Hot Stuff

Jake Connor looked at the menu. There was so much to choose from. The Indian restaurant hadn’t been open that long, a couple of weeks, and he’d been promising his friends he’d take them once it was open for business. He took a swig of draft lager and looked at the menu again. There were the dishes he recognised, and some others that sounded really exotic. The gentle sitar music and soft lighting gave the place a mystical feel.

The lads chatted about the afternoon’s football results and who was looking likely to be relegated from the league at the end of the season, while they glanced over their menus. There was nothing like a night out with the boys. A few pints, a good laugh, football talk and epic banter. These were the nights he lived for.

‘I think I’ll have Chicken Korma.’ said Matt.

A roar of derisive laughter went up from the others. Korma wasn’t just a mild curry, it was sweet and creamy. It was the last thing that a proper lad would order. Something hot, something spicy, that was what a real bloke would have ordered, not a sweet coconut-flavoured dish. Right, Jake thought, he better pick something spicier. If he ordered a Korma or a Tikka Masala he would never live it down. That would bring as much derision and shame as drinking a non-alcoholic beer or a diet cola. No, he would have to order something with a real kick to it.

He studied the menu closely, looking for the chilli icon, the indicator of the punch the dish packed. The hottest dish on the menu seemed to be something called a Haveli. The description declared that it was a flavoursome but extremely hot dish, not for the faint-hearted. Jake nodded to himself. He would earn several million bloke-points if he ordered a curry that came with a warning.

The waiter came over to take their order. He smiled politely and scribbled down the meals, lamb Rogan Josh, Chicken Karahi, King Prawn Bhuna. The waiter turned to Jake.

‘I’ll have the Chicken Haveli, please.’

‘Are you sure, sir? It is the hottest thing on the menu. I really wouldn’t recommend it.’

Jake’s friends drummed on the table, chatting, do it, do it, over and over. He wondered just what he had got himself in to. He could hardly back down now though, could he?

‘I can handle it. I’ll have the Haveli.’

The waiter shook his head as he wrote down his order, his now one of concern.

A fresh round of beers arrived with the food. The waiters chatted to themselves in a language Jake couldn’t understand, but judging from the looks directed his way and at the dish in front of him, he guessed they were discussing his choice of food. Jake stared at the deep red curry on the table in front of him. The food even looked hot, the dark red reminding him of a volcano eruption. He spooned some rice on his plate and then the dreaded Haveli.

He look a swig of lager, hoping for the best. How hot could it be? Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe they over-hyped the strength of the curry to attract the punters. Perhaps that was a sales gimmick, like those burger joints that did massive burgers and set diners a challenge to finish them. Yes, that’s all it could have been. Roll up, come and try the dreaded curry, that even the waiters warned you about.

With his friends looking on in silent anticipation, Jake took a forkful of the food, and put it in his mouth. He chewed slowly, carefully, as though there was glass in his food. And then the spice kicked in. He felt like he’d been hit by a car. He was reeling. He felt dizzy, sick, hot and cold at the same time. He felt light-headed from more than just the beer. He swallowed it down and gulped at the air before taking a sip of lager.

‘You have to finish it. Can’t just have one mouthful.’ someone called out.

The others cheered in encouragement. As they ate their own meals, dipping chunks of naan into the thick sauce, they cheered Jake on like he was a striker about to score a goal. Despite feeling strange, and feeling ill, he scooped up another forkful and swallowed it down as quickly as he could. He thought of a reality TV show where contestants had to eat disgusting insects. He would have taken a nice cockroach over this torture. As the second lot of food hit his stomach, he left like screaming. Why was he doing this to himself? Right then, he would have rather lost face in front of the lads, and had a nice Korma, than endure this.

Again, he cleared his mouth with the cold beer. Someone called out he should just have one last mouthful. One more, one more, they called. Right, he told himself, he could do this. Just one more go, and then he could stop. He could get a jug of water, maybe some ice cream. He could go home and lie down. Imagine how impressed they would be if he managed it. This night would go down in legend, they would talk of it for years. His derring-do would be spoken of in restaurants, every time they went out. Remember the time? People who hadn’t joined them this evening would be swearing they witnessed it. One more go and he would be done. To use a gaming phrase they used, one more try and he would have completed it, mate.

Ignoring the agonising pain in his stomach, and the dreamlike state the world seemed to be in, he dragged his fork across the plate, and with all the bravado of a Polar explorer pinning his flag, he put the last forkful in his mouth.

Everything went black.

When he woke, daylight was spilling through blinds. He was in a pale room he did not recognise. As things came slowly into focus, he realised he was in bed, in a hospital ward. The clock on the wall said eleven-fifteen. The events of the night before came back to him. He sighed, the action causing his stomach to hurt. What had he been thinking? The staff had tried to warn him, but he hadn’t listened. Not for the faint hearted, the menu had said. Not fit for human consumption, more like.

He drifted in and out of sleep for the next hour or so. A nurse said he would be fine to go home later that day, just have to keep his fluids up. A guy in a hospital uniform clasping a clipboard visited each bed on the ward. He jotted down the patient’s responses before moving on to the next bed. He approached the foot of Jake’s bed.

‘I’m taking the lunch order. Have you made your selection? It’s chicken curry or fish and chips today.’

‘Fish and chips, please. Definitely fish and chips.’ Jake said.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom