As the Tabasco tour guide gives me earplugs and a hairnet, his Cajun drawl delivers a message: “You’re about to clear your sinuses.” The door swings open, and a slight breeze carries a spicy and undeniable nose hair-singeing Tabasco bouquet. My olfactory burns. Soon, I’m standing over a vat of pepper juice sloshing and turning, permeating spice vapors so strong I now understand why cops carry pepper spray. I’m coughing, gasping, and my tear-filled eyes only see the person in front of me.
