I am in mid-burn.
My groin region feel like it’s midsummer in Tijuana at the Free Clinic, and while the buen Doctor sits chatting up the Donkey-girl from last night’s show, he’s also haphazardly telling you in no uncertain terms that your inflamed, red-as-the-Japan-sun verga – as he put it – “could very well melt lead and you should by no means touch it except to take it out of the guacamole dip. Vaya con dios.”
It all begins a few days ago when meeting my friend Akira to catch up on old times. As usual, for the both of us, life hadn’t remained dull during our 2 month long hiatus and often presented deranged and maddening options seemingly from out of nowhere. Anyway, as our love of beer, women and good honest talk usually gets us into the trouble we end up yammering on about whenever we meet over more beer, shochu and good honest talk, it was no different in that respect. Save that the problems only seem to get more complicated, convoluted, and frustrating for men trying to actually do something in life, no matter at what stage they muddle along. Not that we ever shed tears into our respective beers, more like funny, mad tribulations and dangerous observations of modern society. We are mirrors and therefore only reflect whence we come. No more no less.
I myself am middling about not wanting to get caught up in the drug-addled, overworked, underpaid food industry, while still being drawn irrevocably toward that place. What is bad for us we cannot resist. Though while I bide my time here in Purgatorial Japan, I do have the luxury of experimentation, cordoned only by my own imagination and what ingredients xenophobic Japan will actually import into their increasingly lackluster gastronomic universe. The Tofu is amazing. Island mentality kills me. Though as a man and onetime sushi cook I have to be ready to recant and admit to an error in judgement (before the end of this I shall have to admit to more than one) should the occasion arise.
Before meeting Akira, wandering about the shops and stores of Hirō, I found Habanero chilis! Holy shit! Fresh! Plentiful! Cheap! And not just that, but Jalapeños, Serranos, Thai Dragons, India Yellows and these long red ones that are (pretty but) from Japan. Not to mention actual bunches of cilantro, fat zucchini, bulbous red onions, shallots and fresh galanga root. Yeah, I ould have spent over $100 easy. I figured Habanero and chilis in general to be impossible to find since, well, 1) I’d never found them and 2) the Japanese in general have an innate aversion to anything truly spicy. Garlic is often too spicy for them.
But not surprisingly, I have been out of the loop, as for over a year the Habanero chili has been undergoing an explosion of popularity with the flocklike Japanese due to Tohato‘s Bōkun Habanero Snack. But what looks like smart marketing (an anime Habanero chili named Bōkun – tyrant – with an attitude) is just how Japanese advertisers sell everything here: turn it into a cute anime character to sell plush dolls. I mean, when was the last time you got so into the misadventures of a floating chili wearing a turban that you had to have the official Bōkun mug, mobile phone attachment, mask, stuffed doll, t-shirt, ice cream cone, etc.? Trust me, it’s the norm here. There’s even an actual anime about a Habanero-based character called Habanero-chan, who has a multitude of nefarious exploits and often uses the toilet. Yeah, island life.
Saving your spicy ass...
Anyway, so ecstatically happy to be in possession of four Habanero chilis (at only $1.25) I began snapping photos of the shiny orange capsicums, arranging them this way and that to maximize shine while the morning sun still had that dewy softness. I finished the roll with some group shots of the chili cornucopia I had wandered upon. Satisfied (and late for work), downing the last of my water I gave the pile one last soft caress, and in a flurry of raving mad spontaneity I grabbed one of the mini devils and stuffed it in my bag, raced down the stairwell, and in mounting by bike for the long ride, shed a solitary tear that I would not be able to spend the day roasting the rest to blazing hot perfection, making a searing salsa, and eventually crying in my beer. C’est la vie.
Most mornings I have no classes nor pressing work which needs immediate attention, so not having eaten at home (I despise eating before a workout), I usually prepare breakfast after showering, shaving and well, you know. Breakfast consists of either homemade granola mixed in yoghurt or plain old miso soup. This golden summer morning the Japanese fare, for no reason I could see other than pure whim, won out. It’s either that I love freaking out my maddeningly robotic coworkers (heiiii…you can”t put dill and lemon on salmon!?) or just that I love chilis in my miso soup, but regardless those fractal-shaped pieces of intense red flavor bobbing amidst chunks of tofu and beds of seaweed, turn me on more than Ursula Andress on the beach in Dr. No. Damn spicy!
It’s simple. I have this homemade miso (with dashi – fish stock – already added) I pour hot water from the office thermos onto, add the wakame seaweed, chunk the tofu into a separate bowl (the temperature drops significantly when you add tofu to miso), and dice up some spring onions. Instead of coffee I pour some fresh brewed green tea over ice et voila! Breakfast. Reaching my desk, I chuckled to myself as the hustle and bustle of teachers swept all about me, the shuffling noises of papers and feet performing for an invisible audience who wouldn”t care even if they could. I breathe in and out. Slow is good. This is meditation. This is how I greet the day. All noise and outside influences gradually drain away and I concentrate on the food before me. About to transfer a piece of tofu from my chopsticks into the swirling miso, I remembered my chili! I grasped that fiery orange beauty and, in a manner that seemed completely appropriate, semi-eroticly kissed it. The hellish burning which began on the lips soon spread to the tongue which vainly attempted to cool the scorched things. But I’m used to this, mostly. I eat Jalapeños whole, take the Thai Curry guy to task and the challenge the Sri Lankan guys everytime I go into their restaurant. I figure I can handle this, bad though it is. And it’s bad. Spicy Bad!
But it’s not until a few minutes after I get back from my first trip to the bathroom to begin what will be day full of urinal visitations (I drink liters of water everyday) that I realize I may have made a dangerous, nay – life altering – error of judgement.
I touched myself.
Not, of course, in any other way than I normally do, but, well, let me elaborate. When urinating I myself prefer to use what the underwear industry calls the overlap fly or the contour pouch (isn’t that nice? Sounds French…). Nope people, no pulldown for M. Santiago, we are a straight contour pouch subscriber. Which basically means you gotta get in there and get your hands dirty, if you get me here.
Well, if I may, a piece of advice: don’t slice or handle in any way Habanero chilis (or any chili for that matter) before touching genitals.
It will burn, throb, pulsate (in a bad way) turn red, make you hold in squeals that if you released them would make you seem like the 3 year-old girl you most certainly feel like. And it lasts about 30 minutes. So there you are at the office, quivering like a sad puppy on your chair for a good chunk of what might possibly be the longest hour of your life. Here are some simple rules that may well save you dumbass life: eat Habanero at home, or at a properly servilette-stocked restaurant, make sure to wash hands thoroughly before handling chilis and self in same time frame, because it’s for sure that one or the other (or both) could give you a burn you don’t want to be on the receiving end of. Oh yes. I mean no.
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