Curry Adventure in London

 

This piece was written much earlier, on one of my London adventures.  You see, my brother and I meet there every couple of years.  I don’t remember the date of this visit, but I remember the food.

 

My first night in London, I spent roaming the streets of the area called Soho.  Not the most picturesque parts of London, but certainly one of the most colorful.  There is an ever abundance of ex-colonialists, mainly Indians, but also many blacks and Chinese as well.  Only the Indians, at least the women, have any hold on their national dress; everyone else has made the conversion to western attire.

 

You have to listen carefully to the other foreigners who live in London, since most have learned their English from Englishmen and speak with a kind of Hindustani- Oxfordian accent, with as many twists and turns as a chased rabbit.  Soho is especially blessed with these converts to cradle to grave security, and the area features as many Indian and Chinese restaurants as there probably are in Madras, or Hong Kong.  Each promises “authentic cooking,” Peking Style,” with rows of barbecue ducks hanging on hooks to prove it, or  “Best Curry and Tandori.”

 

On some streets, the spicy zest of curry overpowers everything else, which is fine if you like curried dishes, which I do, but may be a bit much for those with McDonalds conditioned taste buds.

 

Anyway, with my brother still a day away, and me being both hungry and needing to kill some time, I breezed into The New Curry Centre, stared at the menu handed me by a stubby, olive complexioned Indian man  with flashy white teeth, and under his supervision I ordered Moglai Meat and a dry vegetable curry.

 

As I passed the waiter on my way to washing my hands, I casually mentioned I like my curry very hot.  He yelled down the dumbwaiter to the cook, and when the food got to me it was spicy hot enough to dissolve the silverware.  Christ, I bit into that stuff and tears came to my eyes.  The waiters were standing by the bar to see me go up in smoke and I’m sure they were taking side bets on whether I would be a one alarm or a two alarm fire.

 

Now, I do like hot food, but this stuff was like treating heartburn with a bottle of Tabasco. Nevertheless, pride prevailed and I ate every bite without ever reaching for my water glass.

 

The waiters were greatly impressed and besides offering me some “special ice cream,” which I turned down since it was probably made with dry ice, they gave me a standing ovation on my way out the door.

 

The next day was much like the day after a party, when you swear never to drink again.  But, my brother was hungry for curry and of course I had to impress him….