We had lunch in an Indian restaurant somewhere near the Hauptbahnhof (main train station). I didn’t order of course. I am out of my element there and, well, he’s not. He is after all, a member-in-good-standing of the Royal Food Constabulary, mounted no less. I got what I got. I know the main course was a dosa filled with potato and onion, the appetizer though, I have no idea and so I wasn’t sure what exactly to do when, after a bite or two of it, my head became completely engulfed in flames. In my own kitchen I would have no problem leaping around shrieking obscenities, slapping my ears and weeping (in a robust and manly way) while filling my mouth with ice cubes. In a restaurant this becomes more problematic especially when there are a legion of Indian waiters blithely pacing back and forth pretending not to be intensely watching us. I’m not sure if they were actually interested in our dining pleasure, if we needed something, or more likely, waiting for me to start screaming and then gleefully report back to the whole kitchen.
As it was I very bravely endured the pain, tears streaming from my bulging red eyes down my cheeks only occasionally splashing onto the table. And of course there was the sporadic whimpering.
The dosa was good although it’s hard to recall what with the charred remains of my brain, my head like a spent match stick.
For the record he grudgingly admitted it was hot. And I will admit it was delicious, whatever it was.
Don’t ever order this (left). Unfortunately I cannot tell you what it is.
Just don’t. The dosa, on the right, yes, do.
