A spice wimp

Earlier this week, JG and I went out to dinner with friends to our local Buffalo Wild Wings joint since we had never been before. JG jumped at the chance because he loves wings, but we rarely order them when it’s just the two of us because I am, unfortunately, a spice wimp.

It’s odd that I failed to develop such an intolerance for all things spicy and hot, because let me just say that the Chinese love their red pepper flakes. Somewhere along the line, though, I inherited overly-sensitive and cowardly taste buds. My problem is not just that I can’t handle the heat; the heat overwhelms my mouth and blocks any other flavor from entering my mouth. I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between eating chicken or pork or rubber and my eyes inconveniently start to water as my scalp begins to sweat. Everyone else’s “not too bad” is my “holy crap, I’m about to breathe fire.” As a result of the inevitable pain that comes out of eating peppery food, I stay away from anything on a menu that includes, “spicy,” “lively,” “Cajun,” or “zesty” in the description. I routinely ask waiters things like, “How hot is the mild one?” or “Can you make that even less spicy?” JG calls it bland; I call it self-preservation.

Five of us headed off to the restaurant, where a long banner described the range of sauces for the wings, separated into three zones: Smilin’, Sizzlin’, and Screamin’. I happily accepted that there were four whole sauces in the Smilin’ range and scanned the menu, determined to have a meal consisting of more than wings and bleu cheese. Meanwhile, my friends and JG (in that order) made their dinner requests:

“We want to start with 18 wings with Hot sauce, extra ranch dressing, and a small container of the Mango Habañero sauce. Then, we’ll share a chicken tender salad with Hot sauce on the side.”

“I’d like 12 wings: 6 with Hot sauce and 6 with the Spicy Garlic. And could I have an order of cheesy potato wedges? Thanks.”

“I’ll have the rib and wing combo and I’d like Medium sauce on the wings. I’ll take regular fries as my side.”

Then I said, “I’d like an order of the roasted garlic mushrooms and a side salad with the raspberry vinaigrette. And I’ll take 6 wings with the, uh, sweetbarbequesauce.”

As if it wasn’t already perfectly clear that I was the Little Leaguer in the crowd, the waitress didn’t have my wings when our order came and when JG reminded her, she said, “Oh, right, the sweet ones.” Hmph.

Everyone around the table mopped their foreheads, blew their noses, and exhaled deeply in response to their wings while I licked the honey barbeque sauce off my fingers and commended myself for my responsible decision. But a nagging thought urged me to try something a little higher up the Smilin’ scale: How about the Parmesan Garlic? That doesn’t sound too bad, does it? Come on, now. Knowing that JG would help me out with the leftovers, I took the plunge and ordered half a dozen Parmesan Garlic wings.

The wings smelled delicious in the flimsy cardboard boat and I bit enthusiastically into a saucy mini-drumstick. Mm, I thought. Cheesy. Garlicky. I can still taste the chicken. Very nice. Wait, I feel heat. Is that red pepper flake in the sauce?! Oh, crap, it’s covering my whole mouth. Must have water. I’m getting teary already! Oh, man. There is no way I can eat this.

I sadly deferred to JG to eat my wings while I doused the flames with celery and bleu cheese. I have small consolation in that I’ve calibrated myself to the Buffalo Wild Wings scale. I should just stick with the Sweet BBQ and stay away from the Parmesan Garlic. If I’m feeling adventurous, maybe I’ll venture out into Teriyaki territory. Maybe.