Against Sauce Culture
There is something plaguing the modern diner. A pernicious and rapidly metastasizing rot from within. An incurable cancer. It grows and consumes, unchecked, with no regard for human life—and no, I’m not talking about MUSHROOMS!!!!! Leave the mycology to the experts (startups whose founders watched “Fantastic Fungi” once)! I mean .. !
As a devoted fan of GQ’s “10 Things I Can’t Live Without” series and a steadfast hater (as you all know) of everything Sean Evans touches, I have decided to diagnose the problem with being alive today: people relying on the crutch of hot sauce. Hot sauce is, fundamentally, a cheat. It is a shortcut to making many different things all taste like one thing. It is the great, false equalizer. I think it’s indicative of a provincial, unsophisticated manner in the user, and to rely on it so heavily for flavor is a distressing sign of serious moral weakness.
Some things you are likely to hear that should set off alarm bells:
“I put hot sauce on everything” - the most annoying guy you know
“I can’t live without Tabasco” - another annoying guy
“I love spicy food” - fake ass mf
Here’s where I don’t want to be misconstrued: I do not dislike spicy food. In fact, to even accuse me of that could be perceived as racist. Not by me, but by an impartial observer. I’m not saying you’re racist—I’m not saying that at all. What I’m saying is that an onlooker who might just be witnessing this interaction could conceivably accuse you of being racist for saying I don’t like spicy food. I think it would be dumb to do that, because that’s stupid, but again, I’m not the one calling you racist. It’s the other guy. So don’t say that about me. I actually fucking love spicy food, if you ever even got the chance to know me at all as a person. If you asked me about my cultural background, and what I ate growing up, and maybe any of the particulars of my life, you would know that I love spicy food. So don’t say that about me.
The issue, as I see it, is that spicy food that was designed to be spicy is good. Spicy food that is only spicy after you douse it in hot sauce is not good. These are semantics, sure, but there’s a fundamental difference between a curry, in which the spices are bloomed and thoughtfully incorporated, thus rounding out the full, complex picture of the dish’s flavor profile, and scrambled eggs and cheddar that are drenched in Valentina. What happened to the eggs and cheddar? You can’t taste them anymore. All that’s left is cayenne pepper and vinegar.
This is the crux of the problem, and one I am concerned about—larger societal collapse is imminent if we do not nip this in the bud. The crusty bottle of Cholula in your fridge door, the one that spins off a bunch of flakes when you twist that wooden bulb? It is simply a way for you to make everything the same. You are ignoring what something is supposed to taste like, what many ingredients come together to create in the chemical process of cooking, in favor of tasting the reliable, staid comfort of what you know. It’s Oedipal, ultimately. That’s what this is. Oedipal complex (not 100% sure on this but Ritam do not edit out this analogy). Hot sauce is like the mother’s womb. Yeah. That sounds right.
“But Nabeel! Hark! I have found a contradiction in your logic—are you not a fan of salsa? Lao Gan Ma Spicy Chili Crisp? Do you not dunk an egg roll in sweet and sour sauce—even butter a piece of warm bread? Explain that, you brazen hussy!” - some of you MFs right now
To which I would say, dude, why are you talking weird. You’re scaring the hoes. And then I would proceed to admit that, yes, I am a hypocrite. It would feel like a crime to eat a taco without some salsa on the side, a bald dumpling, a summer roll without peanut butter or hoisin. I know that.
Perhaps what I am decrying is a state of mind—hot sauce culture, “Everything But the Bagel Seasoning” culture, “eucalyptus plant in the shower” culture, etc. There’s a particular type of guy that cooks meals at home and, rather than season it with aromatics or spices or acids while making it, delays everything until it’s all over. Nothing needs to actually be thought through and considered, because when you finally sit down at the couch, place your wide, shallow bowl on the coffee table, and fire up Baby Reindeer, you can simply grab a few bottles of “sauces” from the fridge and squeeze to your heart’s content.
In my head, I can connect this personal philosophy somehow to—stay with me—things like laptop stickers or melatonin. I don’t want to take melatonin, because then once I do, I’ll be taking melatonin. I don’t want to fuss with the original thing too much, whether that’s a protein packed rice bowl for lunch or a rigorously developed sleep schedule. Sometimes something is just supposed to be a thing, and not have another thing ruin the original thing.My logic is undeniable.
To all of you chomping at the bit to poke holes in my argument? Do it. Go ahead. See if I give a fuck…See if I even deign to respond to you. (I probably would. I don’t actually think I hold this opinion that strongly, and I kind of waffle on it sometimes. I use hot sauce every once in a while. I also love buffalo wings.) Can’t wait to see what bullshit you all come up with …
Ritam’s Footnote
Look… sure. Makes sense. Whatever. Did you guys see this video when I linked it a couple weeks ago?
Love this video. Been watching it once a day. Beginning is awesome, then it gets really good again after the first verse for like another solid minute. Never seen That 70’s show, though, so this video doesn’t mean much to me in that sense. I see Mila Kunis and Ashton Kutcher. Some kinda Seth Rogeny looking dude. Alex Vauss from Orange is the New Black. Guy that looks like a grown-up Will from Stranger Things. Yeah, I watched some Netflix Originals. It was the 2010s! We all watched them. I promise I stopped. Well, I actually really liked Beef. But I don’t think I’ve seen one since. Y’all see Chasing Coral? I thought not. I went to the same summer camp as the director, Jeff Orlowski (‘03). So that’s pretty cool. I think there’s a guy named “Fez” in the 70’s show, which makes sense, because I think that was the tail end of the American obsession with Morocco. The Maghreb highkey fell off in the American imagination, huh. Guess they couldn’t take the heat of Islamism. 🤷🏾 You guys ever think about Renly Baratheon? Whatever happened to that guy?
Hey Mr. Nabeel. Longtime reader, first time commenter.
I didn't even make it to the end of this article, maybe I'll go back and finish it, before feeling the urge to comment and just say -- YES! AGREED!
It brought to mind a former housemate of mine (Proud umich '22 alum here Go Blue!). I lived in the ICC system, the Ann Arbor cooperative housing community. Luther Haus. You may have heard rumblings of our Halloween party. Or perhaps you were even invited one year!
Anyway, this housemate of mine who shall remain unnamed, was quote, "obsessed" with Green Cholula sauce. She had a large, personal vat of the stuff she globbed over every meal she ate.
As a house cook, I took pride in my Wednesday meals. Painstakingly prepared with the guidance of my personal bibles, "The French Laundry" by Thomas Keller and co., and "Kitchen Confidential", Mr. Bourdain's side-splitting-tell-all about the REAL culinary industry, my textures and flavors were of the utmost importance. I was out to provide not just a meal, but an experience.
One Wednesday, my sous and I prepared a simple chicken and potatoes dish. I won't get into the details, but we were proud of our work. (A couple whole, roasted chickens, skin crackling and crisp from the combination of salt and heat, and potatoes and leeks soaking in a delicious lemony sauce below.) When we served our meal, I looked around the dining hall to examine our diners' reactions, and I saw her -- Big stupid grin, cholula vat beside her plate, and our meal, swimming in slightly chunky, forest-green sauce. Ruined.
As a man of flavors, that was too much for me. What was differentiating our 3 hour cooking process from that morning's scrambled eggs, likewise covered in green cholula? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. An art form reduced to sauce. Love and care swallowed up by sauce. (This is why I cannot stand ketchup on French fries, but that is for another time).
Thank you for this column, Mr. N. It was cathartic to begin reading it.
It must have taken a lot of restraint not to use the phrase ‘goated with the sauce’, proud of you for not stooping that low ❤️