Nandos came out of nowhere. One day it was just another restaurant that was on the High Street, the next, it was a religious necessity to go there at least three times a week. It was just chicken, but so much more than just chicken.
It was chicken that should be consumed in a certain way; there was a Nandos etiquette that seasoned pro’s would stick solemnly to, whilst it simultaneously baffled newcomers who hadn’t yet had the chance to realise what on the menu was hot and what was not.
I didn’t really get the cult fascination with it (it was after all, just chicken), but I wasn’t going to go and sit in the pub on my own was I. Me and my friends went frequently, and therefore, it became another arena in which I had the chance to amuse others with my discomfort.
It was a low-key affair, just the four of us, going for a cheeky chicken chomp before going to the cinema. It was me and two friends, and this girl that I liked at the time. We went to the bar and ordered, and settled into a booth for what was meant to be a peaceful bite to eat.
There are two things that you should probably consider before I continue with this story:
- One of Nandos’ features is a range of spices that can go on one’s chicken. It ranges from the safety of ‘Lemon and Herb’ to the ‘Extra Hot’. But it doesn’t stop there; for those with an extra spice gear, there is an evil looking bottle that does the rounds of the braver tables. Black with a red ‘X’ on it, it is a truly fearsome condiment, one that can’t be far off waking those poor chickens up from what was meant to be their last sleep.
- I am not a particularly fussy eater, but when it comes to spicy food, I am simply inept at consuming it without descending into a red, sweaty mess, tongue out, glasses of water queued up, unable to make conversation for a while after consumption. There is something in my DNA that resoundly disagrees with spicy food.
Now, if you were paying close attention, you will have noticed that 1. and 2. are inextricably linked, and you will appreciate the danger I was putting myself in all of those times I set foot in those chicken bone yards.
Each time before, I had trodden carefully, and had avoided the sauce, and perhaps this was my undoing. This was my downfall, allowing myself to fall into this false sense of security. This time, though, the wolves were out, and I was not prepared to meet them.
My friend, fully aware of the situation: the girl I was trying to impress; the inability to eat spice; that deadly sauce. It was with a wicked sense of glee that he connected the dots, and undertook to throw a cat amongst the chickens.
Holding the dreaded bottle aloft, a glint in his wicked eye, he addressed me with three teasing little words: “I dare you…” He nodded at my food, pushed the bottle upon me, a sly smile, all the while aware of my trial. A sideways glance at the girl next to me, daintily picking at her chicken, unaware of the combustion that was about to take place in my head. Unaware of the crimson cheeks, not caused through embarrassment or shyness, but through a pure biological meltdown.
The table paused in it’s feasting, urging me on, telling me not to bottle it, bottle of ‘X’ in hand, trying to bottle the rising dread. I looked down at my plate and toyed with a piece of chicken breast, knowing that its tastiness was about to be drowned in heat.
I tipped the bottle up and poured some of the devilish sauce on a slither of chicken, and not wanting to delay the inevitable any more, I put it in my mouth. Immediately, the heat touched my tongue and the roof of my mouth, and the familiar feelings of pain and sweat and general discomfort began to rise into my consciousness.
I glanced around me, taking in the faces that sat looking at me. One hugely proud of his endeavours, one happy that it wasn’t his ordeal, and one that looked at me with a sort of pitying smile, not the sort of look that gets a man laid. And as the heat intensified, something unusual happened, unusually bad. My eyes pricked and started to glisten over, and as I blinked back the tears, I wondered if chickening out would have been the better option.
Usually, as we sit there in Nandos, there is a sort of basic camaraderie as we sit shoulder to shoulder, munching on our wings and breasts. But I can categorically say, that in this instance, chicken chivalry went right out the window.
The Warm Up 