Better Than Sex

[Dave-G]

I just polished off a Waitrose chicken tikka masala - with pilau rice - and very nice it was, too, especially with a hefty spoonful of Patak's hot lime pickle. It hit the spot. It might not have made Madhur Jaffrey quake in her sari, but in its context, it was better than acceptable.

 

The only problem was that it wasn't quite enough, so I got a chair to stand on to see if we had any poppadoms in the top of the cupboard. There were three and a half. Sharwoods, I think; the ones you cook yourself. A quick clattering rummage in the pan cupboard produced the poppadom pan, all black and flaking. Five minutes, hot oil hanging on the precipice of combustion, and clouds of choking smoke later, three and a half exquisitely cooked poppadoms had filled the rest of the hole.

 

After unsuccessfully attempting to whistle the tune to Doctor Findlay's Casebook, it became apparent that a drink of some description was in order - all that spicy food, I suppose - but rather than fill a mug uncouthly from the tap, something made me look in the bottom of the fridge.

 

There was one bottle of Grolsch. One cold bottle of Grolsch. One bottle of Grolsch so cold that as I looked at it, not believing my good fortune, beads of condensation formed on it, and began to trickle provocatively down its smooth green flanks, wriggling gently round the embossed lettering on the eponymous bottle. They were like the tiniest beads of sweat disappearing into a smooth, ivory cleavage. The bottle gasped urgently, a wisp of vapour fell from its neck and hung in the air before vanishing like the flimsiest of slips cast aside, and the cap fell tinkling gently to the floor before rolling under the dishwasher with all the rest of the greasy fuzz, pennies and dog chews.

 

It didn't touch the sides on the way down. It was an utterly sublime, exquisite moment that bore comparison with the first frantic febrile fumble in the blue serge of a schoolgirl's smalls behind the chem. lab.

 

To be blessed with what happened next was far, far more than I could have ever expected. It started way down somewhere near my ankles, sounding like the dull and distant rumble of a Hammersmith and City Line train approaching Great Portland Street station, building in amplitude, volume and speed. As it rose towards the back of my throat, the sense of anticipation was palpable. My palms grew moist, and my scalp tingled.

 

When it finally burst forth, it wasn't simply the richness of the baritone it produced, but the duration and evenness of the note. It seemed to last for hours. The blast of warm air which accompanied it was a delightful reminder of everything I had enjoyed mere moments before; exotic eastern spices like cardamom and coriander skilfully blended by culinary artisans in Agra, tender aromatic chicken, rice picked from the paddy fields by the long, skilful, practised fingers of delightful dusky maidens, the crisp counterpoint of the poppadoms, and the hoppy tang of the beer.

 

A small tsunami of taste filled the back of my nose as the most satisfying belch I've ever had the pleasure to produce burst from my face and echoed round the room. A small ornament swayed briefly on the bookcase, and a woodlouse fell startled from the wainscoting.

 

Alas, like the fleeting moment of coitus, it was gone, but I was left with that same feeling of being suffused with pleasure, of revelling in warm, tropical waves of sheer joy that ebbed gently away.

 

All I have left that is tangible is a fragment of regurgitated chicken on the ^ key of the keyboard, but the memory will linger longer.

 

Marvellous...

[NikpV]

very good

 

:16: :16:

[jkspoff]

Excellent :D