This is Bob Oakes from WBUR sampling the Hell Pasta on Monday Night. Guess who served it to him. The story says it was a waitress dressed as a devil, but they got that part wrong. It was me:

For Halloween’s sake, I will tell my favorite story of the two Hell Nights I’ve worked so far. Yesterday I was serving a group of seven men who all could have been firefighters based on their build. They were big men, and rowdy. When one complained that his beer was taking too long (I’d forgotten it) I unapologetically told him that it was because he forgot to say “please.” I should mention now that this was my last table of the night and I was a bit burnt out, so to speak.

Anyway, they were yelling at the kitchen and everybody. Perhaps they came in with a foreign load (too much beer from next door.) Its hard to say but they were acting drunk. At the behest of their cries, Mr. S. brought them a small bowl of the Hell Pasta, free of charge. They hardly nibbled on it at all. But that didn’t stop them from demanding more water every two minutes. Finally, fed up, I asked them if instead of bringing more water, maybe I could just eat their entire bowl of Hell Pasta in one bite. Which I did, right in front of their astonished faces, and then went on working like nothing had happened.

This was all caught on video. Today I have had a painful awakening, but I’m riding high on the anti-diarrheal pills now. Later these big men started yelling at the Chef that their food wasn’t hot enough. Eric came out and presented them with a fatali pepper (West African scotch bonnet, second hottest in the World) and a bit of cut up Naga Jolokia (Indian red pepper, hottest in world.) They wouldn’t even touch the peppers, at which point everyone left in the restaurant crowded around their table and chanted, “WIMP WIMP WIMP.” This time I didn’t offer to eat them, because I too was scared. Those guys left a great tip.

Tonight I’ll take some pictures. Here are a couple just for Halloween fun:

On the menu for Hell Night, at the East Coast Grill, there is one dish called the Pasta From Hell. It is the most serious of peppery dishes, requiring the customer to sign a consent form that waives liability to the restaurant for what happens. The owner has asked that I rewrite the consent form so that it is updated to reflect the intensified caliber of this year’s pasta, which contains no less than the hottest pepper in the world. I decided to do this right here, on my website, and then print it out at work. Here we go:

This year our Pasta from Hell dish is made with a special ingredient, called the Naga Jolokia pepper. This is the hottest pepper in the world, clocking in at over 1 million Scoville units. In India this pepper is used by the police in pepper spray, so obviously the Grill requires a stronger consent form.

I am signing this official, legal document to waive ownership of my culo, to put a lien on said culo, turning culo in question over to the head chefs of the Grill. I will take no legal action against the Grill even if my hair catches on fire like Michael Jackson’s did while he filmed the Pepsi Commercial. Even if my nipples get hard and stay hard for days. Even if I yell out, “Don’t taze me bro,” this document is proof and a living testament that I did want to get tazed very hard.

This consent form doubles as a ticket to board the pain train, and I am signing under my own free will in order to acquire one ticket to said train. In addition, through my signature I am also agreeing to a set of conditions put forth by the Grill so as to deflect indirect liabilities: I will not go swimming for 24 hours. I will not board an airplane or fly out of the country until I have completely digested this Pasta, unless I pay for at least two seats on that airplane. If I have to work in the AM the day after eating the dish, I promise I will wear my “party pants.”

Because of the nature of single use lavatories, the Grill cannot guarantee that there will not be a line at any time to use the lavatory. The Grill offers an antidote but cannot guarantee privacy in the administration of said antidote. The Grill offers Wetnaps, and free high fives, but does not condone the eating of Naga Jolokia pepper. Its really more effective in pepper spray.

Basically, I am declaring, through signing, that I “know my limits.” So help me Jeebus, or whatever. Please report all erections lasting longer than 48 hours.

Signed, the honorable,
YOUR NAME HERE

Today in the costume store. They didn’t allow photos to be taken, but I said fuck ‘em. Bears, enjoy:

Scary black bear.

White bear.

