The other night I had a take-away curry which worried me on several levels.
The first of these was the name. A "meat pathia" is a descriptor a little too vague about its contents for my liking. "Meat", after all, includes pretty much all of the animal kingdom. In particular it includes those members of the animal kingdom commonly found rummaging in the rubbish at the back of some of the less reputable Indian restaurants.
In addition, I've been reliably informed that the prevalence of the heavy spices generally found in curries has its origins in the necessity to cover the taste of rotting meat. On the night in question this piece of information also failed to enhance my confidence in the pedigree (so to speak) of my meal.
My second cause for worry was one of heat.
Curries come in all shapes, sizes and lethalities. If there were a set heat for any given dish this would not be a problem; you would know when you ordered what you were letting yourself in for. Unfortunately, like sex in deepest Arkansas, it's all relative. A pathia can range from a mild and inoffensive offering to a tomato-based weapon of mass destruction capable of removing a victim's tonsils at forty paces. A vindaloo can either provoke a slight sensation of warmth or be the culinary equivalent of sucking on the business end of a lit blowtorch.
Even more sinister than this already deceptive state of affairs has been the development of stealth curries. Normally any substance registering highly on the Scholeville scale announces its presence at the moment it enters your mouth, giving you at least a chance to dive into the nearest water jug before the effects become too much to bear. However, research at the Restaurant Foods divisions of Fort Detrick and Portham Down have resulted in curries with delay fuses. These malignant substances allow one to consume as much as fifty percent of their total mass before launching a devastating concerted attack along the length of one's major intestine.
At the time of consumption this is bad enough, but during the following night the victim is subjected to further indignities. An inflation of the aforementioned intestine occurs that generally creates the illusion that an inept children's entertainer is repeatedly attempting to make balloon animals from one's entrails, but can't quite manage the giraffe's head without the rest of the creature unravelling. Additional Giger-influenced "Alien" metaphors will be omitted out of consideration for younger readers.
Also of concern is the increasing use of the "anti-personnel mine" tactic. In this situation an otherwise benign Indian dish is liberally sowed with fresh green chillies. The diner is lulled into a false sense of security until the fatal crunch is heard and the contents of his mouth turn to molten lava. (On a historical note, it has been alleged that this technique was first used by Conservative Party fifth columnists in a doomed attempt to fuse Margaret Thatcher's jaws shut. Unfortunately, the Iron Lady was not for welding and, at time of publication, her mouth is still the best evidence of perpetual motion known to man.)
My third and final worry occurred after the fact.
After the meal had been consumed I noticed that the plate was stained a fluorescent yellow. Inspection of the foil containers the meal had arrived in also showed them to contain a residue of yellow highlighter ink (or a close facsimile). Why certain restaurateurs feel this flavourless substance is required in a meal eludes me. However, it does beg the following question:
What happens to it?
You see, inspection of post-pathia faecal matter, whilst showing a very noticeable rise in both temperature and velocity, shows little variation in colour. On the basis of this incontrovertible scientific evidence I'm led to the following conclusion:
It stays inside.
Further observations support this conclusion. By far the largest consumers of restaurant and take-away curries are pre-middle age Caucasian males of a type commonly known as "The Lads". On inspection, a high proportion of these individuals prove to be an unnatural hue of orange. Now, I used to explain this away as a result of too much time spent on dodgy sun-beds and even dodgier eighteen-to-thirty style holidays, but now the true reason is clear:
They're dyed that colour!
Will archaeologists of the future display specimens of this subculture in slices, with stomach strata displaying their progression from the biryani era through the bhuna and dupiaza periods to the perpetually-molten core of the vindaloo age? Will schoolchildren asked to sketch the sections be issued with a sufficiently large selection of felt-tipped pens? Will the specimens have their age estimated like trees? Or, with the amount of preservative undoubtedly accompanying the highlighter ink, will they merely be woken-up and asked?
Only time will tell.
In the meantime, if you're planning on a curry for this evening's repast...
...let's be careful out there!