Texas Pete on a taco? No way! A hot sauce aficionado discusses the finer points — and correct applications — of the fiery condiment
by Kelli Fletcher

I grew up in a spice-averse household. My mom once bit into a green bell pepper and shrieked that her lip was blistering and needed ice. Growing up in North Carolina, I’d see Texas Pete on the table at every BBQ joint and seafood shack we visited, but I never touched the stuff. “It’ll burn your tastebuds off” or “it’ll make a hole in your stomach,” my mom warned. Our pantry’s most daring condiment? McCormick’s ground black pepper.

Then one fateful morning in middle school, my sister urged me to grab that yellow and red bottle instead of the ketchup at the Bojangles. I doused my chicken biscuit with vinegary, peppery goodness — and it was love at first bite. 

From that moment on, I’ve taken the opposite approach as my mother, putting hot sauce on everything from eggs and cheeseburgers to cottage cheese and salads. Which is how I’ve found my adult self with not one, but two refrigerator shelves dedicated to hot sauce of varying heat levels and flavor profiles. 

Through years of trial and error, each has earned its own specific applications. Texas Pete goes on bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches and in New England clam chowder. Crystal is my go-to for fried chicken biscuits, muffulettas and chicken soup. Valentina is for breakfast burritos and taco salads; Goya is reserved for rice and beans. Sriracha, Sambal Oelek and chili crisp adorn every dish of stir-fry, pho, ramen and dumplings. Tabasco is only for Bloody Marys or emergencies. 

About five years ago, my husband grabbed the wrong bottle for our taco salad.

“Can you swap the Texas Pete for the Valentina?” I asked.

He looked genuinely confused. “What’s the difference?”

I spun around so fast I should’ve gotten whiplash. “What’s the difference?” I repeated, my eyes wide.

“Do you really think you can tell the difference between all of those hot sauces in the fridge?” he asked.

“One hundred percent,” I said without blinking.

“Alright then. Blind taste test.” 

He rallied seven spoons and began extracting bottles from the fridge. I left the room, returned wearing a sleep mask, and sat down for the challenge. 

What followed was a flawless performance, correctly naming spoonful after spoonful. After 15 years together, not much surprised him anymore, but this did. “How?!” he asked.

I launched into a 20-minute TED Talk about the nuances of every bottle in our fridge — and several that weren’t there but deserved honorable mention — as well as the aforementioned pairings. A lawyer by profession, he’s well-practiced in arguing a position, but was a little surprised to see me so passionately do the same about the contents of glass bottles. 

Funny how love and devotion for the unfamiliar build over time. My refrigerator shelves are a testament to that. So is my marriage to a man who has always cared enough to listen and respect my preferences, however silly they might seem to others. These days, my husband knows exactly which bottle to grab based on the meal. (He’s even developed his own opinions, often leaning towards Texas Pete over Crystal.)

My mom still won’t touch the stuff, but I’m proud to report that my stomach lining, tastebuds — and marriage — are still intact. 

This article originally appeared in the February 2026 issue of WALTER magazine.