When you’re in an Indian restaurant in Scotland

And you’ve been in Spain for four weeks

And you’re lamenting how bland Spaniards’ idea of “spicy” is

And you see a menu item called “Naga Lamb”

And it’s described as “uniquely hot”

And you order it.

And the waiter asks if you’re sure.

And a Bangladeshi waiter comes to ask if you’re sure.

And a third Bangladeshi waiter comes to ask if you’re really sure, because he can’t eat it.

And then it comes.

And the smell burns your eyes.

And then you take a bite.

And you start crying.

And your tears are tears of burning pain.

And the waiter comes back to ask if you want something different.

You say “no.” And you suffer through the unspeakable horror and pain and indignity. Because after you finish, they’ll invite you to the bar and give you and your companion all the scotch you want on the house.


That was a month ago, but the lesson is still valid.