A day forever
There’s Goan pork vindaloo, and then there’s the East Indian version. It requires less prep time but tastes, well, friggin’ great. The p. vindaloo I make is not the pure E. Indian way. It’s more of a marriage between E. Indian and Goan cooking. Not a new concept to me at all. No sirree, Bob! You see my sister, Milly, is married to an E. Indian. Good old Neil Murzello. I have to be a mutant to be able to count on four score seven fingers to list the number of occasions I’ve stumbled out of Neil’s Dadar appartment replete with Aunty Joyce’s (Neil’s ma; God bless her soul) smorgasbord of East Indian delights. And since this is a roll call of East Indian cooks whose food I’ve been fortunate to masticate, I’ll mention Neil’s sisters, Bella and Lolla.
Like there’s a Goan way to excessively celebrate life, there’s an East Indian way that runs along similar lines and truly boggles the senses (sure, the Punjabis, too, can throw one hell of a bash; but I could really appreciate it only if was born Tejinder a.k.a. Tony as opposed to Anthony a.k.a Tony). Take one nos. party at Neil’s place. Mid-helloing and air kissing, Judy (Neil’s bro, Jude) offers me a drink a tad shy of Thums Up and well stocked with my main man, Old Monk. The air is thick with the aroma of fine foods, Wills’ cigarette smoke (to which I’m contributing mushrooms of; note: I’m all of 17 callow years; yeah, yeah, screw the effing lecture on under-legal-age exposure to some of the good things in life)