Hurry with my curry!
My napkin was already stained with drool as I displayed one of the most puerile episodes in my adult career, like a dog watching his master eat the juiciest t-bone, my tongue flooded with excitement, I couldn’t stop frolicking the table cloth and subconsciously ripped my beer label into a tiny mess inside the ashtray before sending the table to shiver with my impatient leg shaking vigorously like the last seconds of a death row story ‘where the hell is my curry’? Finally a homely smell graced my nostrils yet when I opened the Shaffer I had to bend my eyes over the rim to catch a glimpse of the curries location, like a packet of ‘Walkers crisps’ I felt tricked by the 30% extra only to discover I had in fact 40% less. On the menu it had said ‘Tandoori style’, my dish was no more Tandoori than I was ‘religious’, yet I found myself accepting it anyway, it’s hard to make a really bad curry, I thought! I left completely woebegone. The pregnant owner holding her new born child asked me to sign the guestbook. Rather than leave a tip I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and left an empty page on the balcony.
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