I'm pretty sure that I've mentioned Noodle Box on this blog, like, a bazillion times.  You see, I'm quite the fan of the super spicy thai noodles.  And I happen to find it kind of funny that, in a city that is almost overrun with various forms of asian cuisine, my favourite of the whole gaggle just happens to be the only one that is run and staffed entirely by non-asians.

I think that makes me some sort of noodle-racist.  But I prefer to look at it in an entirely different light:  Do not judge a man's noodle by the colour of his skin, but by the spiciness of his noodle

I paraphrase Martin Luther King because it is, after all, Black History Month.  And if you don't like it, well, you're all racists. 

Where was I going with this?  Oh, right.  Noodle Box.

So, I'm at the noodle box, waiting for my order to come, when two young guys (nineteen?  Oh, how sad it is that I refer to 19 year olds as "young"!  I'm getting old!) order a split noodle box (basically, one meal put into two different boxes, for one dollar more).  One guy wants a medium-hot - which, in noodleboxese, actually means "pretty hot by western standards".  The other guy orders Suicide Hot, which in noodleboxese means "Gawd DAMN you're an idiot!". 

He got the usual warnings, and the clerk jokingly asked the kid to sign a waiver.  The kid put up a big show of bravado, and mentioned it was his first time at noodle box, but that he loved hot food and knew he could handle it.  Naturally, I snickered.  When my meal came, and I made a show of finishing the article I was reading and preparing my to go order before I left... because I wanted to see this kid try the noodles out.

I have never seen a man try so hard to look casual when, on the inside, he was dying.  I was pretty sure he was having a stroke.  His skin was slick with sweat, and his chopsticks were practically vibrating because he was shaking so.  His friend actually had the gall to say "man, these noodles are kind of hot.  How are yours?"

"O-okay...." the dying kid stammered.  "I... I'm not very... uh... hungry.  D-Don't think I c-can finish them..."

I snickered and left.  On my walk home, I passed a paramedic, streaking downtown.  I'm pretty sure the noodle box incident and the paramedics were two entirely different events, but deep down inside, a part of me thinks it would be kind of funny. 

As I say to Squee on a regular basis:  I'm a bad person. 


  1. Spicy is good... until it leaves your mouth blistered and you at the table with your face in a bowl of milk.

    Guess I should have asked my mom what kind of peppers she grew instead of assuming that the habaneros were actually just mini red peppers.

  2. I've bitten into innocuous looking little peppers that come in the pickles at shawarma restaurants here, and been very embarassed. It's not pretty.