HUNTING TANDOORI CHICKEN

Further to this morning's fond meandering anent Indian food, I took the opportunity to reread something that I wrote back in 2011.
At that time two years ago I still lamented the painful lack of a female dinner companion -- oh yes, I am so over that now, oh jayzus -- and sorely missed waddling down to a local dabba to stuff my face on ghee-laden delights.

[This morning's post falls under this clickable label: Indian Food. Over two dozen posts, some only marginally connected with gustation. Another clickable label that provides data about the subject is Indian Restaurant.]

When you are in a relationship with a member of the opposite gender, you may put on a little weight. But do not despair! There's nothing quite like a failed romance to improve your figure! You, too, can be the svelt young Don Juan (or Donna Juana) that all the nice ladies swoon for (or lesbians).

It's far far better than diet pills.
Plus it builds character.


Quote:
"I am the lean beast of Nob Hill, I am the savage hungering hyena howling in the wastelands beyond Polk Street; like the jackdaw, the raven, and the vulture, I wait patiently for that juicy red red tandoori chicken to expire ... "

[From: Dribbling doodh all over my dhoti.]


I fermented my metaphors further by suggesting that I was a weevil rolled in besan flour, the veritable scrawny pakora of lonewolfitude.

I may have been insane when I wrote that.

It's a distinct possibility.



Now that I am quite normal again, I do not particularly dwell on Indian food. For one thing, there are nothing but unsavoury dining halls within walking distance, where instead of ghee they use vegetable oil, instead of saffron they use a colouring derived from mercury or spent uranium, and instead of standards of service they have perfected the sneer.
The restaurant where I worked as evening cashier for over fifteen years (1989 to 2005) closed down nearly two years ago, and there are very few decent bawarchis or tandoorwallahs left.


There are no more ghee-drenched multitudes in downtown.
But jalebi is still the ideal breakfast.



Being, naturally, a perfect pervert, I would like to festoon a young lady with golden curls of fried airy dough, drizzle saffron-rose syrup all over her, and lovingly whisper culinary terms into her ears.
It's a thought.




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