"Do you want to go back to my place, or go out?" Kelly nudges me with his knee. "Let's go out and eat quickly," I say with a sigh, "So that way we can come back for wine and not have to burn down your apartment afterwards." He smiles wide and gives me another jostle of his knee. "That's why I love you," he laughs. We gather our things, he straightens his spine--steeling himself--as he locks the door behind us, and we walk down to the restaurant. I hold his hand to keep him calm, and Kelly takes a deep breath to prepare himself. It had been his suggestion, true, but I know deep down he was hoping I would say "Oh no, hon', we don't have to go there." Outside, he composes himself quickly and holds the door open for me.
I have eaten a lot of weirdish things before and after I started dating Kel. Quail, rabbit, goat, pheasant...okay, well, weirdish for me and other non-foodies. (I know plenty of people who don't like lamb, let alone billy goat's gruff in a tangy yogurt sauce.) I've had raw shellfish every way possible. I've eaten skinny steel-colored fish deep fried like fish fries. I've expanded my pallet extensively and gotten a chance to feed my tongue's travel lust. By this point I've eaten most of Europe, some of the Middle East, and a large portion of Asia. Central America has been visited by way of Mexico (chocolate covered ants and bad take-out), but I haven't gotten a chance to expand into South America despite the Brazilian barbecue in my neighborhood. After I seriously started dating Kelly, I thought that it'd be a chance to find the perfect places for my wander-taste...and it's been true for many. Best sushi places, great steaks and cheeses, his friend Myra Ellen runs the best sandwich shop I've ever been to...but my favorite cuisine has been brushed over until that night.
Despite the rampant poverty and other less-than-savory issues, I've always been fascinated by India. The language, the religion, the customs, the culture...and the food. I understand that, unless my friend Shyam is making it for me, the samosa that I'm eating isn't really Indian, but it's close enough. I almost put out a personal ad for an Indian boyfriend just so I would be kept in naan for the rest of my potentially carb-overloaded life. His mother could have called me the "white devil subverting my precious beta, may he burn in hell for all eternity" to my face...I would have gladly answered to it and still washed the dishes so long as she threw a buttery slab in my direction.
According to Kelly, many industry people have issues with Indian because of the strength of the spices used. Cumin, cardamom, exotic smells that I think are heavenly apparently burn out any wine-person's nostrils and make their eyes water. It makes sense, I suppose, if you focus your senses to a laser focus that a handful of curry could be a bad thing...but I just can't see it.
The restaurant is fairly new and set up a little cramped. The two women speaking Spanish at the table touching ours sniff as we sit down and complain loudly about the girl dining behind us talking about the Swiss economy and human rights violations. Kelly agonizes over the least offensive item as I switch from staring down the entirety of India in every meat offered. I finally pick the lamb Vindaloo and rub Kel's knuckles across the table. "Thanks for doing this," I tell him and he nods. Suddenly, a light hits his eyes and he licks his lips. "What's that?" he asks the waitress, pointing to the bright orange, creamy drink someone at the Swiss violation's table sucks through their neon straw. "Mango lassi. You want one?" He nods excitedly and I smile, glad to have found at least one offensive item to bribe him with at a later date.
No comments:
Post a Comment