The other night I was craving for pork belly, so I made my way to the only place in my vicinity that offered succulent pieces of marinated, moist brown pork belly. They also make an excellent nasi goreng, so I ordered that with a side of mouth-watering slices of pork belly.
When the bowl of nasi goreng came (the pork belly pieces nestled comfortably within that cushy bed of delicious fried rice), my whole being instantly vibrated with unsung songs of the eternal universe. If there was a thing called heaven, that moment truly epitomised it.
However, I needed something spicy to just take this epicurean delight up a notch. I asked a passing staff -- who was Asian (and this is important to this story) -- if they have a spicy condiment at hand.
"We have sriracha," she offered. I looked at her horrified and clutched my non-existent pearl necklace. "Don't you dare!" I stage-whispered to her dramatically. She started giggling. "That shit is disgusting! It's chili sauce for lame white hipsters who cry at the mere touch of anything remotely spicy on their bland tongues!"
I could tell she was struggling not to say anything, but she nodded slightly. "Well, we do have chili oil."
"THANK YOU!" I looked at her pointedly, giving her small smile. "Now, that's the stuff! Puts hair on your chest!" She laughed and nodded.
I don't give a rat's ass if you worship at the altar of sriracha -- that shit needs to be banished to the trash bin.