I can’t pass up certain dishes. Pastrami and corned beef on seeded rye with a couple of Cel-Ray’s. A good arrabiata. Thin slices, thick slices, any slices at all. BLT’s, turkey and bacon clubs with way too much mayo. You get the idea.
With Indian cooking, it’s pretty much everything when done right, but if I was on an Indian desert island? Why, vindaloo, of course. No dish is more delicious or more mucked up or more maligned than this really subtle one. Which is why a good one brings joy to my heart. I think it was my first great experience with Indian food.
So of course I had to have chicken vindaloo last night. And y’know what? It was just as good as the night before! True, no joke. What I love about the dish is its ease of preparation if you know what the heck you’re doing, and the need for restraint, and the hot mingling of spices, and the history of Portugal and the subcontinent on the plate.
Masala dosa for breakfast and paneer pakora for lunch. If you must know.
Other than all that, it’s been non-stop writing: Up to page 105 here, having written 30 in a week; and, reading about that very evil Ronald Merrick in “A Jewel in the Crown.” The writing in that novel can be tedious at times and a smidge ventriliquistically so, but it’s good and easy drama, which helps when you’re writing: Tell a friggin’ story, for Chrissakes. (And we all know what “friggin” means.)
Tonight: Vindaloo? Or do I think outside the box?