Still cranky

By the afternoon the mood hadn’t improved much. I had a lunch date with Rockin’ Roddie. He proposed a new Indian food buffet restaurant he’d recently discovered. Surely this would be the cure.

“Sweet,” said I. “I loves Indian buffets.”

We arrive at the joint. Big place. Big parking lot. Only one other car. No problem. It’s early yet. Not quite twelve o’clock.

Something is wrong. Out of place. It takes me a moment to comprehend it. It’s a big sign that reads:

100% VEGETARIAN

??

“Um… Rod?”

“Hm?”

“What – what’s that?”

“Eh?”

“Rod.”

“What?”

“What’s with the sign?”

“What sign?”

“That doesn’t apply to us, does it?”

“Hm?”

“Tell me that doesn’t apply to us.”

“Oh – that sign?”

“Rod...”

“Um – surprise…”

“Are you fucking with me?”

“Just trust me, okay?”

“ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME!”

“Just give it a chance, okay?”

“I don’t believe this,” I’m whining. We’re out of the car. I’m following him across the parking lot. “I can’t believe this. After all we’ve been through.”

“It’s good, FWG. I promise.”

“Don’t do this, Rod.”

“It’s good. Trust me.”

“Have you ever seen me eating Indian food without meat? Ever?”

“Have you ever tried it?”

Silent pouting. We’re entering the building.

“I hope you’ve accomplished all you wanted to in this life, Roddie,” I hiss in his ear, “Cause you are this close to checking out. THIS CLOSE!”

“I know.”

I feel a small pang of guilt. I think he’s actually a little afraid at this point.

Inside, a very nice polite woman dressed in colourful sari invites us to choose any table. Oddly Rod chooses the one that is strangely centred out under some kind of gazebo-like architectural structure. This way we’ll be the centre of attention when I tire of the curried peas and go for his jugular. There’ll be plenty of witnesses to later finger his killer.

I wear a scowl as we approach the rather large buffet. Sari lady follows us. Roddie stops at the salad section and I pass on by, resisting the urge to give him the Gordie Howe elbow.

There’s a very large selection at the main counters. The first two items are labeled ‘Sweet Dish’ according to the post-it-note tacked overhead. I take a very small sampling of Pinkish Shreds o’ Mush and ignore the Bobbing For Testicles for now.

Note: There are no other labels at this buffet other than ‘Sweet Dish’ for these two items so I’ll have to make up my own names for all this stuff as we go along and I’m not even apologizing for it. So there.

I raise the plate to my face, trying to smell the Pinkish Mush Shreds.

“That is sweet dish,” says Sari lady, smiling kindly. I’m too miserable and/or stupid to realize just yet that sweet dish means dessert. Duh.

I give her a brief humorless smile in return.

Her finger moves back and forth between the Pink Mush and the Bobbing for Testicles. “Sweet dishes,” she says.

‘Can it, lady. I’m not in the mood’

I move on. The plan is to try small bits of everything remotely interesting – in the vain hope I will find one or two things enjoyable to which I’ll return for more.

I take a Patty of Blecch in a Yellow-Grey Bile Sauce and a couple Glumps What Could Resemble Chicken if you Squint in a Gooey Bright Red Sauce. Sari lady insists on staying close – presumably ready to assist in identifying what is a sweet dish and what is not. She keeps standing right in front of whatever item I’m keen to try next. I persevere. I sample a smattering of Reddish-Brown Goop #1 and a dollop of Reddish-Brown Goop #2. I take a samosa and Sari lady points out the samosa sauce which I dip into liberally. I finish off with a couple spongy spheroids in a light brown sauce – let’s call it – Sponge Ball Brown Pants.

Back at the table we’re given a pitcher of water and a basket of naan bread with baked-in garlic. Very nice.

The Blecch Patties, Mushy Pink Shreds and Reddish-Brown Goops #1 and #2 all heartily fail to impress.

However…

The Sponge Ball Square Pants resembles butter chicken but with balls of sponge instead of chicken. Between that, the samosa , the naan bread and the squint-chicken glumps I enjoy a very satisfactory second course and leave the restaurant very full, festively plump and kind toward Rockin’ Roddie once again.

All’s well that ends without a crucifixion.

FWG