PEPPERS PUNCH PUPILS

Readers may recall a recent piece on an Australian ghost pepper crisis. Let us now revisit the: NIGHT OF THE JUDAS NACHOS.

pepper

A ghost pepper apocalypse strikes a US school:

Approximately 40 students at a Milton-Union, Ohio, middle school were treated Friday by medics after they ingested suspected ghost peppers at the school, officials said. The incident happened during the lunch period, and the district was still working to determine how many students were involved and where the hot peppers came from, said Superintendent Brad Ritchey of Milton-Union Exempted Village Schools ... five students were taken to local hospitals. According to the 9-1-1 caller from the school, one 13-year-old boy broke out in a rash and had trouble seeing, while two other students were vomiting.

Readers may recall a recent piece on an Australian ghost pepper crisis. Let us now revisit the: NIGHT OF THE JUDAS NACHOS.

The trouble began late last year in New Orleans. I’d been searching for a voodoo store to buy some of the latest curses when I happened upon a shop selling hundreds of beautiful sauces, all of varying strength, colour and composition. I settled on two. One was mild but flavoursome, the other a little more zesty.

A further display was at the counter. “This is our hottest sauce,” explained the young attendant. How hot? “Even our regular customers are scared of it.” Her eyes shone with mischief, and I handed over the extra $20. The reason for this sauce’s wicked potency is bhut jolokia – the evil ghost pepper.

Without knowing it, I had found my voodoo curse. Back home, these three new sauces added to an already-excessive supply. To reduce the sauce surplus, I recently hosted a round of Judas Nachos. The game is simple enough. Fifty or so corn chips are spread out in a single layer on a large tray. They are sprinkled with cheese and baked, then a non-participant applies a few drops of mild sauces to the majority of chips.

A number of chips equal to the number of players, however, are weaponised with the hottest juice available. In our case, that meant the ghost pepper sauce obtained from my Louisiana enchantress. You can see it in the image above, third from the right. The rules, too, are simple. Working clockwise around the table, participants take turns selecting and eating their mystery chips. If someone strikes a Judas Nacho, they are permitted to withdraw.

Well, I say permitted, but other options are generally not available. A full-strength Judas Nacho will usually take down even the hardiest diner. The boldest of our group volunteered to begin. His immediate silence indicated he’d hit on a Judas right away – the very first nacho chosen. It was difficult to even watch as he ground his way through the survival process. The man – let’s call him Pedro – resorted at one stage to communicating with his wife through twitchy, eyes-closed hand signals. Soon Pedro’s face turned a wild scarlet and he was compelled to leave the nacho arena. Even his shoes were sweating.

So much for Pedro, then. A few cycles later, a second victim was hit. While James Morrow dealt with his turmoil, I too drew a Judas. Extreme pain affects different people in different ways. In my case, I tried to reduce the agony by wrapping my head in paper towels. Unsurprisingly, this didn’t help. I’ve developed a taste for hot sauces over the years, but this was beyond any heat I’d ever experienced. It was far more concussive, for a start. Imagine a building falling on your skull, except the building is made from lava and Satan is living in it.

It was like eating a foundry. When I unwrapped my head and regained some vision, a startling apparition appeared. Pedro had rejoined the table. More startling still, he was game to resume the contest. Pedro based his return on the theory of sudden-onset resistance, which he’d evidently devised while drinking 14 litres of water and crying. I’m not really sure how it works, but according to Pedro it’s easier to take a punch from Thomas Hearns if he’s already hit you. Or something like that.

Pedro’s mood had improved but his luck hadn’t. His second nacho of the night was another Judas. Thus was immediately disproved the theory of sudden-onset resistance. Pedro reeled from the table and again headed for the kitchen. This time he was in even greater pain – very serious, doubled-over, clutching his stomach pain. We poured more water and milk into him, but Pedro wasn’t rebounding.

He’d hit the Judas wall. At one point I turned away to fetch some ice and heard a heavy thump behind me. Pedro was down! Now, Pedro’s beautiful wife is from a military background, so she was the calmest of us all. She grabbed some cushions so her husband could peacefully rest on the cool floor awhile. Pedro kept talking to her, after a fashion, but he wasn’t making much sense. I suppose we all felt the ordeal would eventually resolve itself, so everybody was a little surprised when the vomiting began. As a choking-avoidance measure we shifted Pedro to his side, which sadly was the upper limit of our medical trauma abilities.

Obviously, this boy wasn’t improving. So we called an ambulance. I’m not sure how many readers have phoned emergency services due to a nacho-related health issue, but it isn’t easy. The word “nacho” tends to undermine the seriousness of the situation. Nevertheless, an ambulance was sent on its way. Two young, calm and very competent officers arrived within minutes and quickly set about reviving nacho-shocked Pedro. It was around the time we were placing bets on Pedro’s blood pressure – I nailed the systolic but went low on the diastolic – that something astonishing happened.

Very quietly and very deliberately, Morrow sought out and ate a second Judas Nacho, just to see if he could do it. And he did. He’s one tough biscuit, let me tell you. The medicos soon had Pedro sitting up and communicating lucidly, which represented an improvement on even his normal state, when the male of the pair looked over at the table. “Are those the nachos?” he asked. “Hmm. They don’t look so bad.” As he reached for one, I considered the numbers. There had been six contestants, which meant six Judas Nachos. Pedro had eaten two. So had James. I’d eaten one. Which meant there was just one left, on a tray still overwhelmingly populated with the Judas’s kinder, gentler nacho brothers. His immediate silence indicated he’d hit on a Judas.