Habanero Escober leaned against a fence on his compound, smoking. A menial worker named Jose passed him an ice-cold Columbian lager. “I appreciate the cerveza, Jose. But it is your sombrero I’m wanting.”Jose grasped the hat with a protective hand and in a sheepish whisper replied: “Lo siento, Mr. Escobar. You see, my wife, she made me this sombrero and—”Suddenly, in a motion faster than desert lightning, Escobar pulled a pistol and blasted the Colombian cowboy straight off his mule. The sombrero swayed down—an autumn leaf—right into Escobar’s paws and he adjusted it onto his head. “No Jose,” he said, stamping out the cigarillo underfoot. “It is I who am sorry. And next time you want to talk, please . . . call me Habanero.” Habs. He’s a hot-headed compadre that will turn on you the moment you take your eyes off’m. Starts savory, but once things go south of the border, they get violently hot. You’ve been warned.

Be forewarned – within the four walls of this very bag you hold in your hands sleeps a monster. A flavor monster. The gastro-lovechild of two flavor revolutionists, both hailing from the fertile flavorlands of Downingtown, PA, and each of whom proclaims taste – and taste alone – as the keystone of the human experience. Legend has it this monster was conceived on a fateful beer-infused night at the local D-Town brewpub, when a drop of ale unknowingly found its way onto an unsuspecting slab of O.G. Hickory and knocked the socks off the tongues of all those who tasted it. Others maintain that the origin of Righteous Felon was craft beer itself, and thus Victorious B.I.G Jerky wasn’t created by Righteous Felon, but rather it created them. Whatever tale you believe to be true, if indeed you possess the courage to push forward and open this bag, you will surely awaken the flavor monster within. With that, its powers will be unchained and it will stop at nothing to instill within you the single virtue its parents bestowed upon it: whether it beer or whether it food, Flavor Always Favors the Bold.

Like a heat-seeking missile, spicy shredder Voodoo Chile always knows where to tickle the guitar strings. In ‘69 he sent a sonic-boom of fret hopping harmony onto one million fans at Jerkstock, wrapping a marinade-soaked bandana ‘round his forehead so he could hear flavor and taste sound throughout the performance. Voodoo, wizard of Righteous riffs and lawless licks, awaits induction into the Flavor Hall of Fame. Powered by the holy-water that is Voodoo Chile Hot Sauce and a tittle of toasted garlic to wipe the pain away, jammin’ with Voodoo is nothing less than a face-melting experience. Scalp yourself a pair of tickets before it’s too late, his inferno of a show usually sells out. Get in close, but beware the the front-row. Don’t wanna get singed. And keep in mind: backstage passes are reserved for the bold.  

When the Founding Felons convened to sign the Constitution of the Flavor Revolution, one jerk and one jerk alone deigned to sign first.  And nay, his name were not John Ham-Cock.  I speak of course of Bourbon Franklin, a tasteful gentleman and fine patriot in matters of flavor freedom.  Solid as brick, ye olde Franklin’s constitution is that of pure vanilla bean and the whiskey that flows from stills across the American plain, the smokies and the redwood forest.  When the war began and the Empire of Truck-Stop jerky dubbed us ‘Felons,’ and refused to let us secede, who first loaded his musket?  Aye, Bourbon Franklin it were, and Bourbon Franklin, with a smoky whiskey in one hand and a smoking barrel in the other, may it always be.  With the Declaration of Marination signed in Philly itself, no other flavor in the Righteous roster embodies independence, patriotism and the American Vanilla Bean Dream quite like Franky-boy.  Amazing Grace, the taste resounds.