Thin, salted, and cut with vinegar, hot enough to matter in a few drops.
The small bottle on the table in a Hawaiʻi kitchen. It came out of the plantation camps, where Portuguese, Chinese, Japanese, Filipino, and Hawaiian families cooked next to each other, and it belongs to that table the way the plate lunch does. The "Hawaiian" in the name is the pepper's: nioi is a small, fiercely hot chili that grows in yards across the islands, so what is in the bottle is literally water of nioi. Off-island there is no nioi to buy, and this one is made with bird's eye chiles from an Asian market in Bellevue, which is the closest stand-in and gets it most of the way there.
Nothing ferments and nothing reduces. Salt goes into the water as a percentage of its weight rather than as a spoonful, which is what decides whether the bottle seasons your food or only wets it, and near-boiling brine goes over the chiles and garlic raw so the chile gives up its oil in seconds while the garlic stays sharp underneath. The peppers go in two ways, most of them crushed and a few left whole: the crushed ones give up their heat by morning and the whole ones keep working for weeks, which is why a bottle at the end of the month is hotter than the one you tasted on day one.
Contains no declared allergens.
No batch of this one has been bottled yet. It is a recipe and an intention, and the first jar is the next step.