Chilli paste. Humble but mighty, fragrant but feisty. It’s strong enough to peel the chemicals off a stainless steel knife, it can tingle your tastebuds until they can tango no longer, it will make your mouth water and your eyes sting and swelter like a gaudy neon sign. It is a force to be reckoned with, a force capable of causing an 8.8 on the Richter Scale and sending your heart into hyperdrive. But most surprising of all is that everything I have just mentioned has been blatantly disregarded in the past as though it were a practice fire drill. Of all people on the suspect list, my grandfather admitted readily to the crime of contradicting the urban legend of this fiery paste, stating his alibi as a man who habitually reaches for teaspoon after teaspoon of his chilli paste to spread through his soups and steaks as though it were a mere trifle to his defiant will for spiciness. Perhaps the man is more a legend than the recipe itself, for he is well-known in my family for his iron stomach that has survived all known attacks of food poisoning and a palate so strong even the fieriest of dishes are a mere tickle to his incredible heat threshold. On several occasions, he would leave plates of cooked food out and forget to put it into the fridge. His profile? He has been confronted about this terrible habit on many accounts, and his excuse is always the same: “It’s a cold day, why does it need to go into the fridge so quickly?”. Other times it was that lovable forgetfulness that had him stow away a plate of canned mackarel into the cupboard for days without cling wrap, leave the gas stove running while bargaining in the delicatessen about the rising price of salami or even pouring in so much red wine into his pasta sauces, the colour would shift unevenly to an eerie, glowing purple.
Amidst all the commotion I have made about a seemingly simple recipe for chilli paste, two questions are probably stinging you right now: ‘is it really that hot?’ and ‘is it really worth trying?’ To tell you the truth, I could never understand why he would boast about the large plastic bags he collected and filled to the brim with dried chilli seeds, until they were made into paste, jarred for a few months and applied liberally to his spaghetti al’olio. It was an experience my tongue has not forgiven me for. Even to this very day, his outside office is stocked with recycled jars of chilli so dense and so hot that the liquid will stain your spoon and holds a vivid brown consistency when held to the light. This is a tribute to his art for the spiciest meal that somehow retains an intoxicating flavour. One day, if I can sneak through the mess of his backyard patio, I might take a photograph or two of that syrupy stuff that the Devil himself would advocate. Perhaps only then will you, the reader, truly believe me when I say that this recipe is an inspiration of the original, but by no means will ever reach that same zenith of perfect product.
In this instance, I have relied upon the natural acidity of fresh lime the with coerciveness of the salt and chilli to prevent an overuse of oil that is known to overpower meals. It is even versatile enough for grilled fish and chicken. Just make sure you aren’t fussy about garlic, because this paste will leave you warding off vampires long after the Gothic era of literary history.
EDIT: Choice of chilli? Long slender Mexican kind; don’t be tempted to try your odds with bell peppers or worse or you will end up with more spice than flavour.
INGREDIENTS
5 large fresh red chillies (10 small chillies)
7 garlic cloves, roughly diced
40mL lime juice (preferrably fresh for more biting flavour, or concentrate for less biting flavour )
70mL pure olive oil
pinch of sea salt and thyme
Posted 1 month, 16 days ago. in Pickles and Antipasto, Recipes.
It definitely looks fiery! But I can imagine heaped spoonfuls of it on a plate of grilled seafood! YUM! Be ready and get fire brigade on speed dial.