I read in The New York Times that there’s an “unprecedented shortage” of sriracha, a fiery red-hot sauce that adds not only a jolt of heat but a punch of flavor. This information upset me. In fact, I panicked. It was a crisis, a true disaster. Not only for thousands of Vietnamese restaurants, where sriracha is the star condiment. This was a personal crisis, because I splash sriracha on damn near everything I put in my mouth, from V-8 juice to eggs, soups, hot dogs, pizza, stir fry … you name it. Few comestibles wouldn’t benefit from a squirt or two from that iconic red plastic bottle with the green cap.

This Asian hot sauce has been the rage for years. So popular, in fact, the Times story reports that it has even inspired a legion of fans to dress up for Halloween each year like the bottle. I have yet to go that far. But my proud little secret is that I was an early adopter, a big fan long before sriracha became a culinary superstar. Kind of like discovering Bruce Springsteen in a New Jersey dive bar before he hit the big time.

I have a long history of love affairs and broken relationships with a wide variety of hot sauces. It all started with Tabasco, my first love. And probably the first hot sauce most people ever tried. It showed up on your table at Mexican restaurants, burger joints, diners and the like. And it was hot. Oh, man. Like liquid fire. If you overdosed on your meatloaf with the stuff you might consider a quick trip to the ER. And if you tried to calm the raging inferno inside your mouth by gulping a glass of water (stupid, you’re spreading the burning oils) instead of eating a piece of bread (smart, absorbing those oils) you were adding fuel to the fire. The Louisiana-based company came out with a milder green version of the sauce, but it was a weak sister.

Then foodies discovered the joys of pepper-flavored sauces and an entire hot-sauce industry sprung up overnight, kind of like the craft beer phenomenon. Local grocery stores started stocking a wide range of brands and stand-alone gourmet hot-sauce stores appeared on the scene with a dizzying array of small-bottled potions promising consumers a bracing dose of both pleasure and pain. Hot sauce had arrived, like baby kale salad and squid-ink pasta. It was, well, hot.

I’m quite partial to Korean food. Others must agree, because suddenly you could buy garlic-forward kimchi at the farmers’ market. And some of that stuff was so hot it must have been radioactive. I stopped making Mexican tacos and started making Korean tacos, with seared steak marinated in Korean BBQ sauce, piled high with fiery kimchi and cooling shredded cabbage. Yum! I ate them with two or three extra napkins for my copiously running nose.

In my humble gastronomical opinion, if you want to make hot even better, add sweet to it. Hot and sweet are perfect complements, like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers on the dance floor, proof positive that if the mix is right the sum is greater than its parts. Think Mexican hot chocolate. Pad Thai. Pepper jelly. Mango salsa.

But back to sriracha. The sauce is now apparently hard to find, the result of a shortage of red jalapeno chiles (sun-ripened peppers from Mexico). Perhaps this has something to do with the Mexican drug cartels. They reportedly control the avocado and lime trade, so why not peppers? Perhaps the cartels have learned that if they deny Americans one anodyne addiction, we’re likely to seek out more powerful addictions like, say, Mexican heroin and crystal meth, from which they can reap greater profits. Sounds far fetched? Just saying.

In any event, I’m stocking up on sriracha, if the stocks haven’t already been depleted. As soon as I finish this column, I’m headed for Hannaford, before there’s a run on those precious red and green bottles! And I’m rethinking this year’s Halloween costume.

Steven Price is a Kennebunkport resident. He can be reached at sprice1953@gmail.com.

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