Curry Got Me Worried

Now I may be just your average Canadian WASP, but I still consider myself an authority when it comes to Indian food. That's why I've elected to make it the topic of today's discussion, despite the fact that I've spent less than two weeks in this country to date.

I'll begin by saying that I love Indian food. I always have. It is the epitome of grassroots cooking, wherein a few simple, subtle ingredients are combined to form an extravagant marriage of flavours. No complicated culinary techniques or pricey condiments are required; all you need to get started is a handful of fragrant spices and some hot oil. The focus is on taking a normally bland ingredient and bringing it to the forefront with the calculated addition of something vibrant. That's why plain-Jane vegetables such as potato and cauliflower often play a starring role on the Indian palette.

Indian food (like the Indian immigrant) has become commonplace in most parts of the world. Many cities in the West now have at least one Indian eatery, and we've all been there to try such popular items as lamb rogan josh, butter chicken, aloo gobi and of course naan bread and cucumber raita. I'd even hazard to say that most of us have tried cooking an Indian dish once or twice, although if you're like me then you've probably been left wondering why the egg biryani you produced wasn't half as rich or savoury as the one being served at the curry house down the street. Yeah I know... it ain't easy being White.

So do you crave cardamon and popadoms as much as I do? Then I invite you to make a pilgrimage to India, my friend. When you get here, you'll be able to sample an infinite number of local specialties, from the familiar dhal soup to the more exotic prawn vindaloo. Here are a few that I recommend:

-Masala Dhosa: a thin, crispy pancake filled with fried potatoes and cumin, typically served in the morning with a steaming cup of chai.
-Paneer Palak: perfect for the closet vegetarian, this curry combines spinach and the spongy, meaty Indian paneer cheese. Cool electric green colour to boot.
-Mutton Afghan: goat meat braised in a sweet tomato sauce with pineapple and grapes.
-Capsicum Jalfrezi: a spicy dry curry of peppers, onion and green chili.

Okay. By now I've made it clear that Indian cuisine is excellent and that the best of it is served right here in India. Yeah? Good. But we're only half-done. So now, I'd like you all to begin clenching your sphincters and holding your breath, because for the remainder of this dissertation I will be talking about diarrhea.

Q: What do you get when you take someone who is used to a benign Western diet of Corn Flakes, tuna sandwiches and spaghetti bolognese, and let them loose in a country where even the breakfasts are spicy?
A: The dreaded 'Delhi Belly'. Or, as they say in the medical field, 'Ass Volcano'.

I managed to last a week. A week of eating fire three times a day before my stomach finally gave up and raised the alarm. From there on in, your life begins to revolve around the toilet, which in India is simply a rather odiferous hole in the floor. This experience often lasts 2-3 days. For me, one of those days was my birthday.

The incessant use of chili isn't the only catalyst though- there are myriad other factors that contribute to your intestinal volatility just as much. Take the tap water for instance. It is so full of harmful parameciums that you shouldn't even use it to rinse your toothbrush - and yet all Indian restaurants cook with it. Strike one. Strike two? People wipe their behinds with their left hand here, meaning that the guy who's rolling the dough for your chapati bread probably isn't as Zestfully clean as you'd like him to be. Finally, the food itself is suspect - especially the meat. Sure, that goat curry might taste like a dream, but when you consider that most goats roam freely and eat garbage on the roadsides here, that dream quickly becomes a nightmare. Strike three. You're out. Prepare your left hand.

They say that what doesn't kill you can only make you stronger. I'll be in India 6 more weeks. If by then I'm not dead due to stomach ulcers, then I'll celebrate with a tuna sandwich. If the curry does finish me off, however, then I'd like my epitaph to read:

Here Lies Mike Hudson
Decent Enough Guy
I Regret Nothing
Go Oilers

And please don't bury me on the Indian roadside. I don't want the goats to eat the flowers.