Rilke wrote that; we write this:
The food was really hot; our mouths were numb for days. And we didn't feel too great elsewhere, either.
This week, your favorite food critics presided exclusively over the First Annual Thai Racha Hot Spice Contest in Montclair. We, in recognition of our infamous culinary geniae, were invited to jointly wield the flaming gavel at this highly prestigious and gastrointestinally dubious Olympiad.
Two Fridays ago, we received this most flattering invitation by phone. In deference to the sanctity of our judgment, our decrees were to be documented by Thai television and Channel 4 News, and executed by the mayor of Montclair. To boot, we were promised a free meal.
Not surprisingly, such an occasion called for Ryan's immediate cancellation of his scheduled consultation with Boris Yeltsin; Andy opted to forgo his weekly ritual of pining away by the mailbox waiting for correspondence from the multitude of BB readers. We know you're out there, you air-freshener inhaling freaks.
Upon arrival, we were promptly whisked inside past the anxious crowd of chili-loving masochists and enthroned upon two barstools. Towering before Contestant Row, we exchanged uneasy glances spawned by the sudden realization that we were quite probably unqualified for our duties in this position. To be sure, we were becoming increasingly unsure as to just what theses duties were. After the contestants were seated before us -- and making steady gains toward social lubrication -- we looked around nervously for any cues or clues. As the duly appointed and suspiciously peerless arbiters of this chili-slingin' showdown, were we really expected to sample a flaming bite from every incendiary entry of each iron- gutted Julia Childs seated before us?
We looked to the band for sympathy. They were too caught up in their loungy rendition of the already-too-loungy tune "Too Hot, Baby" to offer us any guidance.
As the first fire-code violating dish was escorted from the kitchen, we were simultaneously relieved, enlightened, and somewhat humbled. As the combustible sustenance was dolled out onto the industrial-strength flatware set before each contestant and not into our innocently persecuted mouths, we realized that we were judging the contestants ability to punish their own palates, rather than ours. Each sucker, er, contestant was challenged to pass each round of competition by devouring predetermined amounts of progressively sadistic concoctions, within a painfully brief amount of time, and without the benefit of liquid retreat.
Level 1 was Extra Hot; Level 2 was Super Hot; and Level 3 was, you guessed it, Super Extra Hot. Our jobs were to insure that no one was dousing flames with their social lubricants or slipping chilis onto the next person's plate.
The first round saw the unfortunate, but spectacular, demise of three contestants as their heads exploded. Actually, only one contestant's head really exploded. Of the other two heads in question, one just oscillated violently, while the other simply rolled off its unsuspecting shoulders and landed on the floor with a hearty thud.
Nonetheless, only one contestant was officially disqualified because she was unable to complete the dish in the requisite time. Remarkably enough, the three now-neurologically disadvantaged contestants completed all but the third round.
The second round saw two more head explosions, one feigned reenactment of the parasite birth scene from Alien, and three spontaneous sightings of Liberace. Again, only one contestant failed to advance when he leaned back and casually sucked down his beer in deliberate and graceful resignation.
Because so many contestants survived the first two rounds, the ultimate round had to be decided by timer in addition to mere survival. The winner would be that person of uncritical wisdom who could finish the final dish in the least time.
After distributing standardized spoons to aid in the competitive consumption of this decidedly thermonuclear hurdle, we strategically placed our camera so as to maximize our chance of documenting the next cranial explosion. Unfortunately we didn't realize that we had, as you can see, run out of film before capturing this mind-blowing spectacle.
Madly competing for honor, prestige, and three gift certificates totaling $180 plus a groovy golden trophy, most contestants fought back tears and disregarded all future prospects of gastrointestinal regularity as they dove into their sinus-annihilating final course. Those who had lost their heads in previous rounds simply raised their plates over their necks and shoveled the napalm brew down their naked esophagii in a last-ditch effort to justify their injuries. Within a mere 45 seconds, we had declared three winners, all of whom miraculously still bore heads upon their shoulders. Most of the others had sustained some form of crippling injury and had to be wheelbarrowed away from the table en masse.
We, Beggars' Banquet, were honored to preside over this most amusing display of dim-witted gluttony. Unfortunately, it didn't become apparent to us until the very end that our free meal consisted essentially of whatever the contestants couldn't eat. We tried a couple bites with cautious gulps of water following close behind, and our heads nearly exploded, too.
After a little begging, we were offered complete meals that were kindly flamed-down to our unseasoned tolerance levels. With what was left of our mouths, we concluded that the meal was quite good. Perhaps we'll try it again after our taste buds grow back. A word from the Thai-unwise: Just make real sure you know what you're doing before ordering anything but the mildest spice level, unless you enjoy feeding yourself through your naked esophagus.
Sam, the owner, would like y'all to know that Thai Racha delivers to the Claremont campuses, sports a ten percent discount with student I.D., has its very own laser-disc Karaoke stage and offers a $2.99 all- you-can-eat lunch special Tuesday through Friday, 11:30 to 3:00. (We don't think it's free delivery, but you can call them at 625-1833 and ask.) Located at 9748 Central Ave. in Montclair, you can be reasonably sure that you won't run into any giant maritime monoliths cruising across a sea of asphalt on the way there.