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Abstract

s arranged at odd angles complete with a selection of mismatching chairs. It felt more like a rundown second-hand furniture store than a curry house.</p><p id="4bc5">Once inside, a bad-tempered waiter pointed to a table in the corner as though I was a suspect under interrogation. I thanked him and sat myself down to peruse the curry-splattered menu. It looked good, just like <i>Abdul’s </i>in Nottingham. A minimal selection so that everything could be cooked on a two-ring stove. It meant the chef knew what he was doing.</p><figure id="9fd9"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/1*TpkUMCveqK0cTpDTYr9DQQ.jpeg"><figcaption>Photo by <a href="https://unsplash.com/ja/@andreaedavis?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Andrea Davis</a> on <a href="https://unsplash.com/s/photos/stove?utm_source=unsplash&utm_medium=referral&utm_content=creditCopyText">Unsplash</a></figcaption></figure><p id="0bc9">I didn’t need to look at the menu. I have the same every time — it’s my barometer. Lamb madras, naan, rice, bottle of red. If a curry house can’t get that right, the owner should be strung up in the town square and force-fed chilli sauce through a pipe up his ass.</p><p id="9526">I ordered my curry, and two minutes later the waiter plonked my food down in front of me like he was handing me my mail. This didn’t look good. Even bad restaurants make you wait a while to make you think the food might be fresh.</p><p id="7b9a">There was no pretence here. Straight out. Onto the table. <i>Merci beaucoup. Au revoir</i>. Next!</p><p id="96b6"><b><i>‘Next’</i> </b>being the imperative word here. Because, NEXT TIME, BRING ME CURRY! Not four lumps of gristle floating around in a watery soup.</p><p id="b325">I frowned at the waiter as I spooned some sauce (soup) into my mouth. A sauce that was so bland you could feed it to a baby. Then stabbed at a piece of meat (if it was meat) and forked it into my mouth and began to chew. I say chew, more grind like a sheep or a goat does, for three minutes before my body allowed me to swallow it.</p><p id="1119">When it hit my stomach, it felt like I’d eaten half a leather belt along with the buckle. So I quickly slugged back a glass of <i>Côtes-du-rhône</i>. God, I don’t know what was worse: the wine o

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r the curry, but at least it was dissolving whatever I’d eaten. Soon it would be boring a hole in my intestines and I’d be leaving the restaurant ten pounds lighter.</p><p id="97cd">I summoned the waiter to signal I’d finished.</p><p id="c575">He came over and looked at my almost full plate. There were no words exchanged. He simply shrugged and wrote out the bill. A bill for a curry, a bottle of wine, and a wasted evening. Signed <i>Le Taj Mahal</i>, with compliments.</p><p id="9e48">Thanks for reading, for more foodie stuff, check out:</p><div id="9c09" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/why-dont-we-eat-with-our-fingers-d6a819f88a6f"> <div> <div> <h2>Why Don’t We Eat With Our Fingers?</h2> <div><h3>— Well, actually we do. All the time!</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*QIBvAiIHBzZiH2xbOMI9tQ.png)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="1c97" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/is-it-supper-dinner-tea-or-what-a883c0b16567"> <div> <div> <h2>Is It Supper, Dinner, Tea, or What!</h2> <div><h3>The debate solved once and for all</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*fQAypLnXIo-PBKIb)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="df26" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/why-a-dog-is-still-a-dog-even-at-christmas-9990641d9e13"> <div> <div> <h2>Why a Dog Is Still a Dog — Even at Christmas</h2> <div><h3>A dog is no substitute for cat</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*qkMygUtfmTWThjRtG92Zcw.jpeg)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div></article></body>

World Curries

When Is a Curry Not a Curry — When It’s a French Curry

The French are good at a lot of things — except curry

It’s traditional for me over Christmas to indulge in a curry. A gigantic pile of stinking Madras laid like tar on a bed of brightly coloured pilau rice. Curry that’s been cooking in a pan for fifty years. A meal that’s so spicy it’ll blow your head off and set fire to your house at the same time.

I’m from the North of England where good curries are as common as fish ‘n’ chips, child poverty and strong ale. The cities of Leeds, Bradford and Nottingham, where I grew up, offer some of the best curries in the country.

You can’t get a decent curry in London. I don’t know why, but they always taste like glue. Must be something in the water. If you’re looking for a good curry in the UK, go North.

Just don’t go to France.

The French do cheese, countryside, mountains, poets, art and wine better than most. It’s why the country is still the most visited country on earth.

People come here for all sorts of reasons: to fall in love, to get drunk, eat goose liver, ski in the Alps, see great art, and get ripped off on Les Champs Élysée. But they don’t come for a curry.

So why I went last night to Le Taj Mahal in Lisieux in Normandy near where I live, I’ve no idea. I can make a good curry, but sometimes you want someone to make it for you.

I’d purposefully chosen this one, as it seemed like the place I’d feel most at home — a poky, living room-sized restaurant with six or seven tables arranged at odd angles complete with a selection of mismatching chairs. It felt more like a rundown second-hand furniture store than a curry house.

Once inside, a bad-tempered waiter pointed to a table in the corner as though I was a suspect under interrogation. I thanked him and sat myself down to peruse the curry-splattered menu. It looked good, just like Abdul’s in Nottingham. A minimal selection so that everything could be cooked on a two-ring stove. It meant the chef knew what he was doing.

I didn’t need to look at the menu. I have the same every time — it’s my barometer. Lamb madras, naan, rice, bottle of red. If a curry house can’t get that right, the owner should be strung up in the town square and force-fed chilli sauce through a pipe up his ass.

I ordered my curry, and two minutes later the waiter plonked my food down in front of me like he was handing me my mail. This didn’t look good. Even bad restaurants make you wait a while to make you think the food might be fresh.

There was no pretence here. Straight out. Onto the table. Merci beaucoup. Au revoir. Next!

‘Next’ being the imperative word here. Because, NEXT TIME, BRING ME CURRY! Not four lumps of gristle floating around in a watery soup.

I frowned at the waiter as I spooned some sauce (soup) into my mouth. A sauce that was so bland you could feed it to a baby. Then stabbed at a piece of meat (if it was meat) and forked it into my mouth and began to chew. I say chew, more grind like a sheep or a goat does, for three minutes before my body allowed me to swallow it.

When it hit my stomach, it felt like I’d eaten half a leather belt along with the buckle. So I quickly slugged back a glass of Côtes-du-rhône. God, I don’t know what was worse: the wine or the curry, but at least it was dissolving whatever I’d eaten. Soon it would be boring a hole in my intestines and I’d be leaving the restaurant ten pounds lighter.

I summoned the waiter to signal I’d finished.

He came over and looked at my almost full plate. There were no words exchanged. He simply shrugged and wrote out the bill. A bill for a curry, a bottle of wine, and a wasted evening. Signed Le Taj Mahal, with compliments.