I like spicy food. Jalapenos. Curry. Peppers. Sichuan. Hot sauce.

Fast backwards about 35 years. Donna, Lauren and I went out for dinner to a new Indian restaurant on North State Street in Chicago. The waiter – kind gent – walked over and asked for our order. And I – macho man – order a vegetarian dinner. Then our server narrowed his eyes and asked “would you like light or medium spice” to which I paused – looked him in the eye – and replied “I want it as hot as you make it.” To which he paused . . . and asked seriously “are you sure?”

Now most intelligent people would take that “are you sure” as a caution. A warning. A red flag. But me? OH NOOOO. . . . . The meal sounded like it would be right up my alley.

Ten or fifteen minutes later, the waiter approached our table with a tray bearing three innocent-looking meals. My vegetarian plate consisted of perhaps six small bowls filled with – yes – veggies. I have a feeling that as the waiter pushed the door to exit the kitchen, a dozen eyes peered out the small square window to see who in the world ordered his food “as hot as you make it.”

I took a bite. And began to perspire. Donna and Lauren looked at me like the man is bonkers. The meal was really quite an experience. And frankly so were the next two or three days . . .