I sat sweating in a Birmingham curry house, not from the heat of the kitchen but from the anticipation of tackling what chef Zaf Hussain calls the 'hot and dangerous Balti' – an off-menu dish he describes as 'a phall times two'. The sun blazed through the window as I clutched a litre of banana Yazoo, my chosen defence against the inferno about to be served.
Zaf, owner of Shababs in the Balti Triangle, laughed as he warned me that this was not a curry he would ever eat himself. 'I wouldn't. Nowhere near,' he said. The last time he cooked something this hot was 12 years ago for a TV show, leaving comedian Omid Djalili in tears. In the kitchen, I watched red chillies, Scotch bonnets and Kashmiri chilli powder disappear into the bubbling pot. The sauce spat out, burning my knuckles – a preview of the pain to come.
Back at the table, the chicken Balti arrived with a chilli naan and a mango lassi, my emergency coolant. After the first bite, the roof of my mouth felt at war with my tongue. My eyes watered, and I announced pathetically to the camera, 'I'm in tears'. I gulped lassi and Yazoo, then made the stupid decision to swallow a whole chilli. My ears, nose and eyeballs became burning, leaky fireballs; my gums seemed to dissolve.
Despite the agony, the curry actually tasted good. But a piece of chicken lodged in my throat, and for a moment I wondered if this was the end. I coughed violently, dislodging it with more lassi and Yazoo. I finished the remaining mouthfuls quickly, then stumbled past the staff, who must have thought I was doing a runner. I needed fresh air – and I got it, leaving a mess of sweat and tears behind.
