Bed-side Tandoori
It was scheduled, like a meeting, a have-to for the end of the week, the place Covent Garden, London, the time; “as long as it was a Friday, who cares?” “It has to be the tandoori.” “No, no mate, its got to be the buttered chicken,” how we would squabble over curries with the same end result of “I’ll agree with you but only ‘cause your me best mate ever,” sounded like a couple drunked’s we did, but we didn’t care, 17 and the world of food was there to be indulged! Girlfriends in hand, we would head to brick lane, the curry-end of London. Those nights were special, Alex, Soraiya (my girlfriend), Julie (Alex’s girlfriend) and I. Hashmi was our usual joint, they made a chicken curry I would give any trollop to have! The place was truly ours, the owner, a small neurotic chap from Bombay loved us, after all we were probably his best customers.
We would sit there for hours, literally a couple chickens in a pot before us and a good pint of Teltlys in hand. Having indulged for a usual two hours we would amble down the cobbled Liverpool street, hingh, saffron and thyme effusing from out steps.
It wasn’t just here that we ate, when on holiday together Alex and I would sit on the beach. I remember Kenya clear white sand, soothing breeze and the waft of curry on an open fire. We would like back, as if ready to make sand angels and roll the smells of cumin, rosemary, curry-pak over and over again in our mouths. As the milk was added to curdle we would become impatient, but know that the end result was well, well worth waiting for!
I rush from the ticket booth, parking the car near the large red ‘Kings Medical Emergency ICU’ sign. Alex was lying in room 102, he looked frail, lots of saline and anti-retroviral’s diluting his blood. He was asleep but woke as I pulled a small Tupperware box from my bag. He looked into it smiling at the sight of the thick chicken curry.
He didn’t end up eating it, but we spent the last day together daydreaming of bricklane’s Hashmi.
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