Man Cook

My head's reeling; my hands tremble as I pour whisky into a tumbler. I wait with bottle tilted. Glug, glug, glug it goes until the surface of the liquid rises to a level corresponding to my current high level of depair. How high is it? It can't be that bad for I'm only a spectator--I'm not a hot-blooded curry chef. I take my first sip from the shaking glass.

***

I was lying on the sofa in the late afternoon, reading, when the sweet smell of onions first wafted in; wave followed wave of aroma, and as much as I tried to concentrate on my book, each word defiantly morphed into a little onion dancing off the page and floating into the air. I shut the book in frustration and went to check up on my father in the kitchen. He was preparing onion paste, frying a pan full of sliced onions to tranlucence, then blending them to a brown mush. It was the first step of the meticulous process that would take up half his day, the results of which would be presented in the dining room to the invited guests. He looked grim. This was serious.

I left him at work and took a walk outside along the suburban tree-lined road where the air was clear and did not smell of frying onions and did not cause salivation. But the food images were stuck in my mind, so I fumbled a cigarette from the pack in my pocket into my mouth. I took a suck at it before lighting--it was a different kind of sweetness from that of the onions, it was a sickly sweetness, and that sickly sweetness didn't make my mouth water for food but rather drove an urge in me to light up. Which I then did.

Later, I again visited the kitchen and watched while my father ground coriander and cumin seeds with his clay motar and added grated ginger and garlic and cinnamon and vinegar until he had a paste so fragrant that I was forced to make my escape again, to stop myself from ravenously losing control.

In the couple of hours that passed before dinnertime, the house became infused with the smell of lamb vindaloo. Now six people sat at the table: my mother, Aunt and Uncle, their two adult children, I. My father was still busy in the kitchen, but came in presently to serve papadums, which were hastily grabbed and crunched and munched away by all present to try put an end to the watering of mouths. And before long he returned with the main course in steaming dishes, the curry topped by the crisp green of chopped coriander.

"Mmm...delicious," said Aunt, as all started feeding themselves. And several mouthfuls later, having consumed a sufficient sample size, Uncle was ready to give gave his verdict. I knew from his expression that what he would say would be bad. Better left unsaid. And wrong anyway. But he couldn't stop himself--it was his way. He proclaimed, proudly bellowing the words out from his enormous belly:
"You know, when I was studying I had a couple of Indian lads staying a few doors down from me in the residence hall, and they showed my how to make a proper curry." I glanced over at my father. He had stopped eating at these words, but looked down at the food on his plate instead of at Uncle. Uncle continued:
"Yes, those Indians taught me how to make a proper curry back then. The key is not to use any water. Use butter or oil and it retains all the flavour. Water kills the flavour--it's fatal." He paused. And then continued:
"I'll tell you what: one of these coming Saturdays I'll invite you all over for a proper curry. You won't believe the difference." By now everyone was uneasily looking for something to rest their eyes on. Aunt looked most uncomfortable of all--in an awkward show, she started eating again and repeated her words from before:
"Mmm...delicious."
But it came out flat this time.

My father was dead still. He stared down at his plate; white knuckles squeezed untensils. A vein on his temple throbbed once...twice...three times and then...then he exploded: in a flash (and a wine-glass-breaking crash) he lunged over the table and grabbed with both hands at Uncle's throat. Aunt screamed; uncle gasped for air and flailed his arms around wildy, landing several blows to my father's head but to no avail, for my father's teeth were clenched and bared and his eyes filled with rage and most significantly: his grip stayed strong. All the time aunt screamed---so long, too long it seemed---until my mother stood up and shouted at my father in her most stern and clear and powerful tone and with her widest eyes:
"Stop that at once!"
And he did stop. Uncle gasped; my father dashed off. A door slammed down the passage.

I couldn't bear staying at the table, so I headed to the kitchen to pour myself a strong drink.