Here’s what I know about the datil pepper …
They can be nasty little buggers — the Tazmanian devil of the pepper family.
They will singe your teeth and make hair grow on your ears like Spanish moss.
As far as I can tell, they are mainly grown in St. Augustine and are a favorite of Minorcans — a daredevil group who switched to the spicy pepper when consuming food that was still on fire grew boring.
The pepper’s name originates from this centuries-old phrase: “Don’t eat dat pepper. Dat ‘il kill you!”
The peppers make wonderful jellies, will ignite in most chowders like a brandy flambé and if you’re male, should never be handled before a trip to the little boy’s room. (I speak from personal experience.)
When you eat one, the heat comes on quickly — like red ants attacking your tongue. The flavor is unlike any other pepper I’ve tasted. It reminds me of fruit punch and turpentine.
Datils are scientifically-proven to re-route sinus passageways. They are more effective at reviving unconscious people than smelling salts. They are 1 percent responsible for global warming.
And this: I am not a huge fan of them. I respect them. The way you respect a loose bull. Or is that fear?
I did used to grow them, mainly to deter criminals from coming near my house.
But I’m not someone who likes to eat them. In fact, I’m not much for spicy food at all, and don’t down a lot of peppers, not even mild ones or sweet ones or the cracked kind that comes in a tin.
Which is why I had to ask myself this question last Saturday: “What in the spice rack am I doing judging a datil pepper cook-off at a Datil Pepper Festival?”
And more importantly, would I die?
To prepare, I drank a glass of milk, coated my stomach with a quarter cup of olive oil and downed a half bottle of Tums. I didn’t know what to expect. The datil is supposed to have a Scoville heat rating between 100,000 and 300,000, which is a very official way of saying it’s like putting a lit butane torch to your lips.
I was worried I wouldn’t make it through all the appetizers and entrees from six different local restaurants.
I sat with two other judges — seasoned datil pepper eaters who have judged food contests before. They knew how to savor a dish, smelling it carefully and gently tasting it to get a sense of it. I just plunged in, throwing caution to the wind and forgetting the dish might come with a good punch in the face. One did, and I scrambled to the restroom, my nose draining like Victoria Falls.
“You’re coming back, right?” someone asked as I scooted by. I thought I heard them mumble about calling 911.
Truth be told, it wasn’t that bad. Turns out the hardest part of being a judge wasn’t the heat. It was pacing yourself and math.
I learned you don’t eat everything in front of you. You can’t. Because a little guy like me will be full after the first restaurant. And if you tell the organizers, “No more. I can’t do it. I’m stuffed!” they will duct tape you to the chair and force feed you like a stubborn toddler. “Eat your datil!”
I also learned spicy food and adding numbers don’t mix. Who am I kidding? I’m bad at math when I’m not over-spiced! I didn’t expect to test my addition skills. But they handed me sheets of paper for scores and wanted me to tally them up. I would come up with 54 points when 20 was the highest possible score. I’m a writer, for goodness sake. Not a rocket scientist!
In the end, I survived my judging episode. I enjoyed a lot of tasty food and spent the rest of the day feeling like some kerosene had ignited in my chest. But that’s the price you pay if you want to support the little Tazmanian devil of the pepper family, and burn out your sinuses in the process.