I realize that beery bravado was the main culprit but I do remember (very vaguely) thinking what the point was in going on a search for the hottest sauces in the world if I didn't try at least a spatter. I imagine myself stepping up to the challenge, a brave knight fighting for the pride of his homeland.             'Bollocks to that,' says my ever-sensitive friend. 'You were a sweaty mess, and the whole crowd was waiting to see you go down in a blaze of unglory.'             Apparently, the braying masses whooped for joy when I took on the challenge. And the crowd grew bigger still, as at least a dozen hot-sauce maestros gathered expectantly to have a laugh at the English fool. The bottle appeared once more, named Salsa Para Pendejos.             Now it's one thing drunkenly agreeing to try a drop of this liquid fire but quite another to risk putting myself in hospital before I've finished at The Fiery Foods Show.

I took the straw, touched it to my palm so there was a dot no bigger than a comma. A few in the crowd voiced their disappointment.             Ignoring the heckles, I touched the tip of my tongue to the dot of sauce on my hand, probably taking no more than a quarter of the punctuation mark blob. The crowd grew silent, craning their necks to get a better view. --from A Year of Eating Dangerously  .