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.
Related posts:
“Rectum?” jokes will never stop being funny: “Rectum? Didn’t even know him!”
Also, you absolutely do not get to throw up and then declare victory. I call a major part foul on That Guy.
Posted by bureaucratist | April 30, 2010, 3:07 pmHi Lingbo!! I just found your awesome blog and I’m BEYOND excited!! You have such an engaging writing style, and I love how adventurous you are when it comes to trying new foods!! I’m moving to Boston in August and I can’t wait to hit up some of the places you’ve been to. :) Keep writing and blogging…You’re TOTALLY going on my blog roll!! I’ll be back!!
Hope that super crazy bowl of pasta didn’t cause any havoc in your tummy after you wrote up the post. hehee
Posted by Michelle | May 2, 2010, 12:27 pmHi Michelle, thanks for reading! Welcome to Boston!!! :)
(I had a bit of tummy grumble but nothing too serious.)
Posted by Lingbo Li | May 3, 2010, 11:58 amI was there. I certainly ate about half of the bowl before I was too numb to finish it. But it was great until my stomach felt like a fireball kept going off. By the time I got to my mom’s home, I had a Wendy’d frosty, 3 glasses of milk and pepto. Only then, the fire was extinguished. Would I go for the whole bowl? Sure but only arms with Pepto.
Posted by Rob A | May 4, 2010, 6:51 pmThose ghost peppers are brutal. I just tried some Slap ‘Yo Mama wings, which are made with ghost chile, at Buck’s Barbeque in Freeport, Maine. My friends, who ate the pasta from Hell (well one did, the other puked and ended up in the fetal position in the bathroom of East Coast), convinced me try the wings. Hot stuff. I’m still burning a little 20 hours later.
Posted by Ben | May 4, 2010, 9:03 pmI went there last year, apparently that pasta had three ghost chili’s in it. I actually was eating the steak but my friend got the pasta and I had five forkfuls of it non-stop. I thought I was going to die. Malahotpot with peppercorns have nothing on it. I just found this blog and it brought back those amusing memories. Will be looking at it…
Posted by Jo | May 5, 2010, 8:11 pmHey lingbo, this is Frank. I tried the pasta this past October as well and finished it. Hardest thing I’ve ever had to eat.
Posted by Frank Ahn | May 6, 2010, 2:13 pmI had no idea there were so many other Pasta from Hell enthusiasts… Jo, I definitely agree about the hotpot. I thought THAT stuff was spicy when I first ate it (like when you get a cabbage leaf soaked in the stuff). Little did I know!
Posted by Lingbo Li | May 7, 2010, 9:22 amThe video of when the ghost chili actually takes over is priceless…there is no way I could eat that entire dish. Congrats on giving it a shot!
Posted by Josh | May 10, 2010, 10:14 amI had a ghost pepper martini from East Coast and was blown away – tasted pretty good actually, unbelievable amount of spice. Definitely recommend it for people looking to feel the burn
Posted by Mike | May 11, 2010, 7:54 ami wonder if there’s enought people to form a group to go to ECG for a hell night …
Posted by dumbass | June 1, 2010, 4:15 pmI’m sure – seems like there a lot of serious vets here!
Posted by Lingbo Li | June 1, 2010, 4:19 pmI wouldn’t mind signing up for one if someone takes it up .. hah … I’ve had quite some spicy food (I’ll sweat it out but eat it through) at a lot of Thai and Indian restaurants maxing out their levels of hotness… I wonder how I’ll fare at ECG though
Posted by dumbass | June 1, 2010, 4:23 pmProbably not well…the amount of heat in their pasta is just not right.
Posted by Josh | June 2, 2010, 7:25 amWonderful writing! You own the talent of writing beautifully. I individually cherished the way it has been drafted especially the perfect drafting of skilful thoughts.
Posted by Engagement Rings | January 13, 2011, 12:21 am