This place rocks like Gary Busey in denim. My buddha and I went there on Saturday night and had an august meal consisting of spicy Kung-Pao chicken, special fried rice (w/jalapenos), spicy chicken ribs, and the coup de gras, the cumin lamb hot-pot. We washed everything down with a couple Tsingtaos and a pitcher of water.
To start with, the Kung-Pao Chicken was good and exactly what we expected (spicy scale = 7). The fried rice was equally good as well as safely satisfying (spicy scale = 6). Both dishes became even better when the garlic chili-oil condiment liberally dispensed itself onto my plate.
When the big guns came out, I was a little leary (later, I was very Leary). The chicken ribs were great (spicy scale w/chili = 9; w/0 = 5). The reminded of crispy chinese spare ribs and were a pleasure to eat.
Then there was the soup. The soup was deep red and stung with little red chilli feelers when smelled. The first sip was unbearably odd, almost masochistic. Following the initial shock came a wave of flavors that really only come with tongue abuse: an odd gallimaufry of leafy sweetness that transitions into salty psychosis. Apart from that, the lamb itself was absolutely tender and the cumin and noodles blended well (spicy scale = irrelevant after the first bowl).
By the second bowl I came upon another personality. His name was Chinese Peppercorn. After devouring him I realized that her clever ruse had worked. The little bastard had brought the left half of my tongue into a new dimension of cognizance. After that, nothing tasted the same to him. Salty became sweet and bitter just kind of slinked away. The soup was a quasi-spiritual experience and by my fourth bowl I was seasoning it with sweat. It was at this time I was in the full throes of a proper chilli high and was positively ecstatic. Although, it took a couple hours for Lefty McToungebert to return to normal, the singular fact remains that the entire experience of a good szechwan hot-pot is invaluable.