Brian Knox McGugan looks like the type of dealer who was dreamed up in a Hollywood writers room. 

Though the hotel lobby was busy that day, I knew it was him as soon as he came out of the elevator with a tell-tale white suitcase. The suitcase was full of imported goods from Thailand — items that are now rare in California and becoming harder and harder to find, even in the bustling Southeast Asian country he had just traveled from. He has a source in Bangkok, he tells me, but won’t disclose more than that. In my head, I wonder if he’s really as legit as he said he was in his Craigslist ad. 

He delicately peels apart the bubble wrap stamped with a Hello Kitty sticker and arranges the stash on the table, his Armani watch glinting under the hotel’s dim amber light. 

“How much?” I ask, pointing at the Sriracha. 

He tells me that it’s $20 for the small one, $27 for the large. That might seem like a lot for a single bottle, but these days, other sellers are trying to hock them for as much as $100 on Facebook Marketplace and Craigslist. McGugan is just one of many intermediaries born from the Sriracha shortage — and until climate conditions improve, this may be the new normal for chumps like me. 

The chaos began last year when Huy Fong announced that poor weather conditions had ravaged its supply of chile peppers, leading to an indefinite shortage of its most well-known products. As the last remaining stock continues to dwindle in Bay Area grocery stores, desperate residents are even resorting to stealing stray bottles of Sriracha from Senor Sisig, a popular Filipino chain restaurant. 

Even in the wild, Sriracha is hard to find: So far, only a few Bay Area markets still seem to sell it. In June, Koreana Plaza in Oakland sold bottles for $29.99 each and limited them to one unit per customer. In July, an employee at Đại-Thành Supermarket in San Jose confirmed over the phone that the store had some for sale but became cagey when I asked about the price. I contacted one Marketplace seller, Harvey Yang, who appeared to have entire boxes of Sriracha in Elk Grove, but he declined to say how he had acquired them. He did share, however, that his listings have received over 6,000 clicks in the past seven days alone. 

Jerry Good, who has been importing ingredients from Thailand since 1999, said that there’s a “certain mania” whenever something is in short supply. Despite this, he’s confident that the shortage is temporary and suggests waiting it out. He doesn’t believe in selling Sriracha flea market-style, either, even though it’s become increasingly common. “I don’t think that’s the spirit of fair commerce to do that, but that’s just my opinion,” he told SFGATE. 

For McGugan and many others, the shortage seemed to create an opportunity to establish another side hustle, and even though I admired it, buying a price-gouged bottle of Sriracha in a Berkeley hotel lobby just didn’t sit well with me. There had to be another way … or was there?

A few days later, I traveled across the bay to Little Saigon, my old neighborhood in the Tenderloin. It was lunch hour, and, as usual, the Vietnamese restaurants lining Larkin Street were packed to the brim with families, tourists and white-collar workers looming over steaming bowls of pho. I had gotten word that one restaurant in particular — Golden Lotus — might actually have the coveted ingredient that I was looking for. Earlier, when I called and asked if the restaurant sold Huy Fong Sriracha, the man on the phone chuckled and simply said, “Who told you?” 

When I visited in person, my eyes immediately wandered to the plastic bottles lining busy two-tops. In an ocean of Shing Kee, two of them had distinct green caps. 

I asked the server about making a deal, and she passed along the message to her boss, who was stacking receipts and running cards in the back like a well-oiled machine. He told me he didn’t sell his Sriracha to the public but would make an exception — as long as I gave him $30. It was a steep price to pay. But as my mind flashed to my empty pantry and the fresh ramen kits waiting for me at KP, I knew it had to be done. When I agreed, he walked over to a door in the corner and disappeared into the basement. A few seconds later, he reemerged with a 28-ounce bottle and took off the cap to show me that it was unopened. I felt like I was looking at crimson gold. 

Though I was on a mission — and technically had accomplished it — I didn’t want to leave just yet. The aromatic smell of pho, along with the familiar cacophony of the kitchen during lunch hour, transported me back to when I lived and worked near this neighborhood. On my 30-minute breaks, I used to always come to Golden Lotus to pick up a bowl of vermicelli noodles topped with crushed peanuts, cucumber and deep-fried imperial rolls. I still think about it often. 

I started walking back to Civic Center BART but instead found myself on the second floor of Pho 2000, the bright, cluttered Vietnamese restaurant next door. I ordered a generous bowl of pho chay, a vegetarian soup with crisp bok choy and zucchini, and the server brought over a hot kettle and plate of fresh herbs, lime and jalapeño. Nearly every spice is at my disposal, except for Huy Fong, the one missing ingredient that used to be so ubiquitous in these parts. 

Jerry Good, the importer, told me that Vietnamese and Thai cuisine is centered around the searing heat of fresh chile peppers, and already, we’re seeing these precious supplies dwindle. In turn, I can’t help but think about the uncertain future that we’re all slowly stumbling toward and how global warming may very well rob us of the comforts we take for granted — comforts that now seem like they’re drifting further out of reach.  

I bury the Sriracha deeper into my bag, drink the last of my broth and savor it until my stomach hurts.