I am learning sushi.
Herself is a dedicated connoisseur of all things sushi-related and I am content to let her pick the course when we go out, but last night I had a major brain-cramp.
The special at the local sushi bar was a whole bunch of something that was topped with a cilantro/habeñero pureé.
I looked at “habeñero pureé”, read “habeñero pureé”, but my Brain Housing Group came up with “jalapeño chutney”.
Jalapeño is about my limit when it comes to spikiness in my food. Much hotter than that, and the meal becomes an exercise in masochism rather than a meal.
The roll that I sampled was delightful. Right up until some little Japanese gnome with a flamethrower and a grudge set my tonsils on fire.
I am proud to say that I chewed thoughtfully, took a sip of water, and then made — what I hope was — an insightful comment about the heat level of the food.
I then immediately took a sample of something else both to give myself an excuse not to go anywhere near that Satanic green jellyroll ever again, and to attempt to pummel the vertically-challenged pyromaniacal Nipponese lawn ornament into submission.
Unfortunately the next thing she had selected was a volcano roll — apparently so-named because the centre is full of magma-grade molten cream-cheese.
Between the chemical burns and the thermal burns my throat will never be the same again.
Still … damn that was a good meal.