By Jonathan Shikes
By Alex Brown
By Cafe Society
By Samantha Alviani
By Lori Midson
By Mark Antonation
By Loren Lorenzo
By Nate Hemmert
Chile cannot kill you. I have been assured of that. No matter how much your dumb, careless, looking-in-the-other-direction ass might've accidentally ingested, it can not do you any severe or lasting harm.
Oh, it can make you want to die — from embarrassment first, as you dance around the living room with your swollen tongue hanging out, eyes watering, nose running like a faucet; then, later, from the cramps and from feeling like you just drank a gallon of kerosene and swallowed a lit match. It can make you wonder whether or not a human being can actually piss fire and think how, when Mick was trying to inspire Rocky and told him that he was "gonna eat lightning and crap thunder," that maybe he, too, had just made a tragic error and eaten the equivalent of a nice, heaping tablespoon of Indonesian sambal, swallowed it without thinking, and was suffering the inevitable after-effects.
I, too, have eaten the lightning, Mick. I, too, feel like I have a tank full of napalm just waiting on a spark. And all because I was distracted for just an instant when I should've been paying closer attention to what I was putting in my mouth. Distracted by a commercial for Red Lobster, of all things. At a moment when I should've been focused on the fried chicken in front of me.
1699 S. Colorado Blvd.
Denver, CO 80222
Region: Southeast Denver
Actually, it wasn't the fried chicken that did it, but the sauce that came on the side. The fried chicken — the ayam goreng kalasan — was really quite lovely: half a chicken, bones and all, fried in its skin to a deep and nutty brown, hacked into conveniently bite-sized pieces by someone with what must've been a very large cleaver and something deeply personal against chickens. All by its lonesome, the chicken was just fine. A little bit dry, perhaps, but very tasty. I was eating it with my fingers from the takeout box that had been handed to me at Jaya Asian Grill just twenty minutes earlier — chewing around the bones while I sat on my couch watching sitcoms and getting greasy fingerprints all over the remote.
I'd found the plastic to-go cup of brick-red sauce tossed into the bottom of the brown paper bag along with the soy sauce packets and napkins. I doubted it was meant to go with the shrimp dumplings or even the curry ayam, so I made a judgment call and set it beside my box of fried chicken, my not-even-like-KFC-a-little spread of Southeast Asian snacks. For some reason, I'd thought it was tamarind sauce. I don't know why, exactly. Maybe because I knew that Indonesian and Malaysian cuisine use tamarind, and the color was right. Maybe I thought that some sweet, cool tamarind might go well with ayam goreng kalasan. Then I dipped an almost-spoon-shaped piece of breast into the plastic cup and, at the crucial instant, looked away — at the TV that was showing one of those slo-mo close-ups of a lobster tail being denuded of meat all in one smooth pull.
Hmm..., I thought. I wish I had some lobster right now.
That was the last coherent thought I had for about three hours. The last one that didn't have to do with fire and flames and death and perdition and Rocky and wondering if I could collect workers' comp should my tongue just shrivel up and fall out.
This was my third Jaya meal in three days. My third ever, although Jaya opened four years ago. I'd ordered it to go, simply because when I walked into the place late on a Monday, I'd seen only one other diner and decided I couldn't take a full ninety-minute dinner sitting alone with just the waitresses and my iPhone for company. Besides, I already knew what I wanted. Most of it I'd had before — the roti canai (which was what'd gotten me through the door in the first place, roti still being a rarity in these Mile High environs) and the shrimp dumplings (which were where my sudden addiction to Jaya had come from; they're my new favorite dumplings in the city), the Penang curry and little tastes of salted fish and greens and chiles. But I'd come for the ayam goreng kalasan, too, because I was curious what Indonesian fried chicken might taste like, for the Singaporean curry ayam simply because it was described as "a favorite," and for the nasi lemak (a traditional Indonesian comfort food made with chicken and peanuts and hard-boiled eggs served over rice sweetened with toasted coconut) because I knew the name sounded familiar but couldn't remember ever having seen it in Denver.
I already loved Jaya. First strangely and without any real cause, then fiercely and with a too-fast dedication (both of which are also apt descriptions of how I fall in love with humans). I'd loved it from the first minute I'd stepped down into its half-buried dining room tucked away in a dying strip-mall complex because, even from that first moment, I was met with smiles from the staff, curious glances from the primarily Southeast Asian clientele (who knew Denver had so many Indonesian and Malaysian immigrants?) and the clatter of a busy kitchen working away in the back.