INDIAN... OUTLAWED

Robert challenged our little luncheon club to a gastronomical adventure today: the little Indian restaurant at a nearby dilapidated motor inn. And despite his proclamations that the food isn't cooked on-site, but rather literally "motored in" and unloaded from the greasy trunk of a '79 Datsun, we accepted. I watch enough Anthony Bourdain, Andrew Zimmern and Alton Brown to hold these types in pretty high esteem, intestinally speaking... and if Bear Grylls can drink his own urine from a putrefying snakeskin, then surely we could handle one measly lunch at the old no-tell motel. Right?

Let me admit I've never had Indian cuisine... but I've been adventurous in the Caribbean and also tried "lamb fries" at the Old Ft. Worth Stockyards in October, so I fancy myself a budding Zimmern. I had visions of curried beetles and spice-glazed scorpions (like I said... too much Bizarre Foods). And Mikey G, the lone voice of reason, interrupted these musings, asserting that there is a difference between exotic fare and just plain living dangerously. I had to admit he was right. But I was still in. We all were. So at precisely 11 o'clock today, we downed our tools, loaded into two vehicles and set out on our wild culinary ride.

We stepped into the low-ceilinged, dimly-lit restaurant and were immediately assaulted by the scent of incense. Lots and lots of it, hanging heavily in the air. I recalled an episode of Top Chef in which the contestants competed in "restaurant wars" and one of the teams was chided for using lightly scented vanilla candles on their tables. Even neophyte home cooks know you don't use scented anything near food. And this was way more than a little vanilla... it was olfactory rape, the kind of smell that makes your eyes water and your throat close up.

We were immediately ushered to a large table near the buffet and the kitchen. And as luck would have it, we were just in time to watch one of the help mopping the tile in front of the swinging kitchen door. The mop bucket, once yellow, was a dingy brown; the mop itself, an unspeakable shade of grey. Fortunately, the door was held open long enough for all of us to catch a glimpse of an older gentleman conveying pieces of naan bread onto a serving dish. So at last we had proof that there was at least some cooking going on back there. Our interest was piqued!

There was no need for ordering. We were invited to sample the buffet. And by buffet, I mean seven stainless-steel chafing dishes of un-named contents, lined up on an oblong table. It started with white rice, naan bread, something that I will guess was Tandoori "chicken" (appeared to be drummies and thighs of some type of fowl, anyway), a dish that was labeled as chicken within some other ambiguous lumps in a yellowish sauce, a potato/mixed vegetable dish in a sauce that tasted of sweet potatoes, something unappetizingly green that resembled a thick spinachy pesto, and a tureen of soup-like kidney beans in a thin orange-colored base with onions and cilantro. Later, they also brought out an eighth offering-- something that looked like mashed yams. Or baby poo as Mike pointed out later.

In the meantime, the drinks we'd ordered had arrived. Robert had stumped our waiter by ordering "iced tea", and after a long, uncomfortable silence when the waiter finally nodded that they indeed served iced tea, we followed suit. Until Josh had the good sense to order a carbonated beverage, that is (great call, by the way... a beverage from a canister, dispensed by machine... no prep!) We all quickly chimed in at once, changing our orders in like fashion. We ended up with four Dr. Peppers and one Mountain Dew-- which all arrived sans-ice. Looking back, I think it was the "iced" in "iced tea" that stopped our waiter in his tracks. Either that or the fact that he'd been inhaling those incense fumes all day and had no cognitive ability left.

So here we were: Full plates of moderately spicy food and nothing but tepid, syrupy soft drinks to wash down these dishes of dubious origin. And Mikey G (correctly, I believe) outed our colas as Dr. Thunder. Maybe it was because they were hot, but they just didn't quite taste right... not even like Mr. Pibb. And our water glasses? Oh, forget that. They had been filled from a pitcher as soon as we were seated, but Robert and Josh immediately spied out their cleanliness and advised firmly against it. They were real glass, but layered with a suspicious white film... the kind that builds up over time. Lots and lots of time, with zero washing, much less sanitizing, in between. In fact, at one point, the heat of my kidney beans overpowered me and I seriously contemplated the water. I held the glass up to inspect both the vessel and its contents, sniffed the water inquisitively, then held it back for a second look-- when Josh exclaimed, "No!" and told me he would knock it out of my hands if I tried to drink it. He was dead serious, so I put it down and Brittnee shared her warm Dr. Thunder with me.

But all in all, we continued undaunted. Mikey G sopped sauces from his plate with his naan bread like a total pro-- as if he had been doing it all his life. I went back for seconds of the potato dish. And Brittnee?

Well, let's just say that Brittnee did a good job of forking her rice around on her plate. She actually did consume one piece of bread and a total of four kidney beans... plus a whole lot of incense. She said, in fact, that she could still taste the incense all afternoon. Notice her plate looks exactly the same in this "after" shot. The only real difference is her horrified "get me out of here" expression.

We stopped at Sonic on the way back to the office and got her some good ol' American fare-- via drive-thru window, in case anyone at Sonic burns incense.

So we lived dangerously on the first workday of the year. Mainly, we did it to prove our intestinal fortitude-- a pact among friends, securing our bond and proving we can all hang. Truthfully, we are totally in it for the bragging rights. And as much as we like to boast about our culinary conquests, I don't think we'll be going back to the Taj-Bismol. Especially Brittnee... twelve bucks for four beans is pretty steep.