Sacramento, CA, September 2024
Eat your heart out, Ketchup! on a Taco Bell packet of border sauce
We sat around the fire pit on a warm summer evening in Ganzeville. In case that isn’t entirely clear,
“Ganzeville” is the small village in Normandy, France, where the family vacation home is located. It’s in an agricultural district, quiet and pastoral, but only 5 km from the coastal city of Fecamp. “We” are the ten or so family and friends in residence on that lovely day. There were children, grandchildren with boyfriends and girlfriends attached, and two precious great granddaughters. I suppose I am the patriarch of the family; certainly, I am the oldest.
We had finished our aperol of cheeses, pates, bread and wine. Dinner was an hour away, as we had adapted to the French custom of dinner at about 10:00 p.m. The August sun was setting, inflaming the clouds that partially covered the sky. The fire pit gave a flickering light on the faces of those gathered around it.
There was music and singing of the songs from our personal memory’s playbooks. There were several bottles of good French Burgundy that were not yet dead soldiers which were passed around as required. It was a magical, lyrical time.
The song genre eventually drifted to country. After a few songs had been sung, I pointed out that I had never heard a country song about hot sauce. I should note that hot sauce was a frequent topic in that house, decidedly not a component of French food, but a part of the seasonings in much of the food prepared in our maison. There were at least a half-dozen bottles in the refrigerator, including a bright yellow jar of some sauce from north Africa that only one grandson could eat. He put it on everything. I tried a dab on a bite of pasta—it paralyzed my tongue and caused intense pain. I vowed never again.
So my observation that hot sauce wasn’t a part of the country and western ouvre wasn’t completely off the wall, and it led to a Challenge – “why don’t you write one?” And to my response – “I will.”
I produced the result at the next gathering of the clan:
Ten miles out from Laredo Town
I was tired and hungry and feeling down An icy cold beer and some righteous food Would ease my hunger and raise my mood.
I knew where to go, it was Dan’s Cafe Best grub in town, everyone would say
But old Dan was gone, the nailed sign said “Under new management” cause Dan was dead
But I walked inside to say hello,
And this cute little gal from old Mexico Says “come on in, you’re in the right place,
You’re hungry and thirsty, I can see from your face.”
“I’ve got what you need,” she said with a grin, So I pull up a chair and I say “I’m in –
Bring an ice-cold beer and your best plate of food Cause what you got here is one hungry dude.”
She brought me the beer and a bowl of red stuff “What’s this for, ain’t the food enough?” Makes the food better was her quick reply “OK” I say, “I’ll give it a try.”
I don’t know much about Mexican food
but when the plate arrived it looked pretty good
I poured on some red sauce and took my first bite. The food was delicious; it tasted just right.
But then my mouth started feeling quite hot And a swig of cold beer didn’t help that a lot. In fact it got worse and the rest of my beer
Just increased the fire, I thought my end was near.
l’m poisoned!” I screamed at the Mexican gal,
But she said, “It’s just hot sauce, the mildest of all.” She popped a red pepper in her mouth to chew
I was mortified to think “well she’s tougher than you.”
I threw bills on the table and slunk out the door
Got on my horse feeling low as the floor
But my hot sauce fiasco didn’t give any warning That it wouldn’t stop there, as I found out next morning.
So to all of you gringos, take care and be careful When you’re offered some TexMex supposedly healthful
If it’s colored a ruddy or carroty tint
Don’t eat it, my friend, for although there’s no hint
You will soon be crying and writhing in pain, Til the sun goes down in a flash of flame,
Which is just how your insides and mouth will be feeling
While your friends are enjoying your wailing and keening.
I liked my little ditty and got some good reviews (they are my family, after all) so I decided to send a copy to the 7 other members of my book club. There was a club meeting a few days after in Healdsburg, which of course I couldn’t attend, but I got a report later from a friend who’s also a member. My song had led to a contest of sorts. The kitchen refrigerator had been raided. Several bottles of hot sauce had been discovered, one unopened and another seemingly having spent months in the back of the fridge. Two adventurous members volunteered to taste the samples and report the degree of heat (technically the Scoville number). The vote was unanimous. Two of the sauces were OK to use, but one—in a bottle whose label had fallen off—was fiery hot to the point of uselessness. It was dispatched to the garbage bin.
While I like my song, there is a defect. There is no melody, and consequently no one sings it. Neil Young, Bob Dylan and Stevie Wonder haven’t returned my calls. After I find a songwriter, I’m thinking Garth Brooks or Willie Nelson to sing it. I’ll split the royalties with them.