Nuclear Olives

This morning we headed down to the fresh market for our weekly shopping trip.  We actually enjoy this, since rather than patronizing a single grocery store, we stop at various small places.  Our regular stop belongs to a couple named Nelly and Cherry, a little fruit and vegetable stand inside a larger complex.  The entire establishment is about the size of a walk-in closet, but we have shopped there for months.  They know us, and they are friendly.  We no longer pay the “gringo discount,” and often Cherry will throw in a few pieces of assorted strange things for us to try.

After passing our normal butcher shop, where the attendant, who speaks fairly good English, will ask us how to say something in English (his last request was for the word, “applause”), and the pork butcher, where I bought some delicious chops, we stopped at a small stand where they sell nuts, dried fruits, and chips.  We bought a bag of corn chips, some cashews, and fresh olives.

Fresh green olives have always been a treat for me, and more so here.  There were three varieties this morning, one stuffed with red pimientos, another with some kind of nut, and a third with rocoto, which looks like the innocuous red bell pepper.  of course, I chose the third, since I like hot food.

The little guy behind the counter looked at me strangely, and pointed at the bin.  “Pruebelos,” he said, meaning, “Try them.”

I carefully reached into the bin, and being careful not to touch the others, I grabbed one, and popped it into y mouth, biting down and getting a good crunch into the rocoto.

For a few seconds, I was fine.  Then it hit me, and it felt like I had been maced with something normally used for bears.  I love hot food, I even eat jalapeños right out of the jar.  This thing, though, led me to wonder what the half-life of a rocoto was.

I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of laughing at me, but Jesus holy hell hot, this thing could fuel the Iranian nuclear program – it tasted fantastic, but I was just sure it would cause brain cancer, not only for me, but for anyone who spent too much time inside a two-meter radius.  The container should be lined with lead.

The guy behind the counter just looked at me, but drawing on my old army-medic composure, I just nodded and told him it was fine, that I would take a quarter-kilo.  I don’t think he could see the sweat on my upper lip.

I would encourage my friends to try one, but if you live in one of the six countries in the world where they haven't been banned by international treaty, then please be careful.

When I got home, I did make a Bombay martini with two of them, which cooled them down quite a bit, but I think the drink deserves its own name.

Unfortunately, “Chemo” is taken.