Jungle Curry

Last night I wrapped up a week and a half in London with one last Thai dinner (I have eaten Thai at least once a day every day since I arrived in the UK) and a concert at the Shephard’s Bush Hall. I had been invited out by a friend of a friend I’d met on Sunday, a lovely American guy named Kevin. We met up at the Shepherd’s Bush tube station (recently renovated to within an inch of its life and practically glistening with newness) then walked down the street for a quick bite at a reliable little Thai place Kevin knew. Kevin’s been living in London a few years so I picked his brain about the place – what it’s like for an American to live here, how cold it gets in the winter, how long it takes to get to Italy from Heathrow . . . Turns out it’s pretty easy for an American to live here, sometimes the winters get so cold that it snows in central London, and you can be in Italy inside of two hours if the tailwind’s in your favor. Right-o.

The Thai place was unassuming and poorly decorated – just the way I like ‘em. The menu was full of little treasures I’d never heard of and I was eager to try something new. I’d already discovered the many varieties of Thai eggplant (some that look and taste remarkably similar to limes, others that look like oversized green peppercorns with the same little kick) but I wanted to go further afield. I asked about a few things on the menu then noticed the “Jungle Curry.” I love that ethnic restaurants often describe ten or twenty dishes identically. Jungle Curry, like most of the other chicken dishes on the menu, is chicken and mixed vegetables in a spicy sauce with chiles and basil. The one kicker – the waiter told me it was really spicy. Hot. He would say this then fan his mouth with his hand. “I don’t want to scare you” he said “it’s just really hot. You will see the stars.” I wasn’t really sure what that meant but it sounded so much like that a dare that I simply couldn’t back down. Bring on the Jungle Curry I said.

The curry showed up and I gingerly scooped a small portion onto a large mound of rice. I was careful not to take too much of the sauce, fearing this is where the real heat was stored. A few bites in I was fine, laughing at the silly waiter for warning me so urgently against such a lovely little dish. Did I mention that the waiter stood next to me while I ate? For a good five minutes. At first I was reassured by this, thinking he was positioning himself to call an ambulance should I not survive the Jungle Curry. But when the curry failed to pack a punch, he was truly disappointed, crestfallen. I felt kind of sorry for him as he ambled back to the kitchen, presumably to have some terse words with the sloppy chef who obviously forgot the key ingredient, the one that knocks uniformed American girls out of their chairs at the mere sight of Jungle Curry.

After he was gone, for reasons I cannot describe, the full flavor of the dish suddenly opened up. It opened up and bit me. Sweat appeared on my brow, my lips began to burn, and the back of my throat began to swell. I downed what was left of my wine but it did little good. I ate some rice, also to no avail. A few minutes went by and it kept getting worse. I was desperate for relief, so desperate that I dug back into it. Fight fire with fire, I reasoned. I ate voraciously and in a few minutes the burn subsided. I was restored to my natural state. I finished the rest of the curry with a smile on my face. I'm not sure if my mouth simply went numb or my body adapted to it or if all the heat was in the middle. These mysteries are far too vaguefor me to contemplate. I do know that when the waiter came back and found me smiling with a bite of curry in my mouth he was shocked. And congratulatory. He told me that he'd never seen anyone finish a plate of Jungle Curry. That if I could survive that I could eat anything on the menu and could probably do many things I hadn't even dreamt of.

On the walk to the concert Kevin told me he thought I should have been awarded a certificate, given a tee-shirt, had my signed photo posted on the wall. I concurred. I was robbed. Thankfully, I didn't have much time to labor the point as the concert was getting underway. Some crazy band from Austin - Okkervil River. They were indescribable. Beatles meets Mamas and Papas meets Coldplay. They were cool and Kevin was cool and London was cool and I just sat there enjoying the show and turning the waiter's words over in my mind like a prophecy. I wonder what else I can do? I hope I have the chance to find out.