Under Caution

I totally want to wreck this Tony Stewart chocolate stock car.

I want to blow out the tires. Crunch the hood. Rip off the roof.

Give the crowd what they really want.

With my teeth.

But I've got a problem.

An Indian food problem.

---

I respect Indian culture. A deep admiration, in fact.

I've been fortunate enough to investigate their culture and religions. To speak intimately with the most knowledgeable of them about what they believe and why they believe it. I've learned the enlightening truth behind the sacred cow. The (actual) worship of education. The duty to family. The beauty of their women and their children and, as I've often encountered, the beauty of their souls.

But, holy hell, is their food something I simply cannot abide.

I've never felt comfortable with that distinct Indian smell. I've always been scared of their food. I've looked at it, smelled it and, ultimately, passed on it.

Until today.

See, I'm in a situation where I must eat Indian food twice.

Tonight, I ordered my first Indian meal.

I researched the menu as much as I could going in. I even Googled it.

I saw the curry. The meat marinated in yogurt. The entrees of goat.

I feared it.

But I went for what seemed to be the closest to something I could handle. I ordered the Chicken Vindaloo. A spicy tomato and onion sauce. I like spicy. Tomatoes and onions. That's within the reach of my Southern familiarity comfort zone.

I brought it home and opened it, smelling everything before tasting. I tasted some special kind of sauce that made my eyeballs convulse. I poured out the rice that smelled like every journey I've had through an Indian home where the relief stepping out into the clear air was sublime.

I pulled out the chicken and the potatoes and put it on my plate around the rice. "I can do this," I thought. "They say this stuff is extremely healthy. And I've come a long way in overcoming the provinciality of my own culture."

One bite. Two bites. Three. Four.

Just. Can't. Do it.

Into the dog dish it went. The dog ate the chicken and left everything else.

I heated the oven and slid in a sizeable serving of frozen tater tots and chicken nuggets to counter my foray into the Indian experience.

I don't usually eat tater tots and chicken nuggets for dinner. Those are for the kids. But it seemed just so stereotypically, over-the-top-American that it just might sweep my palate clean.

But there's a problem.

Everything I eat tastes like Indian food now.

---

The tater tots, the chicken nuggets, the ketchup, the Pez candy, the jelly beans, the other chocolate NASCAR, a #8 Dale Jr. that my son has given me the blessing to destroy.

I can't shake it.

I can't stop thinking about that line in "Anchorman" when Brian Fontana sprays on the Sex Panther cologne and Christina Applegate says it "smells like a dirty diaper filled with Indian food."

As I look at the Tony Stewart chocolate stock car that my children have no real interest in eating, it is impervious. It taunts me. Maybe I should melt it, just out of spite.

But I have more pressing concerns.

Mainly, what am I going to do tomorrow, at lunchtime, when I have to go to an Indian buffet and let the amazingly nice and hard-working owner of an Indian restaurant point out the finer ingredients of each item and insist, through a sense of earnest hospitality, that I try one of each?

He'll surely sit with me while I eat, thanking me for taking the time to inquire and learn about his culture.

But I can't even eat a chocolate NASCAR.

***

PART II

I entered the restaurant a few minutes after they closed for lunch. I couldn't decide whether the buffet was a good thing or a bad thing. I could try just a little bit of everything. See it before it ended up on my plate. And fake like I'm just a guy who doesn't eat much.

It didn't matter. The buffet had closed. The owner told me he'd serve me from the kitchen.

His menu was a little more detailed than the other one. I decided I would pore over it as if I were looking for a loose contact. I saw Mango Chicken. Somehow that seemed like it would be more ... dry.

(By the way, you're in the right place if you're a guy who doesn't eat beef or pork).

The owner took my order. Told me I'd enjoy it. Then, he fulfilled my fears of this day.

"I would like to bring you a number of different things from the kitchen, so you can get a full experience of what we have to offer."

I nodded yes. The best I could do was say, "I'm not all that big on curry." Other than that, I was at his mercy.

Now, here's the thing: His restaurant is nice. Very well run. A lot of attention to detail. Great service and presentation. A charming experince.

And the food? Well, I can totally see how someone who likes Indian food would consider this place top-notch. But that's about all I can say. And it's not as if I don't speak from newfound experience.

I went from eating my very-first-ever-ever-in-my-life Indian dish just one night before to this:





And that wasn't even all of it.

I never use my camera phone. I busted the lens on it long ago after dropping it too many times.

But in a private moment, as I trudged onward on a mission not to offend, I had to document for posterity the irony bludgeoning me like a sitar cracked over my head.

Everything still smells and tastes like Indian food.

I don't know if I'll ever be the same.