THE WILD CHICKENS OF TANDURISTAN

For the first time in ages I ate Indian food. Tandoori chicken, saag paneer, and garlic naan. Courtesy of my apartment mate. She wasn't impressed by the place where it was made, and I have put the remainder of the saag paneer and also the rice pilaf in the refrigerator.
It shall make a splendid breakfast.

Some time last week she had asked if I felt like a spot of Indian food; she needed to be in the vicinity of a new restaurant elsewhere in the city, and she is very fond of desi khana.
When she was still my significant other, I introduced her to it. Being Chinese American from a severely Toishanese background, it was quite new and startling for her. But she took to it like a duck to orange.
She's Chinese; they like food.

This was not that new restaurant, just one of the nearby dabhas.
Shan't mention the name. She didn't like it.



For years while I worked part time at the Indian restaurant of fond memory (it closed about four years ago, long after I left), I would have Indian food three times a week. Then for several years at least once a week.
Since Savage Kitten (my apartment mate) and I stopped being romantically involved with each other it is something I rarely even see. There is no point in going by myself, and anyway, our two favourite places have both closed.

I've actually eaten far more Chinese food since becoming single again than during the entire time of our relationship.



There are some things that one just cannot whip up easily at home. Anything which really requires a tandoor oven, for instance. The regular San Francisco apartment kitchen just isn't equipped with a clay-lined hole in the ground in which to build a fire. Perhaps as new buildings go up that will become standard -- we now have many more computer-wallahs and engineers than before -- but it will take a while before landlords of older rental units consider upgrading.




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