I was told I’m too rigid that I need to try something new. That my writing has become predictable. This was my pal. I asked her what I should write about to break the monotony and she said food. She was quick to add don’t write about beer. How do I not write about beer? isn’t beer food? Why the hate? Why the chastisement of a beverage that only wants to be considered as a calorie provider?
Now I’m here typing away – I didn’t know where to start with food so you know what? I went to an Indian restaurant, or ordered take out from an Indian restaurant no, went to an Indian restaurant. If you know me you know I don’t do spicy, I never even liked the spice girls and when Victoria Becks decided to design a land rover I cringed. Turns out it wasn’t so bad. I actually hope to get behind the wheel of that sexy beast and review it. Notice how it looks like a lady but has that edge like it can get down and dirty? What was the analogy again? Lady in the streets freak in the sheets? It has mean eyes like it has been sipping cocktails that cost it’s side mirror at caramel and a guy offered to take her to a place where the whole bottle costs her car wash bill. It’s feisty,and young and urban and off road ish. Though it looks a little bit too delicate to do any off road but so do all the ladies until the sheets release the freak.
Back to food. I ventured into a new place in Westlands that you can see when you’re on Waiyaki Way. It’s called Clay oven. Just as the name suggests they actually make their meals using a clay oven. From the road it looks chic and relaxed and that’s exactly what you get when you get in. The ambience is amazing and the lights set the mood for an afternoon of fun and dining. When I got there it wasn’t so busy so I had the pick of the litter per se when it came to choosing a seat. I wasn’t feeling adventurous but if you ever are they have an amazing balcony overlooking westlands. Here you can bring your better half or not so better half or not even a fraction of yourself and sit and talk about anything. You don’t even have to talk you can let them enjoy the view while you go through the menu or they can go through the menu while you enjoy the view. You can watch abouts the cars zoom past and the birds fly in to nest in the leafy suburbs beyond. You can crave a beer and, wait, okay scratch the beer. They don’t have wifi or it wasn’t working when I went so that means you’ll be at some point forced to have a conversation.
What does this mean? Go with a friend or someone interesting. Those ladies that dance on chairs and hit it so hard after a can or three of Guarana won’t do. There’s no loud music to shout over. I don’t think they know what to do with their bums other than shaking and jiggling it hoping for a married 40 something to put in a few thousands in their stretched out yoga pants. Here you will talk about the nice art on the walls and the serene setting and the last book she read or is currently reading or writing or a piece of Korean jazz she heard that was mind blowing or her boss, yes, her boss. She will most definitely tell you something dirty or clandestine about her boss. She will bore you with details about a report that she worked on that was exemplary but received no recognition. She will drone over the sound of cars zooming past and you will nod in agreement because what else can you say?
The waiters looked like butlers. Like all I needed to do was ring a tiny bell and they’d fall over themselves to answer to my whims and call. I felt like Bruce Wayne among them save I don’t have a gazillion dollars, a cave, a mansion, a bat mobile and girls hanging on my arm by day. I almost wanted to ask them if they could speak in a British accent and if they could whip up a martini or if they would call me sir or if they would go out and get me a bat mobile and a cave and a gazillion dollars. I didn’t, I asked for food. Chicken curry and naan. They went over to place the order and in minutes came back with a tray with a silver bowl and a white thing that looked like a large pill. They put this in the water and it enlarged into a wet towel. I was amused, I’ve never seen such sorcery away from the magic conjured in the mind of one Rowling at Hogwarts.
I didn’t have to wait long. A salad tray came with neatly arranged veggies and a long green chilli sitting in the middle on a bed of shredded white cabbage. It felt like I was a lecturer in a first year class with students trying to impress me for more grades by prettying up their assignments. I didn’t mind it it felt good that someone at least tried to make an effort. You know, complacency is my pet peeve. The food came in tow steaming hot and the aroma of Indian spices and marinaded chicken chunks wafting towards me. I was in Indian heaven – the one with food and the pretty god. I just hoped my taste buds could handle the spices. They did. It was tastefully done. It had a zing and tang and pizzaz and the chicken was soft falling apart when it touched the tongue. The naan? It’s actually a new or not so new but an improved version of chapati.
The restaurant fyi specialises in North Indian cuisine. What this means is I don’t know what it means. But the chef was quick to add that all the best recipes are North Indian. Did I say chef? Yes that’s who I’d gone to see or interview or see and interview. His job is his food the only way I’d know about his job is taste his food. Quick one do Indians have beef?