Curry: the Death of Ambition

A very British folly

Kicking off a night out with a team curry is a British institution. However, in the time-honoured tradition of British institutions (see: the government, the monarchy), the pre-bender curry is hopelessly flawed.

The laddish ceremony of gathering ‘round a candle-warmed masala always seems a fitting celebration. Whether a twilight showroom of fine napkin art, or a fiberglass BYOB Taj-Mahal, an Indian meal has a sense of occasion like no other. In that sense, making a meal and an occasion out of a meal and an occasion makes sense.

As we remember it, a curry is a feast of enchantments. From the tepid, creamy delights of the Chicken Korma all the way to the tepid, creamy delights of the Chicken Tika Masala*, and nothing in between, every Indian is its own velvet symphony:

Our demure lead, the reluctant poppadom, tune sharp and brittle; held in quiet accord by its quartet of soothing chutneys. Here comes the naan, our pillowy maestro, blending together each section with its every sweeping arc. The pilau rice, too, knows its role, a melody continuous; the silken foundation upon which all harmony is built. At the last, a crisp crash of cool lager, cutting through the noise. 

And then, nothing.

As the old Indo-British proverb goes: curry is the making of a man; curry is the ruin of man.  

For those last few tears of naan, a curry weighs a body down, and down, and down, like a mesh of breezeblocks on a sinking carcass. 

Upon contact with the tum, a few pints of curry and beer form the densest element in the known universe. All washed down with wet bread and wet rice and wet bread. A meal so heavy the lightest component is four hurried lagers. To digest curry is to mix cement. 

The instant kormic karma takes its toll on the table. This curry house is no longer a curry home. The already belabored banter of a stag du clogs up, once and for all. There is no amount of warm face-towels, citrus wipes or Bolivian smelling salts that will resurrect the evening.

Now, it’s time to party like it’s 19:29. Back when a heavily-breaded alcoholic gloop wasn’t constraining your every thought and action.

There are a few reasons this particular liquid hasn’t permeated club music culture, like your Moëts or your Hennesies. 

See a souse of geezers only communicating through flaming yawns and ring-stung guffs. Dreaming of Irish goodbyes. Meat sweats, which would serve as seasoning, pool at the chequered seams of their shirts.

There is no national dance less rousing than the waltz of the well-curried Brit. Dance moves that don’t register as dance or movement. No DJ’s intuitions can bring them back. A death march to the beat of their own digestion. As stodgy a tempo as rhythm has heard.

Curry is unconcerned with the folly of man. Curry meets love and war with the same air of gassy disdain. No night beginning with a curry ever ended with a fuck or a fight. For you see, dear reader, curry is the death of ambition. 

Yet, just as we cannot reminisce on the hangovers of our youth, we forget.  

Curry on Saturday?

Oooo yeah, I’d love a curry.

*My entire curry range.

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