The Gift of Sriracha
An unexpected kindness
In our house, Sriracha is a household staple.
For the uninitiated, Sriracha is a spicy red chili sauce originating in Thailand.
We first discovered its signature bite several years ago, as it was the only ingredient we still needed to try a new recipe.
We picked up Huy Fong Sriracha in our local grocery store, its bright red contents seeming to burst through the bottle. Bottles with their emblematic rooster and grass-green lid have been in our fridge ever since.
We had bought it originally to flavor Bangbang, a dish that balances its spicy heat with the coolness of mayonnaise and the sweetness of sugar. Combine and pour over chicken, rice, tomatoes, and cabbage for a surprisingly easy meal.
Since then, we drizzle it over poached eggs, add a dollop to tuna fish, and combine it with salmon and rice for a sushi bowl.
Last summer, though, we ran out of Sriracha right before a long-anticipated vacation. We added it to the grocery list and planned to restock it when we returned home.
Our first trip back to the store left us puzzled. No Sriracha. Its spot on the shelf was empty.
We could pick up Sriracha Mayo, but not quite the same.
We shrugged, confident this would be a temporary issue due to the shipping delays.
By summer’s end, however, the shelf still lay bare.
We started checking other grocery stores without luck.
Amazon offered it for triple the price.
A quick Google search and we had our answer. A red pepper chili shortage in Mexico, the primary source of the precious vegetable, had caused a near cease in production.
Gradually, we saw other brands of Sriracha make their way into the stores. We tried them all, searching for our favorite flavor.
December arrived with a gust of wind and rain in the Pacific Northwest. We decided to cheer ourselves up with a trip to a new restaurant, one promising a view of the river and a variety of brews.
We placed our orders and the waiter casually asked if I would like any additional spice for my fish tacos.
“Maybe Srirach?” she asked, glancing up from her pad.
I gaped at her. “You have Sriracha!”
“Of course,” she responded with a smile.
When she brought our orders, she plopped a full-size bottle on the table.
I think I applauded.
She looked a little startled, so we shared our Sriracha woes. She listened and laughed, especially when my dad asked if we could add the bottle to our tab.
She couldn’t do that, but she could bring me some to go. I thanked her and smiled, expecting a sample to be savored for the next few days.
Instead, she brought a cup. An eight-ounce cup, to go, filled to the brim with our favorite.
I think I teared up.
We delighted in our favorites over the next few weeks. We lingered over Bangbang and exclaimed over salmon sushi bowls.
Each time we scooped out a spoonful, I thought of our waiter’s kindness.
Her willingness to share a little something extra with a stranger. Her realization that this little something extra meant something extra to this stranger. A realization many others wouldn’t have even noticed. It is, after all, just a condiment.
In the great scheme of things, Sriracha is a very small thing.
But, for us, one that brings no small amount of joy.
This little gift gave our dinners a boost again. It also gave our moods a boost, a bright red splash against the dreary winter days.
We savored it as much as we could. As we scraped the last bit, we silently thanked her once more for giving us a few of our favorite meals back for a short while.
The next week?
We glanced at the familiar shelf, as part of our routine grocery trip. This time, we stopped.
The shelf was stocked.
Sriracha was back.
We bought two bottles.
