‘Spicy Chicken Wings’ is an item that is listed on most restaurant menus but is often a misnomer. The promised ‘hot’/ ‘fiery’/ ‘chilli’ sauce usually turns out to be a sweetish, and thoroughly disappointing, concoction with barely the hint of capsaicin. Perhaps restaurant chefs are so excessively wary of lighting their patron’s palates on fire, that they have collectively decided to swing to the other extreme and cater to the lowest common denominator, when it comes to spice threshold. But as we all know, where there is a norm, there will always be those who rebel against it. It has been my good fortune to discover that the best of such rebels man the kitchens in 1BHK - Bar House Kitchen, Koramangala.
The crown jewel on their menu - Bhut Jolokia Chicken Wings - is tucked away in a corner of their menu. As my eyes land upon the ominous description: “Fiery dose of Spicy Naga Chillies”, hope kindles in my heart. I am intimately familiar with Bhut Jolokia. I had once been gifted a bottle of Bhut Jolokia sauce by a friend who knew I enjoyed spicy food1. She had handed it over with the casual recommendation that it '“goes very well with momos”. The matter of dosage had been left open to interpretation. I prefer momos which are liberally slathered with sauce and had seen no reason to make an exception for the Bhut Jolokia. After consuming one and a half momos doused with Bhut, I had one of those experiences where you black out as your life flashes before your eyes and then you are consumed by a glowing white light as your soul prepares to shed its mortal coil. When I’d regained my senses, I’d found myself lying on the floor of the kitchen with an open jar of sugar on my chest, its erstwhile contents nestling in my mouth.
A chill runs down my spine when I remember this incident but I am intrigued. I urge my companions to order the Bhut Jolokia Chicken Wings. Our server looks sceptical. He warns us that the dish is not for the faint-hearted. I am equal parts offended and excited when he says this. Give us your best shot, I cheerfully proclaim. Our server is impeccably trained and politely nods at us but there is concern in his eyes. You can sense he worries for us; much like the samaritan in horror movies who tells the group of friends to avoid going to the spooky mansion but is fatally ignored.
The chicken wings arrive in due course. They look delicious, if unremarkable; a rich rusty brown colour with generous coating of a dark red sauce. I pick one up and take a bite. The chicken is succulent and cooked to perfection. The first notes I perceive are a tangy sweetness - the same flavour that has portended disappointment so many times in the past. But this time is different.
I am about to take a second bite when I am forced to pause. The sauce, it turns out, was only cracking its knuckles and warming up. Now, it gets down to business and ignites a flamethrower inside my mouth. The world turns red. We look at each other across the table, misty-eyed. I urgently gulp a glass of water. The fire seems to be further emboldened by this and becomes a conflagration. My lips burn for a few moments, and then I stop feeling them altogether. Somewhere in our vicinity (our senses are blurred and it is difficult to pinpoint his location) our server re-appears and asks if we need a bucket of ice. We shriek our approval. The ice appears and we place it on our lips. The burning returns, and then worsens, alternating between torturous heat and agonizing cold. We pant and suck in air at the same time, producing an incredibly undignified sound which attracts stares from the other tables.
By this point, our server has summoned the restaurant manager and they hover around us, looking forlorn. The manager offers to get a fresh batch of wings which are ‘moderately spicy’. I smile through my tears and wave away his concerns. This is the best damn chicken wings I have had in my life, I manage to gasp. He looks unconvinced and then he notices I am wearing a t-shirt from a running event. His face breaks into a smile.
“Ah, you like running, is it? That explains everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you enjoy running then you enjoy being miserable. Carry on, I will get more hot sauce for you.”
I raise a wing in salute and take another bite.
My love for spicy food is a recent development. When I was a child, I would be amazed by my mother’s ability to chomp away at a green chilly during mealtimes, as if it were a piece of liquorice. Now, I do the same.