“It’s THE gateway drug of chili heads.”
“You know it’s a sign that you’ve got a good condiment when you’re making dishes to accommodate your condiment.”
-comments on chowhound.com’s thread Sriracha Chili Sauce, Condiment or Crack?
It started so innocently: about a year ago we were given a small re-used jam jar full of thick red liquid by my mother-in-law. “It’s Thai chili sauce,” she said. “We have a whole bottle of it that we’re never going to finish.”
When we got home I tasted it and said, “oh, it’s Sriracha. It’s good, though I never know quite what to put it on.” Manuel licked some off his finger and nodded approvingly. “Spicy, I like it.” And then we put it in the back of the fridge and forgot about it.
Although it’s hard to fathom now, I honestly didn’t know how to use it. Sriracha, I thought, occupied a strange no-man’s land of hot sauces, too heavy and sweet to be used like the punchy vinegar-based sauces I dribble on Mexican and Caribbean food, yet too salty and intense to be a dipping sauce in its own right, like, say, this other famous Thai chili sauce. I also didn’t know of any traditional dishes I should keep it on hand for, like Korean gochujang. In cooking, I preferred to rely on cayenne pepper, chili flakes or fresh chilies when I needed some heat, and if I wanted the complementary tastes of garlic, sugar and vinegar I could certainly add them myself. Who needed a sauce that forces you to use them all together in pre-prescribed proportions?
So it sat in our fridge for a month or two, barely touched. One night, though, we were coming home from something late and stopped at a nearby Turkish Imbiss to pick up chicken döner kebabs for our dinner. It was our first time patronizing this particular place, and when we got our kebabs home and tucked in we were disappointed to find out they were almost inedibly bland. There was seemingly no garlic in the garlic-yogurt sauce, and the meat itself tasted practically unseasoned. We looked at each other dejectedly for a minute, at which point Manuel jumped up, went to the fridge and brought back the jar of Sriracha. I skeptically watched him drizzle some on his kebab (Turkish food with Asian chili sauce? Surely somebody was rolling over in their grave!) and waited for the verdict. He liked it. So I gave it a try too. It was surprisingly good. I drizzled on more. Even better. We had found our bland-kebab savior, apparently.
Everything might have been fine if it stopped there, but it didn’t. Emboldened by the kebab success, the jar started appearing on the table more frequently. I made homemade falafel one night and we spooned some Sriracha on top, along with tzaziki and hummus. The cool-hot-spicy-sweet contrasts were spectacular, and the flavors melded perfectly. Then Manuel dolloped some on a mediocre pizza, which improved it considerably. I discovered a little bit did wonders for a bland tomato soup or even a less-than-stellar bolognese.
Before I knew it, the jam jar was empty and we were rushing out to buy a bottle of our own. The larger quantity in our possession inspired even more experiments: I added some to a tuna sandwich, stirred some into sour cream for an ersatz chip-dip when we had unexpected company (and had to give everyone the recipe), and even used it to perk up takeout Indian food. It also found its way onto burgers, nachos, sushi, noodles—even salads.
All of a sudden, I couldn’t find anything it didn’t go with. Eggs, cheese, chicken, vegetables; they were all crying out for a squirt of the chili-garlic nectar. I often took it out even before I started cooking so I didn’t forget to put some in whatever I was making. We were tearing through a large bottle of the stuff every few weeks, and when the last bottle was still half full I would invent errands that would take me past one of the few shops that carry it so I could pop in and restock, not being able to fathom the prospect of running out. When I found it at one of the two small supermarkets within easy walking distance of our apartment—a Russian supermarket, of all things—I had to fight the urge to tell every stranger I passed on the way home. I got used to feeling a little surge of adrenaline every time I opened the fridge, followed by a wave of relief when I saw that the bottle was still there.
Still, despite all this I thought I had it under control. Of course I could give it up at any time, just like I could give up any food I like if I had to: yogurt, chocolate ice cream, croissants. But last weekend, when I attempted to make good on my New Year’s resolution to clean out the fridge, I found something that shocked me so much I was forced to confront the possibility that things have finally gone too far between Sriracha and me. What I found, hidden behind the containers of mystery leftovers and bag of desiccated parmesan rinds, was proof that it’s no longer enough to just have a bottle of Sriracha on hand, I now apparently need four different kinds to choose between.
The worst part is, I don’t even remember buying them all. Surely this is the point at which I should seek professional help.
Or maybe I should just finish them quickly and never tell a soul.
How do you use Sriracha? What’s your favorite brand? Is there anything it doesn’t go with?