Fire Eater

He was like a little kid who had craved something for years, and finally got it. Mexico, the Citadel of spice, at last. We ordered, and our food arrived. He sampled it and motioned to the waiter, who quickly came to our table.

"Si, senor. How can I help you?"

Our waiter was a handsome young Mexican, tall and proud. His English was quite good, although I'm sure he would have preferred Spanish.

"Listen here, you Mexican S.O.B. The reason we came to this miserable country of yours, the ONLY reason, was so I could get something hot to eat." He pushed his plate toward our waiter.

"This ain't it. Now get in the kitchen and bring me something hot, comprende?"My husband has always been eccentric, maybe more than a little bit. He grew up in the backcountry of North Carolina, and proudly boasts, "I never wore shoes 'til I was fourteen." One look at his feet, and you're a believer.

If he still lived in the South, he'd be known as a 'Good ol' boy'. He doesn't drink or smoke, but he has been known to swear. The thing that really sets him apart is his love of spicy food and, when the mood is on him, his insulting manner.

He had just insulted the waiter's ancestry, his nationality, his manhood and his integrity. The waiter looked at him for a moment. I'm sure he was thinking, "OK, Gringo, you want hot, you're going to get hot."

He scooped up Leonard's plate and headed toward the swinging doors in the Tijuana restaurant we were in. We could hear him talking angrily with the cook as the doors swung shut.

We were visiting my son in San Diego, and it was the lure of hot food that had taken us across the border to try the ultimate in culinary heat.

Leonard has always been a pepper head. He will sit and watch TV and eat peppers like most people eat popcorn. I have eaten a pepper or two in my time, but I have a relatively low pain threshold.

"Leonard, did you see the way he looked at you? I think this time you've really stepped in it."

"Well, all my life I've dreamed of coming down here and eating hot food, and they bring me something even you could eat."

"You're lucky he didn't slit your throat. You're in for it this time."

"Good. I can hardly wait."

I worried about him, he sometimes has an exaggerated opinion of himself. I hoped this wouldn't be one of those times.

The waiter came back through the swinging doors carrying a small bowl of something that looked like a green salad. He placed it in front of Leonard.

"There you are, senor. Perhaps this will be more to your liking."

He didn't leave, but stood a small distance away where he could enjoy the action. His expression said, "This is what you get for speaking to me in such a way."

Leonard took his fork and dug in. After the first bite, he began eating with obvious relish. With each bite, the waiter's eyes became a little wider.

He finished the bowl.

"That was more like it. Now go back in there and bring me some more, a big bowl this time."

The waiter took the empty bowl and headed for the kitchen. Again we heard him talking with the cook. He returned carrying a large bowl of the green concoction. Behind him came a train of people, the kitchen staff. They muttered to each other in Spanish as they approached.

They stood in a semicircle and watched as Leonard consumed the second bowl. When it was empty, he patted his tummy contentedly. "Thank you, that was delicious."

"Congratulations, senor," the waiter said, extending his hand. Leonard shook it. Each of the staff shook his hand in turn.

"For such a one, it is not permitted to charge for the meal. This is, how you say, on the house."

Leonard left a generous tip anyway.

I've wondered what it was they fed him, and what my reaction would have been if I'd tasted it. On second thought, I don't want to know.

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