The Hot Sauce Chronicles

I carry hot sauce in my purse. I'm not ashamed of this. What I am is prepared. Because after thirty years of dining professionally, I have learned that not all restaurants understand heat.

Here is my comprehensive review of hot sauce policies on Nantucket. I have conducted this research personally, over the course of one very spicy summer.

The Categories

Restaurants, I have found, fall into four categories when it comes to hot sauce:

Category 1: They Get It. These restaurants have good hot sauce, visible and accessible, and nobody judges you for using it. They understand that spice is personal and preference is sacred. These are my people.

Category 2: They Have It But You Have to Ask. The sauce exists somewhere—a back shelf, the kitchen, the manager's desk—but it's not offered. You must specifically request it, and when you do, there's a slight pause. A raised eyebrow. A silent judgment. But ultimately, sauce is provided.

Category 3: They Look at You Weird. You ask for hot sauce. The server tilts their head like a confused golden retriever. "Hot sauce?" they repeat, as if you've requested something obscene. "For... the eggs?" Yes, for the eggs. For the potatoes. For the existence of flavor. Hot sauce is procured, eventually, but everyone involved feels uncomfortable.

Category 4: They Asked Me to Leave. This has happened exactly once. I will describe it.

The Incident

It was July of last year. A fine dining establishment that shall remain nameless. I was reviewing their new tasting menu, which was exquisite but, to my palate, missing heat.

I asked, very politely, if they had any hot sauce.

The waiter blanched. He retreated to consult with the chef. Several minutes passed. The chef himself emerged from the kitchen, still in his whites, to speak with me directly.

"Madame," he said, in an accent that suggested formal culinary training, "the dishes are prepared as intended."

"I understand," I said. "And they're lovely. I would simply like to add a bit of heat."

"The dishes," he repeated, "are prepared as intended."

I reached into my purse and produced my travel-sized bottle of Cholula.

What happened next was a conversation I'd rather not transcribe. It involved the words "sacred culinary vision," "insult to my art," and, ultimately, "I'm afraid I must ask you to leave."

I left. I have not returned. I regret nothing.

The Surprising Stars

Here's what I didn't expect: some of the most casual places have the best hot sauce game. There's a breakfast counter where they keep four different options on every table—Tabasco, Cholula, Sriracha, and a house-made fermented habanero that I would commit crimes for. Nobody blinks when you use it. It's just there, like salt, like pepper, like civilization.

Meanwhile, several mid-range restaurants seem personally offended by the concept. As if adding heat to their perfectly competent but underseasoned eggs Benedict is a violation of some code.

A Plea to Chefs

I understand that you've crafted your dishes carefully. I understand that spice can mask other flavors. I understand that your culinary training taught you about balance and restraint and the integrity of the plate.

But here's the thing: heat is a preference. Some of us, for reasons of biology or culture or pure hedonism, want more of it than you've provided. This is not a critique of your cooking. This is a statement about our taste buds.

Keep some hot sauce in the back. Offer it when asked. Don't make it weird.

My Recommendations

For spicy breakfast: the places by the harbor, where fishermen eat. They understand that 4am starts require capsaicin.

For spicy dinner: the newer spots, the ones with global influences, the ones that don't flinch when you ask.

For everywhere else: bring your own. I recommend a purse-sized Cholula. It's saved me more times than I can count.

Harold, if you're reading this: no, I'm not adding hot sauce to the lobster roll. Some things are sacred even to me. But my eggs? My tacos? My morning potatoes? Those are getting the treatment.