Curry. Con carne. Arrabbiata. Peri-peri. In almost every corner of this world, you’ll find a dish that’s been given the signature bite of the chilli pepper. As strong as they are small, these pungent peppers have achieved the culinary equivalent of world domination, when all they really wanted to do was to get us to stop eating them. 

The other day, I came across a headline that seemed innocent enough: Campbell’s is spicing up its range of iconic soups.

Harmless, right? Just a classic American brand keeping up with the times, rolling out a few new flavours to keep things fresh. Except, the deeper I dug into this story, the weirder it got.

Campbell’s isn’t just playing around with new flavours – it’s diving headfirst into the spice pool. The New Jersey-based food giant has launched four new varieties: Spicy Chicken Noodle, Spicy Tomato, Spicy Buffalo-Style Cream of Chicken, and (I can’t believe I’m typing this) Spicy Nacho Cheese Soup. It’s a weirdly hot twist for a brand strongly associated with comfort and nostalgia, don’t you think? After all, for most of us, soup is the kind of thing we eat when we’re cold or sick, not when we’re actively trying to break a sweat.

And yet, this isn’t just Campbell’s throwing stuff at the wall to see what sticks. The numbers back them up: spicy flavours account for a quarter of soup category growth, according to industry data. Younger consumers in particular are driving the demand for spicier flavours (if you were looking for concrete proof that Gen Z are all secretly masochists, this may be as close as you get). A 2022 survey of over 6,000 consumers found that nearly three-quarters believe that most foods taste better with some level of heat.

Spicy food isn’t new. What is new is the way it’s seeping into everything, not just the traditionally mild and soothing world of canned soup. It’s the Hot Ones YouTube series, where celebrities sweat through Scoville-induced existential crises. It’s the viral challenges where people voluntarily eat chips so spicy they require a legal disclaimer. It’s the fact that there are entire festivals dedicated to hot sauce, where attendees gleefully burn their taste buds off like it’s a competitive sport.

Most species avoid pain as a survival mechanism. But humans? We chase it down and put it on the menu. 

How does a chilli pepper make a living?

Let’s kick things off with a little biology. Ever wonder why chilli peppers burn in the first place? It all comes down to something called an antifeedant. Sounds fancy, but in plain terms, it’s nature’s way of saying, “Hey, maybe don’t eat me” to the world. Some plants develop foul-smelling fruits (looking at you, durian) in order to scare off would-be grazers, while others cultivate bitter-tasting leaves or roots (thanks a lot, kale). 

The fiery antifeedant at play in chillies is called capsaicin, and it works in cahoots with sidekicks known as capsaicinoids. When ingested, these chemicals actually trigger pain receptors in your mouth and throat, sending off an SOS signal straight to your brainstem and thalamus, which process heat and discomfort. Essentially, your body thinks you’ve eaten something like a hot coal, hence the sweating, the gasping, and the urge to chug milk like your life depends on it.

But why would a plant want to make eating it a miserable experience? Most fruiting plants rely on animals to eat their fruits and then, um, distribute their seeds elsewhere as a method of reproduction. So why go full sadist? As it turns out, chillies aren’t actually waging war on all creatures indiscriminately. They’re just picky about their seed couriers.

Mammals (like us) have capsaicin receptors, which means we feel the burn. Birds, on the other hand, get a VIP pass. They don’t have capsaicin receptors, which means they can munch on chillies without so much as a flinch. As a result, they became nature’s top-tier chilli seed couriers, spreading them far and wide.

So, in a way, chillies pulled off an evolutionary masterstroke. They deter land-based mammals who might distribute their seeds in a narrow radius while enlisting far-flying (and far-pooping) birds as their personal delivery service. It seems like a faultless plan on paper, if only human beings didn’t decide to not only tolerate the burn but actively seek it out. The question is, why are we like this?

Some like it hot

One school of thought among evolutionary biologists suggests that our fondness for spice started as a survival tactic. Peppers (along with other spicy foods like wasabi and mustard) come packed with natural antimicrobial properties, meaning they help kill off the bacteria that can turn a meal from delicious to disastrous. This theory makes particular sense when you consider that spicier cuisines tend to dominate in warmer climates, where food spoils more easily. The thinking goes that those who developed a taste (and tolerance) for chilli were less likely to get sick from rotten food, and over time, that preference became ingrained.

But biology is only one piece of the puzzle. Psychology has also thrown its hat into the ring with a different perspective, one that paints spice lovers as thrill-seekers. Back in 1980, psychologists Paul Rozin and Deborah Schiller put this to the test by feeding people progressively hotter doses of chilli. Their conclusion was that the attraction to spice is similar to the rush people get from riding roller coasters or taking scalding hot baths. It’s all about “constrained risks”, in other words, situations where we can experience a little bit of danger (or at least perceived danger) in a controlled, safe environment. More recent studies have taken this further, linking a preference for spice to personality traits like sensation seeking and sensitivity to reward. In other words, if you’re the kind of person who enjoys skydiving, gambling, or cranking the shower dial up to magma, odds are you’re also the one ordering the spiciest thing on the menu.

And then, of course, there’s culture to take into consideration. Remember, humans don’t just eat for survival – we eat for meaning. Our food choices reflect tradition, identity, and the way we want to be perceived. Anthropologists have found that in many cultures, spice is less about flavour and more about who you are. Take Mexico, for instance. In some regions, spiciness is deeply tied to national and regional identity. Cultural historian Esther Katz references a phrase from Indigenous Mixtec people in Oaxaca: “Somos fuertes porque comemos puro chile”, which translates to “We are strong because we eat nothing but pepper”. The implication is that handling heat isn’t just a preference, but a mark of resilience, toughness, and even pride. Similar associations pop up across multiple cultures, where eating spicy food is linked to bravery, masculinity, or just good old-fashioned toughness.

And so, the humble chilli, a fruit that evolved to keep us at bay, has instead become the object of our obsession. We’ve taken its fiery defence mechanism and turned it into a badge of honour, a source of pleasure, and a billion-dollar industry. Whether we’re sweating over a bowl of soup, braving a Carolina Reaper for internet glory, or simply dousing our eggs in Tobasco, one thing is clear: pain, in small, edible doses, is something we’re more than willing to pay for. Maybe that’s the real human enigma – while most creatures avoid suffering, we’ve found a way to season it, bottle it, and ask for seconds.

Humans 1, chillies 0.

About the author: Dominique Olivier

Dominique Olivier is the founder of human.writer, where she uses her love of storytelling and ideation to help brands solve problems.

She is a weekly columnist in Ghost Mail and collaborates with The Finance Ghost on Ghost Mail Weekender, a Sunday publication designed to help you be more interesting. She now also writes a regular column for Daily Maverick.

Dominique can be reached on LinkedIn here.