The hot dinner date turned out to be pizza
UP UNTIL recently I had always considered myself a bit of an adventure seeker, a risk taker, particularly when challenged by mates.
Even when out to dinner the competitiveness between my group of friends can be testing and so it was at the very early stage of the evening in simply ordering the meal.
We were at a Toowoomba pub which has a new menu these days that includes the usual pub fare with a few twists.
One of those twists happens to be the fireball pizza, or as I have redubbed it “The Johnny Cash”, for reasons which will become obvious later in this column.
“How spicy is this?” I asked my mate behind the bar, stupidly thinking he would provide me with a sensible and honest answer.
“Nah, it’s not that spicy … why don’t you go the extra hot,” he said.
“Nah, I don’t want it too hot,” I said – forgetting that at this particular pub, at least when my mate is behind the bar, that old adage of “the customer is always right” doesn’t apply.
“Ah, have a go, you big sook!” he challenged.
Naturally, I ordered the extra spicy pizza and sat down at the table to enjoy a cold beer and a chat.
Not long after, our meals arrived. I should have known something was amiss when my barman mate delivered the meals and walked away giggling.
Now, I’ve always been partial to spicy food and always order the “hot” dishes regardless of whether we’re eating Indian, Thai or The Foodatorium (only older residents would remember The Foodo).
However, nothing prepared my mouth, lips, gums and taste buds for what was about to invade them.
I hadn’t quite got through the first bite of my inaugural pizza slice when it hit me – it was as if I’d put the lit end of a cigarette into the mouth.
Chewing only made it worse and seemed to inflame the heat like a strong westerly wind on a Range escarpment bushfire.
Trying to be discreet and not show the distress I was feeling, I chewed on regardless hoping none of my friends would notice.
That wasn’t easy with my eyes suddenly turning bloodshot and looking like a roadmap of Switzerland, tears streaming down my face, sweat beads flowing across my forehead and my lips swelling and turning blue.
“Are you okay?” one of the group offered.
I wanted to say “Yeah, I’m fine, great pizza!” but instead out came a Godfather-like whisper of “Beer! More beer! Quick!” followed by a breathless wheeze.
Fortunately, the beer was cold and frothy but it was only a schooner so its fire dousing properties were limited.
“This can’t merely be hot chilli topping,” I pondered as I chewed on bravely, “I think the chef, in his quest to teach me a lesson, has resorted to resiniferatoxin, a sauce 1000 times hotter than capsicum.
However, though the beer had provided brief respite from the inferno that had invaded my mouth, the digestive process which followed was to cause even more angst.
The beer accompaniment helped slide the flaming pizza down my throat without too much trouble but upon landing in the gut was to set off a chemical reaction that made me even less popular with friends and strangers alike later in the evening. Or the next day!
Which is why I suggested to management that they rename the pizza The Johnny Cash, after all he had a hit song with A Ring of Fire.
Anyway, back to the pizza and despite all that I’d been through, I steeled myself and reached for the second slice.
I confess that two slices was my limit and I took the rest home with the intention of eating it later.
And, I would have too but by the time I got home the pizza had eaten through the polystyrene container.
IT WAS AS IF I’D PUT THE LIT END OF A CIGARETTE INTO THE MOUTH.
PETER PATTER