4. Prove a Mexican wrong

Today I decided to try somewhere new for lunch. Given the amount of wine consumed last night my salad from home really wasn’t going to cut the mustard. I wanted cheese and carbs.

I had heard about a Mexican place in Lambton Square which sounded perfect. I quickly spotted it – it had the biggest queue. Turns out the place is called QBT, meaning Quesadillas, Burritos and Tacos. Funnily enough, the name is also the menu.

They have a pretty smooth operation going on there, with three staff members, all of whom are mexican, making your food right in front of you. The guy at the end of the production line then calls you over to ask what sort of sauces you would like. Or more specifically whether or not you want it spicy. I said yes please, having developed quite the taste for spicy things over the years. In part due to the most amazing chilli sauce at my all time favourite Restaurant – ‘The Asian Restaurant’ in Dunedin. The other key influence was my incredibly talented Indian flatmate who made the best curries (he makes his own curry powder!), but was irritated by his flatmates’ inability to handle the hotness. At first he was sly about it, and lulled us in to a false sense of security by offering to make us delicious mild curries more often than he need to. After a while it all came out that he was slowly but surely increasing the spiciness so that he could make his curries just as he liked them on his cooking night. Quite genius really, as being unable to handle a good level of spice is practically a disability.

I don’t know what it is about me, but whenever I order something spicy I aways get that quizzical ‘Are you sure?’ look. Well this time, little mexican boy was holding my Quesadilla hostage, giving me a skeptical face that screamed out ‘I don’t think you can handle my spice, little Kiwi girl’ and said “You are going to cry.” Defiantly, I let him know I had eaten whole chillies before (actually a kind of stupid move, at Big Thumb restaurant – someone suggested the chilli challenge and Competitive Harriet came out. The stupid part was that we had finished all of our wine and had nothing but water to follow). He laughed at me and once again stated that no, I was definitely going to cry.

Sitting down at the table, I was so determined to prove I could get through my Quesadilla with no tears that I ate it twice as fast. My nose was running and my lips were so tingly even paw-paw lip balm didn’t help, but my eyes were drier than the Sahara. Win. It was a damn spicy sauce he put in there though, I’ll give him that.

1 thought on “4. Prove a Mexican wrong

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