There’s the scene of the crime.
I’ve been to Monk’s Cafe a couple of times recently. I like that place. It’s what a beer joint should be — crowded and loud. To call it a beer joint might be a bit of a stretch — beers cost anywhere from $7 to $12, so it’s not PBR they’re selling. Myself, I like the Chimay Triple they have on tap. Fresh, sweet and 8% alcohol. Tasty.
Last night I ordered the wings as an appetizer. It seemed like the thing to do since we had a seat at the bar. But I should have heeded the bartender’s warning: “Have you ever had those here before?” I said that I hadn’t. “They’re really hot, like the hottest wings you’ve ever had,” she said.
Bring ‘em on. (That damn George Bush, now his phraseology is entering my vocabulary.)
Well, I knew something what up when they brought the wings…and 25 napkins. The “wings” were big, in a bowl, and smothered in a dark paste. I thought that paste looked like crushed olives. Wrong. Really wrong. It was some kind of smokin’ hot pepper paste. It wasn’t enough that the wings themselves were marinaded in tobasco. No, they were then covered in hot peppers. Man, they were good…but HOT. My lips were burning. My nose was watering. And my core temperature rocketed up. I was on fire.
Well, it was nothing more Chimay couldn’t cure. I accidentally wiped the corner of my eye once and that stung for an hour.
Good thing I remembered to wash my hands before I did anything else in the bathroom. Whew! Otherwise the title of this post would have been, “Philadelphia man seen running around bar like his pants were on fire.”
