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.

Horse racing is a sport full of jargon: for hardcore fans of the game, the sentence, “He worked a bullet over three panels in 35 and change” makes absolute and perfect sense. (The translation is: this horse was the fastest workout of the morning going three-eighths of a mile, traveling the distance in just over 35 seconds.)