A friend gave me a hamburger that she, and the package it came in, promised would grow 600% larger in water. The packaging was thrown out as soon as I ripped into it, so I had no idea how long this is supposed to take. For my aunt and grandma’s amusement, I started the experiment Saturday afternoon. Musical accompaniment was in order, so I chose a polka by Frankie Yankovic & His Yanks titled, “Just Because.” Nothing happens, so I am going to leave the hamburger down in CT for a week. When I come back, it will be my new bed pillow. Otherwise, I’m going to kick that burger’s ass:

The lyrics to the polka explain why the burger won’t grow: Just because, because, because! Although I love meat, I doubt I will be referring to a burger as my “old Santa Claus.” Who knows?

“Well, well, well,
Just because you think you’re so pretty,
And just because your momma thinks you’re hot,
Well, just because you think you’ve got something
That no other girl has got,
You’ve caused me to spend all my money.
You laughed and called me old Santa Claus.
Well, I’m telling you,
Baby, I’m through with you.
Because, well well, just because.

You’ve caused me to lose all my women
And now, now you say we are through.
Well, I’m telling you
Baby, I was through with you
A long long time ago.”

The training has begun. Last night, before jumping into my car and driving down to my family’s place on the coast, I ingested a habanero sausage. Then I went to sleep. Deep in my human body, in the acids of my stomach, the demon awoke. Or, the sausage became the demon. Something happened down there, maybe in the twenty miles of small intestine only reachable by a pill cam on National Geographic Channel. Or perhaps it was amongst the trillion of foreign microbiotic diplomats meeting the sausage, itself an ambassador of future pain. Then again, the most pertinent training may have been when I finally squeezed the habanero sausage back out my rectum.

That occurred at approximately ten o’clock this morning. Just as I expected, the sucker burnt me good. At the time I was reading the Escapes section of the Friday NYT, wishing on that porcelain perch that I could pull off a great escape from whats coming. But I cannot. Like a samurai headed onto the battlefield, to flee the fight is not an option. My honor, and intestinal integrity, are at stake. The best I can do is prepare, and prepare wisely. I have already blogged about what my costume will be for next week’s Hotter Than Hell Nights at the East Coast Grill, also known as the Hell-o-ween 2 Tripleheader. Now I will let you further into my strategy.

The sausage was a crucial first test of my ability to eat lightning, crap thunder, and keep on storming. I did not pass, but like Neo in the flying test, no one passes on the first time. I am calibrating my digestive tract in concert with the other operational systems of my body. Today I lay around like a lump, but Tuesday I will have to get back up and go to work after such ingestion. Lucky for me there are some tricks in my bag: Pepto Bismal chewable tablets, Tums, and of course Immodium Advanced to plug up the furnace. I also plan to mimic the professional chili chompin’ cowboys I have seen on television, and carry cannisters of whipped cream in a holster slung from my waist.

For now all I can do is eat plain, ordinary pasta, and meditate on what it may taste like when mixed with a bolognese sauce made from Bhut Jolokia. That would be this year’s special guest, and the winner of Guiness Book of World Record’s award for hottest chili pepper on the planet. I have held off from tasting the Ghost yet, although I have seen it ravage the body of my friend Brian, the vegan. He never met a vegetable so mean. Yet, while meditating down here with the comfort of my family, I have read an MSNBC article about how the Ghost chili is used in India to actually treat intestinal distress:

“For generations, it’s been loved in India’s northeast, eaten as a spice, a cure for stomach troubles… “It is so hot you can’t even imagine,” said the farmer, Digonta Saikia, working in his fields in the midday sun, his face nearly invisible behind an enormous straw hat. “When you eat it, it’s like dying.”

The active ingredient in chili peppers is called capsaicin. In pure form, this ingredient registers in at approximately 16 million Scoville heat units The Ghost chili itself registers at 1 million Scoville units. We are approaching purity. Bring me a Haz-Mat suit.

