couple, and the lady said in an alarmed voice to the man: “This food is so hot you can’t even taste the food!”
Lady, the hot is the food—of life!
I like my chile so hot it elevates my consciousness, sharpens me up.
I like my chile so hot it dilates my pores and sinuses.
I like my chile so hot it withers my shitty day.
I like my chile so hot it cremates boredom.
I like my chile so hot it burns the demons out of me.
I like my chile so hot it cauterizes my heart.
Today, I went to Cecilia’s Café. There were new warning signs posted around the restaurant. I thought, perhaps, they were there to caution new customers about the usual level of heat—which is in the red.
Instead, it seems the chile is now EVEN HOTTER. I had to take most of my meal to go after attempting it for some time with the acoompaniment of several glasses of water. I dropped ice cubes onto my tongue and just let them melt.
I have eaten my leftovers in four parts throughout the day, about a half-cup at a time. I’ve been on a kind of weird continual inhale all day—lots of little breaths in in in ... out ... in in in ...
This is high praise. My day has been awesome. Get the red.
Also, where’s your favorite hot spot?