"But it's a curry house!"

Mum looked a trifle lost, but she smiled at me.
“What are you having, son?”
“Don’t know yet, Mum, but I don’t think I’ll have a curry.”
“But this is a curry house. Gotta have curry in a curry house.” Mum was emphatic.
I said I might have the tandoori chicken instead. She wanted to know what that was. I explained it was chicken marinated overnight in yogurt, lemon, and various spices, then thrust into a specially constructed oven for a few minutes. I enthused and said it was delicious. Mum appeared distrustful and reiterated her previous observation.
“But this is a curry house!” She implored me to see sense.
“Let him have what he wants, if that’s what he wants. He’s big enough and ugly enough to decide for himself. I know what I want. King Prawn Madras!”

The culinary jewel in the crown

By eight thirty we were perusing the vast and varied menu of the Taj Mahal Indian Restaurant. Kate was fast asleep in her stroller. I cannot remember if, in fact, it was the Taj Mahal Restaurant; it could well have been the Star of India. But it certainly was the first restaurant we came to in Stowmarket. Indian music, akin to the sound of a cat being gently throttled, played in the background. Red velvet flock paper with shiny gold bits adorned the walls. Sparkly beaded curtains covered a few doorways. A picture of the Taj Mahal was framed and lit in a plastic wooden box with plastic foliage sprouting beneath it, all pleasantly fake except for the aromas that came from the kitchen. These were pungent, exotic, delightful, authentic. Lew peered intently at the menu. I’m not sure why, because he always had the same dish, but he studied the menu nonetheless.