The Bushido Challenge

Everybody loves a challenge. It focuses the mind. Gets the juices flowing, they say. “Don’t tell me I can’t beat that guy, “ or “don’t tell me I can’t beat that record.” Where would "machismo" be without a challenge, right? In the food world, the notion of challenge can take several, less than elegant, forms: competitive speed eating comes to mind. Or, perhaps, Man vs. Food which routinely endeavors to shock the world with ungodly volumes of consumption.

And, so it is here in Charleston where the beauty, elegance and grace of sushi creation are savagely re-directed to the more primeval elements of “the challenge.” In this case, the venue is Bushido, a sushi restaurant in the West Ashley section of Charleston, where a steady stream of combatants come to test their will against the almighty spicy tuna roll. Some call it the Bushido Challenge, some call it the spicy tuna roll challenge, but the game is the same: to earn the title of “Legend of the Roll” one must consume in one sitting 10 spicy tuna rolls -- all hand-rolled -- in which each succeeding roll is increasingly spicy. The first few are deceptively easy, but the last few are laced with ever larger infusions of habanero peppers and thai chilies until the last couple fairly spontaneously combust if left unattended for more than a few moments. It is told that more than four hundred hearty, if delusional, souls have attempted this, and only a handful have succeeded.

I love spicy food and had looked forward to experiencing this diabolical, if ridiculous, challenge. Thirty years ago, when Lily and I were in Chiang Mai, Thailand I humbly met my match with a dish that caused my tears to flow as no other event in my life had up to that point (save perhaps the heartbreaking loss by the Yankees in game 7 of the 1960 World Series). I remember telling the restaurant proprietor that I was up to taking his best shot and I was taken down. Hard. I failed that day and now saw Bushido as a much delayed chance at redemption.

When we placed our order with our waitress, she sternly said to me, “You don’t want a number 10. Believe me.” Sadly, I folded, taking her at what had to be her very experienced word. Frankly, I think I may have been intimidated. I went with a number 6 which she said was the spiciest she had ever handled. (I had no intention of eating all ten and going for the Legend accolades. It wasn’t just a matter of the cumulative spiciness that loomed, but the sheer volume of all that food.) I was on red alert as she placed the fiery red conical torpedo in front of me. Waiting for the alarm bells to explode as I chewed, I was somewhat surprised that while this roll was most definitely spicy, even fiery, it was not a killer. That silver bullet lay somewhat higher up the food chain, as it were.

What was so entertaining, though, was to look around and see others there who were unmistakably there for the challenge. They were the ones who could easily be mistaken for being seasick as they sat rubbing their heads -- in disbelief possibly -- with a vaguely green pallor, a vacant stare, and beads of sweat popping up all too obviously on their foreheads. They were up to their eyeballs in tuna, peppers and chilies and their bodies were in active revolt. One poor soul, who had just eaten numbers 9 and 10 had bolted outside with a carton of milk in his hands. Too little too late, I was thinking. Another guy, at the same table, looked as catatonic as one might be and still be considered a paying customer. The girlfriend of the guy with the milk told us there was no way her boyfriend was going to sleep in her bed that night. It was the couch for him. No sirree, no unnecessary risks for her. A third guy came with a large group all the way from Macon, Georgia for the sole purpose of doing the challenge. He told me there was no way he could return home without victory -- here celebrated by the issuance of a headband with the Bushido name on it, a $25 dollar gift certificate, and the promise of lifetime bows by the sushi chefs whenever you enter the restaurant. He was sitting there with numbers 9 and 10 on the plate in front of him daring him to complete the challenge and possibly a call to 911. His vacant stares told me he would be a while and so we left not knowing his fate.

As for me, I am going back. Next time it will be a number 7 and perhaps a number 8. Redemption is out there, I know it.

Steppin' Out

There comes a point when you say to yourself, “okay, the ball’s in your court. It’s time to get out there and meet people.” After a year in Charleston, we have been swept up in a wave of extrovertism (if that’s a word). While I have been out and about for the past year making an easy fit of my new retirement fatigues, the same could not be said of Lily. Whereas I have been doing a steady meet and greet every morning in my jaunts to the beach with Mojo, Lily has been encased, as it were, working in her cave, which we alternately refer to as the office or guestroom numero dos. I have been flapping my gums for months meeting a wide array of dog owners, getting to like some, making my own contribution toward our assimilation into the South Carolinian life style. But now, Lily is retired. And, in anticipation of the event (which officially occurred last Friday), we have been looking for avenues to pursue to glad hand and embrace the entire Wild Dunes Community.

Our first shot in the dark came with the local bridge club. I know, I know it sounds so terribly stolid -- so old school -- but, hey, it’s a start. Lily and I do enjoy the game although we find it so much more enjoyable when it is accompanied by major servings of wine and opportunities to chat amiably with our opponents. As it turns out, the group we joined could not have been nicer: convivial, welcoming, knowledgeable. What the small print disclosed, however, was that the median age of the group was somewhere around 112, maybe a bit less. I mean these folks don’t just remember the Great Depression; some were walk-ons for the movie version of the Grapes of Wrath, I‘m quite certain. That’s old in case you’re missing my point. But, we have gone several times now even including their early bird dinners which begin about 5:30. My God, it's still light then, and it's winter for crying out loud. Stay tuned on this one.

Beyond this, we have enrolled (drum roll, please) in the Wild Dunes Yacht Club! Please, please try to refrain from laughter at this point. Really, wait just a second. First of all, you don’t have to be a boat owner to join. This is a good thing since, first, we don’t own a boat, and second, we are as comfortable in small boats as many people are in straight jackets. Second, it appears that the primary unifying force of the club is to get people together to drink and eat. Not necessarily a bad thing. And, maybe best of all, a number of the members don’t clearly remember a world without the internet. No Civil War veterans here. Lily and I went to one meeting a couple of weeks ago and were delighted at the wine selection, and the care free camaraderie of the attendees. We look forward to the next event.

I’m even thinking of trying to find the perfect ascot for these events. Maybe one with little anchors in it.