Observant pedestrians in the environs of 74th Street and 37th Avenue in Jackson Heights, Queens, soon notice a common pattern. Abstract red splotches pepper the pavement. They tell the tale of paan chewing and the copious scarlet saliva it generates. The thousand-year-old tradition is alive and well in this bustling neighborhood of sari shops, Bengali kebab houses, greengrocers, paratha factories, and what seems like a blocklong store specializing in ornate Indian bridal jewelry.

Aphrodisiac, blood purifier, breath-freshener, digestive, stimulant ? yes the triangular betel-leaf wrapped bundle that is paan has it all, including the ability to stain your teeth red after years of habitual usage. Paan boasts a rich ceremonial history. Early Sanskrit texts mention its consumption as one of the enjoyments of royal life, which also include incenses, women, clothes, music, bed and food.

It's also very much a part of life for Indians living and eating in Jackson Heights who partake of it as a post-prandial treat. Some prefer meetha paan, a sweet variety bursting with anise seed, candied rose petal, cardamom pods, and various other aromatic powders and spices. Others go for something a wee bit stronger ? sadha paan, which is made with tobacco. It often includes such baroquely named tobacco juice concentrates as Kashmiri Quiwam No. 3. 

I'll never forget the first time I ordered sadha paan. My friend and I had gorged ourselves at one of the myriad South Indian/Paki/Bengali steam table joints that line 74th St. Until that day, I'd only sampled meetha paan. It was not unlike trying to insert a candied football between cheek and gum. But we weren't about the sweet stuff that day ? we wanted to score some betel nut along with the reputed feeling of euphoria it causes.

We waddled up to the paan wallah's little booth. It was adorned with a blue and white sign that read, "Makes a Good smell with your breath!" There he stood, methodically coating green, heart-shaped piper betel leaves with white edible lime, which would enable the betel nuts release to release their psychoactive agents. (For all the junior botanists out there, these are from two different plants.) Laid out on the counter before him were bowls of spices and bottles of tobacco, many of which bore pictures of stern looking gents, no doubt the desi equivalent of the Marlboro Man. 

He bared his red-stained teeth in a curious smile as two decidedly non-Indian cats before him each ordered a sadha paan. He took two leaves, coated them with lime, sprinkled tobacco, dried betel nut and other mysterious ingredients on top and folded each into a more or less neat triangle.

We each paid him a dollar and he eyed us quizzically as we popped the packets into our mouths. For a moment or two we savored them, enjoying the numbing effect of the tobacco along with a mild but steadily growing nicotine buzz. We even spat a few streams of saliva onto the sidewalk. As we started to chew vigorously, the paan wallah's bemused expression turned to one of horror. We soon understood why. The acrid tobacco- and nicotine-laden extracts burned our tongues causing us to spit even more vigorously. We both knew that we had to expunge the noxious mass. Rather than lose cred with the paan wallah, we ran around the corner where we promptly spat it out.

It was many months before I worked up the intestinal fortitude to try sadha paan again. But I did. Several times, in fact. Each time I went the paan wallah would chuckle and say, "Oh you very, very strong." I found that it gave me more of a wicked nicotine-like high than anything else. These days I get my paan with betel and no tobacco and just a handful of spices.

And, in case you're wondering, there really is no graceful way to dispose of the masticated remants of seeds and leaf after you've gotten your paan on. And one other thing, whatever you do don't get on the subway and eat paan! Unless you plan on sporting a spit cup like George W. used to.