Ok, I didn’t really order it like that. More like, “I’ll have the lamb vindaloo, very spicy.” The waiter eyed me just long enough so I could add, “Indian spicy.”
Now, I love Indian food, and over the years I’ve found a few restaurants that would actually give me what I asked for. Most, if they didn’t know me, would just see a white guy and serve me accordingly. I get it, why take a chance I might send it back?
The first bite triggered a neurological response of hiccups, like my brain was confused and didn’t know how to respond. Was this some kind of poison? I plowed on, undeterred. Vindaloo, chutney, bread, beer. My wife took a small bite and said, “Oh my,” before returning to her more reasonable dish.
Vindaloo, chutney, bread, beer. Vindaloo, chutney, bread, beer. As if somehow this combination could end the holocaust going on in my mouth.
“Are you alright?” I heard her ask, as my brain misfired, disoriented from the napalm I keep shoveling in. I managed to choke out, “Can’t talk now,” as reality gave way to an altered state somewhere between pain and pleasure. Is it tasty or torture?
Vindaloo, chutney, bread, beer. Vindaloo, chutney, bread, beer. Losing my sense of time and space, I can’t stop now. I’m on a mission, passing through a tunnel connecting our world with some other dimension. Starting to see a light up ahead.
Vindaloo, chutney, bread, beer. Vindaloo, chutney, bread, beer.
“Should I call an ambulance?” I hear someone say as I put down my fork and call it a day. My senses begin to return as I blow my nose and wipe the tears out of my eyes. The waiter walks over and asks, How was everything?”
“Delicious,” I reply, still dazed.
And I meant it.