A B Rogan? Gosh!

Have a curry on a Friday Night? What a capital idea!

Grab a menu, peruse the vast array of wonderful exotica dishes, pickup the phone, and place the order.

A well tried and tested ritual across the globe. Well perhaps not in or Mumbai, or the province of Madhya Pradesh, unless of course you want to curry favour with the locals.But enough of the terrible pun jabs.

Sure enough we too joined the very British ritual last night, and ordered the obligatory Butter Chicken, Lamb Korma and not one garlic naan, but extravagantly opted for 2! Normally we share as they are so generously proportioned, like an elephant, and tear it two, a sort of Naan asplit.

In little over twenty minutes it was ready and I set off, eagerly expectant of the prize to be taken at the end of the drive. I parked my trusty steed in the car park and walked up to the magical palace of light that is the local Masala emporium.

I was met with wafts of Eastern spices, tandoors, and the sizzle of meats as the waiters delivered their game to the diners, eager maharajahs awaiting their feasts.

Greeted by the staff like an extra from the Jewel of the Crown,I was ushered to the reception to pay for our banquet. My card was charged and the food was furnished in front of me with a flourish and a smile.

As I turned to leave I saw the food rating on the wall.....
B for Butter Chicken.
Bother.

I wondered what catastrophe had befallen the normally A rated Masala? Had they perhaps been infested with a plague of marauding gourmet tigers?

Or had the meat delivery had been interrupted mid wicket and rained off? 
I pondered these thoughts as I drove home.

By this time I was a ravenous vulture, ready to devour anything, no matter what it's sauce.

However the spectre of unhealthy food handling processes still was there. My partner Glenn suggested it was more likely to do with their paperwork and written procedures, and a B was still safe. After 2 seconds of deliberating we promptly scoffed the lot.

Glad to report that the night passed without incident with no need to carry on up the Khyber.

Shattered Dreams

Disturbed nights perhaps from 1987 with Johnny Hates Jazz, an obviously Fats Domino phobic ensemble.

Now it was always stressed to  me as I was growing up, maturing from tiddler to tot, bookworm to swot, that the word hate was quite wrong.

To hate is a vile expression and too extreme, when really we mean to dislike, averse to, or just not in favour at the moment.

Johnny, whoever he may be, for it is not specified, has probably a mild dislike for jazz music, unfamiliar with the wide ranging musical genre. In fact to quote the Encarta of the new age, Wikipoodle, Jazz was described by one it’s leading proponents as 

“that it is music that includes qualities such as swing, improvising, group interaction, developing an 'individual voice', and being open to different musical possibilities” There you see, clear as mud, and how anyone can “hate” that, is beyond comprehension.

Just like the sad Johnny and his Gershwinphobia, I too have had shattered dreams. Dreams where in my weird world of medical dependence, outcomes would match or excel expectations. Take my recent brush with an angioplasty/groin grabbing operation, I was expecting that following my interrupted procedure a while back. I would be slotted in for surgery quite soon……

Alas it will probably be summertime….and the living is easy…when my appointment comes through. Oh and it wont be a simple rescheduled operation, that would be too easy. No the fish may be jumping but I will need to start from the bottom, to see the surgeon (to make sure I am OK to have the operation) Just like I did 6 weeks ago. Boohoo.

Now hush little darling don’t you cry, or you’ll upset Johnny again.

Where's the Party?

Asked Madonna in the collection of days that became universally acknowledged as 1986,when days were sunnier, the summers longer and global warming was something Mums did in the kitchen with a fried egg..

Whilst the Aged One was referring to glamourous nights out in Miami, Chicago and Puerto Rico, I on the other hand ventured to the bacchanalian hotspot that is Ponsonby. This licensed strip of wine bars, gastro pubs and high end fashion retail is Auckland’s answer to South Kensington, with perhaps slightly less dinosaurs and tube stations.

Off we swept, parking near to the venue, with the intent of swishing in and making an entrance, waving and greeting various acquaintances as one would long lost celebrities. The reality was somewhat different, as we squeezed and pushed our way in through the patrons to the bar. We joined some friends and tried shouting our “hulloos” over the music…

No Kylie, Madonna, or anything more vintage than August 2013, but a heavy fusion of drums and wails in Icelandic, or Welsh, or Gujarati…

The usual international party folk were there; stunning visions crafted from the pages of Vogue or Chanel, property investors from the Far East, the odd racing car driver (yes really), and even Mr and Mrs "Even More Normal Than We Were", from Late 80's Essex, if their hair was to be believed. We strained to hear each other over the pulsating beats as we circulated, but I soon learnt how to communicate using the international language of dog owners…

Really? What kind...2 Papillons?

How lovely/cute/brave etc    (delete and insert appropriate doggy adjective)

Papillons not withstanding, it was time to usher in the cake…….to welcome in our host’s 40^th year. Young Bastard.

Following the usual planned “surprise” speeches and gift opening (Oooohs and Arrhhhs), we soon returned to our collective bonhomie.

As our group was finally entertained the racing car driver, we tried not to gasp at his outlandish tales of daredevil shenanigans, with both petrol and diesel variants, whilst I decided to pretend I didn't drive, and certainly not a Peugeot 207 GTi with a GB sticker on it.

Finally we ebbed away into the distance, seduced by the time and the fresh air entering by the now clear doorway.....

It then dawned on me as we slowly walked back to the car, I had really enjoyed myself, good company, thumping music, wild atmosphere, even if we didn't have a racing car.

Not bad for a Tuesday lunchtime.