Inman Square
Small Asian Girl vs. Pasta From Hell — East Coast Grill’s 100th Hell Night
There are nine circles in Hell, and I am determined to make it to the last, torturous one.
I wade through the murk of the river Styx, then step over the cold, bloated bodies that populate the circle of Gluttony.
Finally, I make it to the Ninth Circle. The red finger paint on the window reads, “BEWARE: Eat at your own RISK.” Sinning souls jockey for space at the bar while yellow strips of caution tape flutter over above their heads. I pick up a menu which has subheadings like “Lucifer’s Liquid Coolers” (spicy cocktails) and “Entrees from Hell” (eclectic dishes with the zing of Cajun hot mustard or bird chile-lemongrass broth).
I’m in Cambridge’s Inman Square, home of East Coast Grill, who is setting their kitchen aflame for their 100th Hell Night (April 12-15, 2010). For three nights, three times a year, they serve the spiciest food that sadism can muster. For decades, the event has attracted spice masochists the world in the past quarter-century who come to sacrifice their tongues to flame.
I figured if there were any small Asian girl who could handle Hell Night, it would be me. I’m brazen with my applications of Sriracha to dining hall food. I’ve eaten Sichuanese hotpot in Chengdu, which essentially drinking scalding, spicy oil. In frustration over Thai dishes not being hot enough, I’ve literally eaten spoonfuls of fish-sauce laden bird chilies to the admiration of waiters and professional eaters.
photos by Sam Lipoff
But only the truly deranged ask for East Coast Grill’s mythical Pasta From Hell. It’s a dish so hot that they make you sign a consent form. A manager personally requested that I not eat it. “I’ll give you a spoonful for free,” he told me. “Please don’t do it to yourself.”
In the interest of research, I have to. I meet Satan to do the deed. His name is Dr. Pepper, and he’s wearing a felt hat shaped like a jalapeno. His shirt printed with cartoon flames and a string of plastic chiles is looped around his neck. Rasta-colored sweatbands encircle his wrists. He seems positively… genial.
There’s a hellish ingredient in what I’m about to consume. It’s called the ghost chili (naga jolokia) – as omnious as it sounds.
It is the hottest hot pepper in the world. It clocks in at about a blistering 1,000,000 Scoville units.
You do not eat it; it eats you.
Dr. Pepper brings over the orange form. It reads “Hell Pasta Consent,” and the final paragraph describes what I am about to experience after eating this pasta of lore:
“Close your eyes and imagine an angry Goliath Birdeater crawling down your throat, the irritating sting of its barbed urticating hairs penetrating the membranes of your tongue and esophagus. The large hairy spider reaches your stomach and sinks its fangs into your intestines… Hours later, it tears out the other end, alive.”
I sign my name.
My dining partners and I had sampled the merely very spicy dishes already without much event. (I was actually somewhat disappointed at the level of spiciness, although the steak and Korean fried chicken were all very tasty.) The pasta came, quivering under its thick application of seasoning. I twirled a generous, wide noodle around my fork and placed it in my mouth.
I chewed. Then I took another bite. It took about 5 seconds for it to hit me. But when it did, I understood what I’d signed up for.
Imagine the hottest habanero you’ve ever eaten. Imagine the rip-roar flash burn of a Jalapeno, the prickly Novocain of a Szechuan peppercorn, the sour sizzle-pop of a hit of Tabasco.
Then multiply that by hundreds of thousands.
Imagine an unchecked forest-fire flame searing your throat and tongue and the roof your mouth to a well-done cannibal’s steak. Water only prolongs your agony. Milk barely dampens the flames.
That, my friends, is the Pasta From Hell.
I barely survived three bites before I succumbed to tears, mouthfuls of cornbread, and half a glass of milk.
But other people were more extreme. The man at the table behind me shoveled the entire thing into his mouth in thirty seconds, then looking pale, ran outside to throw up.
He came back, concerned girlfriend in tow, and declared victory. He’d only thrown up the three glasses of water he’d chugged after the fact.
Dr. Pepper came by with a free t-shirt for the pasta victor and posed for photos. But I knew that the Devil would have the last laugh. Come tomorrow, his digestive tract would burn anew. What goes in, after all, had to come out.
The most important meal of the day
One of the nicest breakfasts I’ve had recently. Note the robin egg’s blue cup of espresso.
Next stop: Tupelo in Inman Square
So my latest Chowhound digest informs me that Tupelo is the more student-friendly (read: cheaper) Hungry Mother. And that it’s hipper. Harvard students aren’t really know for their hipness (unless endless parades of Longchamp bags, Tory Burch flats, and rugby striped ties paired with navy blazers can REALLY be described as hip…) but they’re definitely not as willing to drop 20+ on an entree as their grown up, consulting brethren.
So students, by which I mean myself, I’d recommend checking out Tupelo. It’s a short walk from Annenberg, or you can take the #69 bus. Next time I want fried oysters or New Orleans gumbo, this is where my meager bank account is heading, yo.
For the semi-techfunctioning amongst you, here’s their Twitter.
