Had an interesting meal on Air Garuda Indonesia on the way over here. Well, the meal itself was not overly interesting, just an eastern hemisphere take on a hard to screw up easy to heat microwaveable all the stuff in cellophane and little plastic covered cups on a tray meal. The condiment packet, however, was something else. Foil squeeze packets in the U.S. are what, mayo, mustard, ketchup, right? Foil packets here are soy and something called sambal, with which many of you are doubtlessly familiar in context of the Vietnamese sauce that comes in the clear plastic squeeze bottle with the green top and the rooster on the front next to a bunch of indecipherable script. That is the general form that came in this packet. Another type of sambal is the relish made of fresh chopped chilies and garlic, a heavenly combination akin to molten catnip for me, but let’s focus on the packet. You just can’t get dangerous condiments in the U.S. unless you are actively searching. Stuff labeled hot, for the most part, isn’t. I guess someone’s worried about a taste bud damage lawsuit from an unwitting plaintiff. You can go on line and find hot condiments at places like www.burntheskinofftheroofofyourmouth.com (don’t bother trying this link). You can order extra spicy at most ethnic restaurants and you still won’t get hurt, unless you are at a Thai, Indian, or Vietnamese restaurant, in which case you could be in trouble. Point being, you have to go out of your way to immolate your taste buds in public in the U.S.
Thus imagine my surprise when I bit open the foil packet, identical to the one distributed freely to every man, woman, and child on the plane, squirted it on my rice, and went to take a bite, only sensing as I was closing my mouth around said bite that I might be in trouble when I detected a flaming tingle on my lips in the exact spot where I’d bitten into the packet. Too late, and curious now in a masochistic, I can handle hot way, I went through with it. It took me the rest of the plane flight to stop feeling sorry for my mistake. Yikes. After stripping off my fleece and sweating through the shirt underneath, taking the whole water bottle away from the startled attendant when she passed, mouth breathing like I was in my fifth hour of labor, and, I’m not afraid to say, shedding a tear or two, I finally managed to lapse into a semblance of sleep/unconsciousness that may have been my brain knocking me out from the pain or the endorphins clobbering me into a stupor, my dreams visions of pitchforks and eternal flame.
Last scene of the G.I. Joe cartoon moral of the story wrap up here, folks: Things are different outside the U.S. Not better or worse, just different, and it is these differences that make sitting on a planes and in airports for days at a time worthwhile.