Capsaicin is a highly irritant material requiring proper protective goggles, respirators, and proper hazmat handling procedures. It is hazardous in cases of skin contact (irritant, sensitizer), of eye contact (irritant), of ingestion, of inhalation (lung irritant, lung sensitizer). Severe over-exposure can result in death.[9] Painful exposures to capsaicin-containing peppers are among the most common plant-related exposures presented to poison centers.[10] They cause burning or stinging pain to the skin, and if ingested in large amounts by adults or small amounts by children, can produce nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, and burning diarrhea.[10] Eye exposure produces intense tearing, pain, conjunctivitis, and blepharospasm.[10]

Whenever someone failed at the machine the claw would return to its original position and a deep, masculine robot voice would declare, “Thank you, more.” This usually resulted in me pumping more quarters into the Skill Crane. That one word, more, kind of defined our relationship at first. Until I inserted the two quarters for my second attempt, and won a giant Cookie Monster! That means that the cookie monster only cost me one dollar.

This was going on at Papa Gino’s yesterday. Its in the same shopping plaza as Gold’s Gym. My roommate worked out for an hour while I went shoe shopping and then had Chicken and Garlic pizza at Papa Gino’s. I played the Skill Crane while he peddled on an exercise bike. In the end the Cookie Monster cost me about six dollars: this is because the masculine voice kept saying “more.” And by more I took it that the Skill Crane wanted me to get the upside down Elmo as well as the Cookie Monster. Hell, the tag on Cookie said he was made in 2003.

How would you like to sit in a Skill Crane machine for over four years? Someone would miss their whole childhood doing that. On the way home I had to be extra careful with Cookie. He rode up front, with me:

C’mon, nobody likes to be called that…

In the Pro Lounge, when we roll three strikes in a row, we dance like turkeys. Three strikes in a row IS a turkey, necessitating the turkey dance. You flap your arms like Wings Over Somerville. Thats what a turkey would do, if it bowled three strikes in a row. House rules. In this video, two pros, me and Pro Liz, take turns getting back to back turkeys. Then we do that funky, sleepy-chicken strut:

To deal with the ever-present restaurant problem of fruit flies, the owner Mr. S. bought an insect vacuum. He put me in charge of it:

Kiki says, “The funniest part of watching Ghostbusters, is you know that Bill Murray was the most famous one. And at the end of the movie, when everyone is covered in marshmallow, after they kill the marshmallow man, Bill Murray’s not. That is fame.”

We be getting ready for Hell Night next week. Those are the three nights in a row when the East Coast gets an entirely new menu consisting solely of wicked hot appetizers, entrees, and desserts. Its a costume party where the employees and guests dress up for Halloween. In addition, the restaurant is decorated by yours truly and my trusty band of collaborators, and we play loud music. Beyond ideas for decoration (I am co-chair of the decorations committee), I have been planning my outfit. In years past I have done some costumes to good effect, and ill effect.

The worst idea for a Halloween costume that I ever had was to paint my face red and go as the devil. The make-up made me break out. Because not only was red make-up plastered to my whole face but also the insidious gasses and airborne greases thrown into the air by simmering chili peppers stuck to it, creating a giant roving pimple population, my face like a town overrun by pink zombies. It was horrible. For anyone familiar with my lifelong acne problem on my buttocks, that Halloween gave a clarified meaning to the well-worn phrase, “Your face, your ass; what’s the difference?” Without any of the clarity (or Clearasil.)

The next Halloween I wore angel wings. One might observe that I went in the complete opposite direction. Unfortunately, the wings were like a dog’s tail, always bumping into things. I believe the tipping point came when one wing grazed a glass holding toothpicks, and in the middle of busy service, knocked it to the ground. The glass smashed into many dangerous shards, and the toothpicks provided their own impaling, rolling doom. It was a bad situation. Last year I dressed in bloody hospital scrubs, and had a stethoscope; a dirty doctor. But wearing scrubs felt too much like free-ballin’ for me to be comfortable.

Thats why my plan this year is to wear a simple teeshirt, emblazoned with the cult classic saying: “Don’t Taze Me Bro.” I will put my legendary long hair up into a three-pronged faux-hawk. The exact haircut is liberty spikes. Here is a small taste of what I will offer, courtesy of Alexa with my camera. In this picture I am wearing a vintage Wilson white tennis headband and my custom Converse Allstars. For Hell Night it will be Liberty Spikes, and muddy, bloody sneakers. Next Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday I will be providing web coverage, but here’s a little taste.

My friend Jess gets pumped up!