Two Days of Fire

This week has turned out to be quite an interesting week. It started off on Sunday watching the Gold Medal round of the Olympic Hockey Tournament. Poor U.S.A. For anyone who watched the game, I'm sure you will agree that it was AWESOME! (That must be said with a falsetto voice and angelic vibrato!) Monday was uneventful, consisting only of work, home, family, and dinner. Followed by bed, which consisted of Shannon and I lying in bed for approximately 8 hours wishing to we could get some sleep, and not wanting to toss and turn for fear the other was asleep. Fun fun.

Then Tuesday came and added some spice (quite literally) to the week. It started with me arriving at work and after about thirty minutes, my partner in the office announced that he and I would be eating at Mike's, which is a small cafeteria in our building. Our culinary expedition would include the famed "Code 3" burger, which, as I would later learn, is the result of a challenge made by people who apparently enjoy eating food that has the flavor of a box of thumb tacks, nails, of charcoal just at the right temperature for cooking your summer barbecue. We bellied up to the bar and placed our order. The cafeteria was not packed, but there were enough people present that soon I felt like I had stepped into the arena and all eyes were on me to see how I handled the beast! We sat next to another co-worker who is some what famous for handling extreme foods and when I asked him how the "Code 3" burger was his reply was "It's warm."

"Oh dear," I thought in my head. "This won't be pretty." Luckily, I had a view of the kitchen, more importantly, direct line of sight to the "Sorcerer's Cauldron" where these hellish culinary demons were being created. Something of this magnitude is not merely made or cooked, but born or created. It took longer for our meals to arrive, which I'm still not sure if it just took that long, or if that's part of the show to make you wriggle and squirm and contemplate your doom. Finally they arrived.

At first glance, this appeared like any other normal burger. Bun, check. Patty, check. Lettuce, tomato, cheese, check. What, no pickles, oh what there they are, wait......what are those. Upon closer inspection, during a partial lettuce-ectomy, I found about 10 fresh sliced of Jalapenos mixed between the cheese and the top of the patty. Oh this will not due. I knew the burger itself was going to be hot, as I had witness repeated shakes from about 3 or 4 bottles that closely resembled Tabasco, Louisiana Hot Sauce, Cholula, and some other reddish liquid I am quite sure was sporting a label with background images of fire, peppers, a skull, a devil with a cheesy grin evil eyes and a pick fork aimed at the mouth of an unsuspecting diner. And after witnessing the "pain marinating" of the patty itself, I felt that the jalepeno's might have been a bit overkill, so they were happily kicked to the curb.

As I began to take the first bite, I felt like a rock star. The crowd went silent, and I could feel the fixed gazes of onlookers. It was either that, of the rush of pain had preceded me even taking the first bite. You the kind pain that at times can make the world go quite save the screaming that is taking place in your mind? Yeah, that kind of pain. The first bite was flavorful. The taste was very good. However about thirty seconds after thinking, "This is good." I followed with, "This is hot, and it hurts." Only said with that raspy, where on God's cool green Earth is my tea sounding voice. Then I realized, this is going to be a long meal.

I settled in to finish of the hell spawned quarter pounder, and finish it I did. Not without first deeply concerning some friends as they watched my face and neck turn from normal color to red, to deep red, then apparently to a deep reddish purple. I actually received a phone call later in the day as to inquire about my well being. Of course, the person who had made me attended such a masochistic meal happily chewed on his "Code 3" burger like it was a hot ham and cheese. My burge was either much worse than his, or I am a pansy.

So why finish a meal that after the first bit becomes all flame and no taste, simple. You see, when you work in a building full of police men, the only logical thing you can do is suffer through the pain. Because what ever burn the rest of the meal has in store for you, "and the residual burn the day after," it would never be as bad as being labeled, "the guy who's to weak to finish the "Code 3" burger. I would have never heard the end of it. Cops are weird that way.