There isn’t much she can eat; but what she does, she does with feeling.
Now, I’m not a fussy eater…
*prolonged pause, while she waits for the laughter to die down at the back*
…but when I was a lass, I couldn’t eat curry. You may remember – those who know me in real life certainly will – my Three Cardinal Rules of Food (which have undergone some honing since I last posted them):
1. No foods that look like vomit or contain mayonnaise;
2. No foods with names so fancy you can’t actually tell what’s in it;
2. (a) Do not order a cheeseburger from a place where you have to specify that you would like it “well done”;
3. No fish. It’s a bit ming.
I remember the night that changed all that. It was the 18th birthday party of one of my friends from the supermarket where I worked for six and a half years, and her night out was planned for a local Indian restaurant. Not wanting to be a bother, I scanned the menu and came across a curry that I managed to equate in my head with a spicy pasta sauce. That was a chicken jalfrezi – a dish which even translates as “dry fry” – and it was absolutely lovely.
However, the Ashoka chain of restaurants in the Glasgow area seems determined to send me back to those pickier times of my teens. I’ve worked out that there are several traditional curry recipes I can comfortably eat, basically the ones in tomato sauce without any cream or yoghurt added. What that relies on is that particular chains don’t devise their own recipes and give them those names. I understood a jalfrezi to be a relatively dry dish, with peppers and chilli, as per the link above. However, the takeaway that arrived last night came in a putrid, peach-coloured creamy sauce with bloody raisins in it. I’ve now had a look at the menu online and discovered that a “jalfrezi”, as the Ashoka understands it, consists of “ginger, garlic, aromatic Indian spices, crunchy almonds, cashews, sultanas and a flourish of fresh cream and coconut cream”. Even my mum thought it looked like baby vomit.
And she was so upset. We’ve had problems ordering from Ashoka before, because their Rogan Josh comes with added cream. She’d spent all this money on a takeaway as a special treat for me, and in the end I could only fish out four bits of chicken to eat along with the rice. “I could be lactose intollerant,” I sighed. “Are you?” my mum asked before realising, “no… Starbucks.”
I’ve now printed off a copy of the Ashoka’s menu, and I am going to teach myself their weird-ass bollocks recipes before our next order. “You could call it WAB… or invert it to BAW, as in your curry’s baw, mate,” says my evil genius colleague.
Blogs are ace. Who needs to cover world politics when you can have a good old moan, eh?
[PHOTO: Day 297.]