In the run up to Christmas I unwittingly ended up in late night curry houses no less than seven times in two weeks, with the result that I now have shares in The Tandoori Bite and I broke out in a rash. Don't get me wrong - I'm a huge fan of curry and late night drinking, but there are limits.
The perpetually benevolent and infinitely tolerant staff of Dublin's surprisingly small number of late night joints have seen me at my messiest; in fact, I'd go so far as to say that they have enough on me to quite ruin my reputation in society. I suppose small-hour Indian restaurants are our generation's brothels or opium dens...with similar discretion exercised by staff vis-a-vis their gentlemen clientele.
They are wonderfully ararchic places; there's something of the pirate rowdy dow in them. I've seen all kinds of wonderful things in Indians: from butter knife fights to chilly eating contests, men face down in Vindaloo and girls having wings eaten out of their decolletage.
I especially lament the passing of the old Taj Mahal. It typified a less regulated, more scallywag Dublin that's being sanitised bit by bit in favour of diffused lighting and fusion cuisine.
May the last few good Indians standing maraud on into '08 and beyond.
And may this rash not...
Another Crisis in Foptown.