Brick Lane
Tonight, I am going to Brick Lane for a curry.
I can't begin to tell you how excited I am. I have been looking forward to this all through the job nerves, all through the missing that bloke who's buggered off to Chicago, and all through the other various crises that have caused my shoulders to clamp, vice-like, to my temples over the last few days.
The reason for the curry is Shaun, a much-missed favourite friend, who emigrated to Australia last November with his wonderful wife Renae and her magnificent rack. His company has pinged him back over here for a few meetings, so clearly we are all attempting to cram about a year-and-a-half's worth of seeing Shaun into a week before he spins around like a boomerang, and whizzes back off Melbourne.
But enough about him - more about curry.
I came late in life to the joys of curry. My parents indulged, but I feared the spice, and didn't fancy the smell much. I popped my curry cherry at 16 (the legal age of spicy consent) in the Shahin in Sunbury-on-Thames, and never looked back. Drunken curries with friends were a big highlight of the legal drinking and 'free house' years - the era in which I perfected the poppadom chop, and learned the art of blowing shards of the aforementioned fried, floury snack at boys without spilling my pint.
These were, I have to say, chicken korma years. It has taken me a long, long time to cultivate a love of spicy food, mainly because most of the hot dishes served up to Brits are shite. It takes a master to dazzle your senses and let fire dance deliciously across your tongue without blowing your head off. Toxic brown sludge laced with a thousand red chillies is not subtle, nor is it cuisine. It is the revenge of Indian restaraunteurs on people who believe it is acceptable to blow shards of poppadom at boys in their place of business.
So, tonight I am hoping and praying for a near-religious experience in Brick Lane. And if I've got any luck left after getting the job, it would also be fabulous to have enough room left for a salt beef bagel from Beigel Bake.
I can't begin to tell you how excited I am. I have been looking forward to this all through the job nerves, all through the missing that bloke who's buggered off to Chicago, and all through the other various crises that have caused my shoulders to clamp, vice-like, to my temples over the last few days.
The reason for the curry is Shaun, a much-missed favourite friend, who emigrated to Australia last November with his wonderful wife Renae and her magnificent rack. His company has pinged him back over here for a few meetings, so clearly we are all attempting to cram about a year-and-a-half's worth of seeing Shaun into a week before he spins around like a boomerang, and whizzes back off Melbourne.
But enough about him - more about curry.
I came late in life to the joys of curry. My parents indulged, but I feared the spice, and didn't fancy the smell much. I popped my curry cherry at 16 (the legal age of spicy consent) in the Shahin in Sunbury-on-Thames, and never looked back. Drunken curries with friends were a big highlight of the legal drinking and 'free house' years - the era in which I perfected the poppadom chop, and learned the art of blowing shards of the aforementioned fried, floury snack at boys without spilling my pint.
These were, I have to say, chicken korma years. It has taken me a long, long time to cultivate a love of spicy food, mainly because most of the hot dishes served up to Brits are shite. It takes a master to dazzle your senses and let fire dance deliciously across your tongue without blowing your head off. Toxic brown sludge laced with a thousand red chillies is not subtle, nor is it cuisine. It is the revenge of Indian restaraunteurs on people who believe it is acceptable to blow shards of poppadom at boys in their place of business.
So, tonight I am hoping and praying for a near-religious experience in Brick Lane. And if I've got any luck left after getting the job, it would also be fabulous to have enough room left for a salt beef bagel from Beigel Bake.
posted by Elizabeth at 2:56 PM
3 Comments:
Wonderfully written. I just wish I knew if I was getting good curry or not -- as a new Canadian and former American, I know zero. Looking forward to seeing your culinary adventure detailed tomorow.
That's only if you order a vindaloo, something I clearly would not do.
LOL re your cherry.
Now about the magnificent rack ...
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