Darwin’s sandwiches, strawberry eclairs, fish fragrant aubergines
From Taste of China in Tarrytown, NY
From Darwin's
From Darwin's
Harvard University Dining Services, sometimes you just get it right.
40 Flavors of Ice Cream: Or, why you should take the #69 bus to Inman
This is the story of how my day got kind of fantastic.
I stop by Christina’s Ice Cream in Inman Square, renowned for its awesomeness. I stop in and am the only person in the store.
I look at the board of ice cream flavors. There are many.
I hate making decisions.
“How many flavors do you have?” I ask the man behind the counter.
He shrugs, then starts counting the rows and columns. “Almost 40.”
I ask for suggestions, so he says the black raspberry is good. I try a sample, it’s heavy on the butterfat – a tantalizing, all-too-brief raspberry spoonful.
“Have you tried peanut butter?” he suggests, handing me another spoon.
I’m debating what else to try. Last time I was here, the employee was surly and limited me to three tastes, but still wasn’t able to detract from the near-transcendental experience of carrot cake ice cream. (Chewy frozen raisins! Cake bits! Walnuts!)
The flavors all look so exotic. I remember the way the Khulfi, cardamom and pistachio, hit me with an exotic familiarity .
“Can I just try everything and pay you for it? It won’t amount to more than a scoop,” I say.
The man kind of just smiles. “Everything?” he says. “That’s a lot. What do you want to try?”
I try Mexican chocolate. He waits for me to make my next selection.
Two little kids come in and bicker over what flavors and toppings to get. When it’s clear they haven’t made up their minds, I request burnt sugar, which he hands me. This one evokes a kind of audible “Oh!” from me. Then banana cinnamon. Then coconut butterfinger, incredible. This brings more of an, “Oooh.” Then ginger molasses.
I try Adzuki bean. I am mellow now, basking warmly in the avalanche of new flavors.
Finally, I order a boring scoop of mango. It comes out to 2.70, but I only have $2 and a $20. He just takes the $2.
This is the kind of thing that money can never buy.
———
Inman Square is place you have to visit. Take your date here, especially if he/she has never experienced it. And take into account I traversed it in doomed-march-into-Russia temperatures and imagine what a tour would be like if the weather were sunny… I can see myself repeating the experience in clingy wrap dress and espadrilles already.
Inman Square, for the uninitiated, is a really cute, indie little neighborhood that spans no more than a few straight blocks, but packs independently-owned joy into every corner.
This itinerary assumes you have a bottomless stomach. (Me.)
First, stop at Punjabi Dhaba for a chicken tikka masala plate which will come on a metal cafeteria tray and cost you oh, like 7-8 bucks. If you are traveling in packs of small girls, order a combo platter and split it – it’s enough food for 3 people who aspire to go to the gym, but don’t actually, except maybe that one time at the beginning of the semester… wait, that doesn’t count.
But wait, you’re still hungry! Because of said large stomach! If you’re low on cash, skip Punjabi Dhaba altogether and head to Bukowski’s Tavern on a weekday between 12 and 8 to get a black Angus beef burger for $1.69… I shit you not. That’s like, the price of a small, plain black coffee costs at Starbucks. Adding fries costs about a dollar extra.
After being amazed at the economically impossible, do some digesting and shopping at Boutique Fabulous for fabulous things like egg frames that will turn your sunny side ups into hearts, locally made chocolate, opulent vintage chandeliers, and rhinestone clip ons. All of it is unbearably precious and well-curated.
Then stop by Midwest Grill, the Brazilian barbecue place. Not for the food, but for the little girl who knows how to hustle.
You’ll see what I mean.
I walk in the door and ask for a menu, realizing the stupidity of this request as soon as I say it. It’s Brazilian barbecue; they just bring you more and more meat until somewhere, a baby seal cries.
The girl is maybe 11, 12. She’s wearing a pink High School Musical hoodie and immediately insists I see their buffet. She is so insistent that I agree to go with her.
On the 10 steps over there, she glides briefly on her wheel-embedded sneakers. “See,” she declares, a little breathless, “We have beans,” she stirs them, to show me that they are in, fact, beans, “and ribs, and [some Portuguese name] which has bread crumbs and um, kielbasa, and salad, and…”
She introduces me to every last dish in that buffet. They are about 20 of them, and the only she messes up is beets: “I’m not sure what this is, but it’s a fruit.”
As a grand finale, she names the salad oils.
When I tell her I’m not actually hungry but might come back later, she doesn’t give up. “We have desserts for takeout,” she tries.
As I’m leaving, she admonishes, “Make sure to take a candy on the way out!”
Anyway, thank you little girl at Midwest Grill for making my day.
Other things to try in Inman: grab an Oreo (free!) from the big glass jar at All-Star Sandwich Shop. Buy a Brazilian candy (50c) at Muqueca, or just have dinner there, which I hear is fantastic as well.
So yes, go to Inman Square. Wander its shops. Try the Vietmanese coffee at 1369 coffeehouse and ask the employees about the barista-competitions they’ve entered. They have framed latte art on the walls.
Sometimes in life you luck out, but it can be easier in Inman.
