थे रिंग ऑफ़ fire

I remember my first curry very well. I came from a household that not only had little experience of anything exotic, but who were negatively discriminating in their approach to anything foreign. My first curry, real one that is, was experienced in the Bombay Restaurant, located almost next to the King's theatre in Southsea. The year was 1967 and I think that the cost of the meal was around ten shillings. In today's money that is about fifty pence, and it seemed a lot at the time.

I had for some reason attended a drama course audition that evening along with a friend, and as things tend to, they got a little out of hand. Before i knew what was happening, I was being auditioned too and damn me if I wasn't given a part in Under Milkwood. My Pakistani impression seemed as close to Welsh as anyone else's attempts and I was suddenly a member of the dramatic society. We all trooped down through the older parts of Southsea and there i was initiated into the fine cuisine of the east. From that point i was hooked, and still am, on all things spicy and firmly believe that I suffer withdrawal symptoms if deprived for any length of time.

By today's standards the Bombay was pretty basic and would struggle to escape the eyes of the public health people. The walls in parts were spattered with strange stains and to this day, I believe that some were blood!

It was a denizen for students, but also for other local lowlife, and so there were periodic conflicts - let's face it, no-one likes students except other students, and so we were seen as the enemy by many locals. We were never deterred however and would frequent our equivalent of an opium den whenever we could afford it, and sometimes even when we couldn't. I remember walking the three miles down to the Bombay after midnight, to pick up a few poppadoms and some free chutneys, just because we felt like it. It became a home from home over the months that followed and we became known well by the management, who strangely, although we were students, seemed to like us. Maybe they saw us as fellow persecuted minorites.

In those days of course it became the macho thing to eat the hottest thing that you could. It was supposed to impress, I am not sure who it was supposed to impress but to climb to the heights of the hottest on the menu was the aim of some of us.

The Vindaloo was ok. Having graduated through, the milder Kormas, and byrianis, we weaned ourselved onto the Madras and the Dansak before attempting the Mighty slopes of the Vindaloo. The secret is to keep going once you have started. If you drink water or stop for a breather you are lost without hope, and many failed before the halfway stage. To complete a vindaloo is an achievement and it is not for the faint hearted. The tell tale signs that someone had had a vindaloo the night before was that the next day they did not emerge from the toilet until mid afternoon, and all one could hear were moans and groans emanating from the cubicles. The vindaloo bites twice and the second is far worse than the first.

I did try the main peak one day - The Tindaloo and was so drunk that I managed to finish it. The next morning is best not spoken of. Suffice it to say that I remembered the meal for several days.

There was one time when we were sober and enjoying a sensible curry, when some really drunken locals came in and ordered the Tindaloo. Or ears pricked up - we thought we were the only ones to attempt this. The meal duly arrived and we watched in awe as this guy, shovelled the food in without batting an eyelid. He called the waiter over and complained that it wasn't hot enough. Open mouthed we waited for the next event. Minutes passed while the plate was taken away, and then the waiter returned, followed by the kitchen staff who watched and waited for this guy to eat. He did so while everyone gazed on in some sort of bizaare admiration.

I often wondered how he felt the following day.