The perils of the mealtime brag

A cautionary tale about the temptation to boast of your chilli-eating prowess.

The burning issue of the chilli challenge... Source: Shever via Flickr

There are certain truths that you, me and all persons hold to be self-evident. First, the doughs of all nations are created equal. Second, no human specimen should be starved of food. Third, when not starved of food, we human specimens really like to make a meal of what we eat. It’s rarely just a case of popping adequate calories in our face-holes, this food thing. It’s a social experience, a statement of culture, a delight.

Food can also offer us the opportunity to show off a bit. Even the humblest cook likes a little applause, the shyest connoisseur to be congratulated for good taste. I’m yet to see a compliment to the chef end badly or praise to the diner ungratefully received. When we exchange the valuable currency of cooking hints or dining tips, we show off. Or, well, I do, at any rate.

There’s not much to equal the pleasure of ordering a perfect biryani, except in telling an envious mate. Source: SBS Food

There’s not much to equal the pleasure of ordering a perfect biryani for just a few bucks, but telling a mate about it sure comes close. I get that text congratulating me for my fine recommendation and I feel almost as pleased with myself as I did when shovelling fists full of rice into my head.

As for when a plate I have prepared comes back to me clean. Well. I accept this as a standing ovation.

Now, just to be clear: I do get that not every cook is, or even can be, so dependent on approval. Those pals with kids tell me they are usually just grateful when any of the food they cook manages to land in a small person’s stomach at all. Then, those pals who are consistently good cooks can tend to become their own critics. They don’t rely on the praise of others, because they know it will always come. Such cooks cook in a better place; a sort of Noma of the benchtop. An ordinary cook like me hopes to follow a recipe. A good cook knows they can improve it.

All of this is to prepare you for my sorry tale of food exhibitionism. I know that it’s normal for all of us to imbue food with importance beyond mere sustenance, but I also know that it’s abnormal to stand in front of a crowd of 300 persons at a food festival with the singular intention of showing off. So, this story is not a universal one. It is only to be shared with the most irresponsible and attention-hungry diners in your life.

The year, I think, was 2002 — I can’t be sure of anything, much, for reasons that will soon become apparent. The town, I know was Jindivick, Victoria. The name of the medical professional who may have attended to me there is lost to an overdose of capsaicin.

This story of a show-off unfolds on the Scoville scale — the measure of the cruelty of a chili.

Exceptional things are grown in Jindivick and this town once hosted, and may still host, a day for its chilli. (I refuse to check, due to self-inflicted trauma.)

It took three words to lure me into a chilli-eating competition at that fest. These were, “Come on, ladies.” My feminist and show-off selves had a very quick chat and decided to eat not one but three scotch bonnets.

My memory is far from clear, but the sound of the judge, who was also the bloke with the microphone, rings true. He said to participants, many of whom were old-hands and had been drinking milk for hours, “Make sure you carefully chew all the stems and seeds”. For reasons of chilli intoxication, I did.

The rest of the afternoon lives in my memory like a Powerpuff Girls cartoon: psychedelic from the point my consort yanked me off the stage and dragged me to the first-aid tent. “Proving a point, I see,” said a mouth without a face, and everything was purple until that night in Melbourne where all I can remember is someone force-feeding me yoghurt.

Charming Jindivick is known for its produce. I encourage you to visit. Unfortunately, pain derived from the need to show off prevents me from returning, but it does permit me to function as a caution. These are the morals of my agony: (1) respect the psychotropic chilli and (2) try not to show off at mealtimes.

Lead image by Shrever via Flickr.