Everything is Habanero.

“Hey man…are you okay? Do you need milk or something”?

This was my first teen experience. A close friend of mine had recently started dating a girl from the neighbouring high school, and this was the first meeting of the friend groups.  I don’t know what there Game of Thrones equivalent event is in this scenario – however, I am very confident that there would be one.

We have convened together here at Sammy J Peppers, in the most fanciest of fancy restaurant chain, at least for for 13 year olds. The entire patio was booked with “our” friends.  Puffy North Face jackets were everywhere.  The occasional dyed Asian bang just ridiculously covering 1/3 of a person’s face.

I was vomiting into a drain.

“Your lips are swollen”, said a girl clearly perplexed at what to say to the Asian guy vomiting into the storm drain of a Sammy J Peppers patio. My face was on fire. I thought I was going to die – not just a regular “I think I’m going to die” but a “Wow, so this is how it ends for me. I didn’t even get to finish eating that pizza” I’m going to die. The culprit was a dab of Habanero hot sauce that was seemingly made by compacting all of the energy from the moons of Jupiter into one browish ooze.

I’m currently sitting here now at Andale Restaurant in the San Francisco airport, on the second attempt to go to Hong Kong. I’m a good 75% of my way through eating their Huevos Rancheros, which has a presentation style which I would describe as “a pile”. Thankfully, it’s got a some kick from this bottle of “Habanero Salsa Picante” which is pretty hot.  But just like how Washington Wizards Michael Jordan wasn’t really Michael Jordan, this hot sauce shouldn’t even be called Habanero.  It’s not even the Kobe of hot sauce.  It’s like, the Kyrie Irving of hot sauce (has potential, needs leadership).

What happened to you, Habanero? A drop of you used to send my bowels into fire and my central nervous system to just give up. Did you tear an ACL? Are you rehabbing? Are you using that magical blood transfusion thing on your knee like Kobe did?  Are we just giving up this year and retiring to the vacation home in Maui, Habanero?  I mean you’ve done enough in your career, such as traumatizing my childhood.

You don’t have anything else to prove, Habanero.

Maybe I’m just getting older. Tastebuds stronger. Mental skills tough enough to endure the onslaught of capsaicin hitting my tastebuds into a crescendo of spice.  Either way, thanks for the memories, Habanero.  I’ll never forget you.

This blog post is sponsored by my breakfast.