I am at a DC Chinatown restaurant, and an ex-Soviet family next to me is engaged in the most ex-Soviet activity ever: conducting a 10-minute interrogation of the server to make absolutely, positively sure the food they are about to order contains not a hint of spice.
Dear me, the young lady has just called the server back to triple-check every single item.
I am pouring an extra helping of Sriracha on my roast pork to salute these poor Lithianians. I feel for them. In a way.
I am pouring an extra helping of Sriracha on my roast pork to salute these poor Lithianians. I feel for them. In a way.
Their food has arrived, so now they are asking about each and every sauce on the table. Homies gotta make sure nothing above -3 on the Scoville Scale makes it inside their bodies.
For more on the Russian phenomenon of aromaphobia (an actual term for the fear of spicy food) read this:
slavadoesamerica.com/whats-the-big-…
slavadoesamerica.com/whats-the-big-…
The Lithuanians are fine, everyone. They've successfully avoided spice, finished their food and are reading fortune cookies now. I am so happy for them. This was intense. Like navigating a minefield in Dubrovnik c. 1992.
Phew!
Phew!
