Burn after eating

Did I say I like that burning sensation at the posterior the morning after having Indian curries? Sorry, I lied. I don't. It sucks. It is a horrible feeling.

After the last post, I felt that it was timely for me to get some real curry. So I went for the easy option - Ganges Indian Restaurant, which is a stone's throw from home. But it was by no means a poor choice just because I was a lazy twirp. Ganges won the best Indian restaurant award in a local expat magazine last year.


It was not hard to see why. It has three branches in Beijing alone. And as McDonald's have shown, if you have a lot of outlets, your food must be good. But unlike the Golden Arches, Ganges comes with a wide selection of more than 150 dishes. As it proudly claims, it offers "all your favourite Northern Indian recipes, highlights from the Southern Indian style of cooking, and the latest from the exciting fusion style of modern Mumbai." Yes, rest assured that even though it tries to look Chinese with red lanterns next to chandeliers, it is authentically Indian.


Need further evidence? Well, it has Indian waiters. That's usually a good sign. And their food is spicy too. Being kind to Chinese who might not be too hot on spiciness, there is even a legend to warn off non chilli fans. But since I am a true blue Singaporean who takes to chilli like frog legs to porridge, the legend merely encouraged me to go for the maximum pain.

Three chillis for me! Yes sir, bring it on. Nothing less will do. The Chicken Vindaloo (48 yuan) was one of the few marked for maximum spiciness and it was my sadistic choice. It did not disappoint. Together with my fragrant Vegetable Biryani (38 yuan), it was a lovely combination. The biryani used Basmati rice, mixed with pieces of boneless chicken and it was not oily. KF ordered the Lamb Rojan Josh and picked Onion Naan (15 yuan) to go with it and he said it was delightful too.


The only downside to Ganges was the snooty service. The waiters were overbearing, urging us repeatedly to order more dishes, especially the expensive ones. When I preferred the local Tsingtao beer (15 yuan a mug) instead of the imported Tiger draft (35 yuan), the waiter actually snorted and quickly walked off, seemingly in disgust. Seriously, why would I want Tiger in Beijing? Asshole.

Speaking of assholes....the Vindaloo made sure I remembered it the next morning. I shall not elaborate. The rest, as they said, is lavatory.

My feminine Coco

It has been more than a decade, but I still think of Coco. On that fateful first day of bloody darn conscription, she waltzed into the barracks and turned every army boy's head. She had such smooth fair skin, lovely curves and luscious long hair that was a sharp contrast to the shaven heads that me and my new-found buddies had. But an hour later, we realised that we do share some similarities with Coco. She had a penis too.

You see, Coco belonged to that category of almost there, but yet not really. She looked like a hot chick and spoke like one thanks to regular hormone jabs. Unfortunately, she was not yet one. Her identity card said Male, and in Singapore, that means compulsory military service when you are 18. In common speak, she is a transvestite. In Singapore, they are often called derogatory terms like "bapok" or "ah kua". In ancient China, they would be likened to eunuchs. In the Singapore Armed Forces, she was classified as a Pes 302. I never quite figure out why 302 was used and not 123.


I never saw Coco again after those early months of bloody darn conscription and quite frankly, had clean forgotten her (I think she must have snipped off her manhood by now). But this ancient city of Beijing has a strange way of connecting you to your past. In my case, it is usually done through my Forbidden Stomach.

Some weeks back, YF suggested lunch at Coco Curry House. I said yes instantly. I may have a hopelessly weak tummy, but I love curry. I love that fiery monster that leaves me crippled and moaning on the throne the next morning. Muthu's, Apollo, Samy's, you name it, I love them all in Singapore.

But alas, Coco Curry House is as Indian as me - ie, not very. It serves Japanese curry. For those who have never had Japanese curry, just know that it is basically an imposter. It is not spicy, not fiery and certainly won't leave you moaning on the throne with a burning arse. In fact, any other names for that brown paste Japanese thing would be more appropriate than "curry". How about "nibushijiali"? Or "zheyidiandoubuxiangjiali"?


But curry the Japanese called it and Coco Curry House has more than a thousand restaurants all over Japan, China and even LA. Someone must obviously like this weird thing. The outlet we went to at high-end 美美百货 or Maison Mode mall (10-8571-2230) was really very Japanese - clean, neat and complete with oddly-phrased English like "Good Smell, Good Curry". The restaurant was squeaky clean, with crisp table paper mats and overeager wait staff whose wages must depend on how megawatt their smiles can get.


When my beef rice with egg omelette was served, the rice was wrapped up in the omelette with curry swimming around it. Very clean, neat and cute. The curry though, was, well, somewhat effeminate. Easy to eat, but hardly hot stuff. Coco - the Curry House and not my old army mate - has pasta too, but again, I have never been keen on Jap takes on Italian cuisine. YF said their spaghetti was not bad, so I may give it a chance next time. Expect to pay about 40 yuan per head.


For those who like Jap curry, give Coco Curry House a try. For me, one delicate Coco in my life is more than enough.