Pantry’s potent test of manhood
ONE of the most potent items in the Indian kitchen is the ubiquitous jar of pickled green chillies, usually found sitting on a discreet corner of the countertop or the top pantry shelf.
To the uninformed observer, this condiment might seem timid. After all, it consists of rather limp, vegetable-like pods in vinegar, usually tightly packed into what appear to be old mayonnaise jars — looking perfectly harmless.
The reality, as every charou knows, is that vinegar chillies cause more firstdegree burns every year than Diwali in Chatsworth and Phoenix. This pickle brings the heat and the hurt.
I’ve often wondered about the origin of pickled chillies. Did some guy in the distant past, after eating a few fresh chillies and getting his mouth horribly burned, think to himself: “Do you know what? I’d like to preserve this searing pain in a jar so that I can experience suffering on a day-to-day basis and not just during the summer months.”
Why do we eat this stuff if it’s so scorching to our palates? My three minutes of research into this topic reveal that the active component in chillies is capsaicin. This is the bit that produces the heat and the pain in your mouth. This pain, in turn, causes the brain to release endorphins, your body’s natural drug supply. Basically, pickled chillies are zol for your tongue.
Each time you open the pickle jar, it’s an experience. First you have to deal with the unreasonably tightly sealed jar. Why so tight, charous? Nobody is trying to steal your precious pickle. It’s like it was sealed by the Incredible Hulk and not your 85-year-old aya.
Eventually, after running the jar under warm water and with the aid of a dish towel and blow torch, you get it open.
Then the smell hits you. I would describe it as having the aroma of the ocean — if the ocean consisted of a mixture of turps and tear gas. When you’ve recovered and affixed a gas mask, you take a fork and begin spearfishing for your chillies of choice.
You spot one in the corner, a nice juicy specimen, completely unaware of the hunter above. You take aim and dart your fork into the murky liquid, and miss pathetically.
Several hours later, you manage to impale a few. To conclude the fishing analogy, it is like catching live piranhas and throwing them directly into your mouth.
At some point in the evolution of vinegar chillies, somebody decided to add sliced carrots to the mix. I think the carrots were put there for those wimps who don’t have the courage to eat the chillies themselves. The carrots are karro (hot), but they’re nowhere near as fiery as the chillies.
Despite all this talk of burnt palates, I must state that I absolutely love vinegar chillies. They go well with curry and rice, a bunny chow, sour porridge and lots more.
When I was a laaitie, it was made very clear to me that pickled chillies were something that I was never to touch.
I remember watching one of my uncles eat them. He would pick a chilli up and contemplate it briefly, then bite it in half and chew it without once flinching. (He would later develop an ulcer, but I’m not sure whether the two things are connected.)
I must add that I thought this uncle of mine was one of the coolest people in the world, from his car to his clothing and, of course, his nonchalant attitude to chillies.
It seemed to me that I would have to do three things to become a man: Purchase a Pierre Cardin leather jacket like his, grow a moustache and eat a pickled green chilli like it ain’t no thang.
I’m proud to say I’ve accomplished all of this. Always dream big, people.