Chicken tikka and other stories

I committed the cardinal sin of wandering into an Indian restaurant here in London. I could feel the chicken tikka masala turning hostile in the English kadai. “what’s he doing here,” the tikka asked the paneer. The Indian waiters with their spiky hair seemed equally unhappy. “He is going to complain about the kosherness of the food now,” they eyeballed each other and the tikka masala.
Some random white folks trying to crucify a naan with forks look up at me in surprise. “Jesus, these Indians are everywhere.” I nod appreciatively at every one and sit down purposefully. The food is not as bad as the tacky descriptions in the menu. The highlight of the meal was spiky hair describing poppadums to the fat lady who was choking on it. Good thing, he doesn’t cook … he surely wrote the menu though.
I could hear a collective sigh of relief when I grabbed my jacket to walk out. Spiky hair even managed a smile when he saw his tip. I am going back there for sure, it’s too much fun to miss.