 The search for a good curry continues, writes Nick Dent.
In the worlds before Monkey, primal chaos reigned. Heaven sought order, but the phoenix can fly only when it’s had a decent vindaloo or three.
When we last left our heroes, Monkey and Tripitaka still had a long way to go on their quest to find a truly exciting Indian meal within a cooee of Oxford Street. Joined by Sandy, Pigsy and a horse evolving into human – or at least, hippie – form, the weary travellers happened upon an Indian sweets shop near the corner of Wentworth and Elizabeth called Jaipur Sweets.
“Be careful master,” Monkey warned, surveying the glass display cabinet packed with exotic confections. “They are probably cursed sweets, and by the way, did you know you look more like a young Japanese woman than a Chinese boy priest?”
“I think we all look quite Japanese,” mused Sandy (something of a philosopher).
“And our mouth movements don’t really match what we’re saying,” essayed the horse.
“Are we far from Ken’s of Kensington here?” whined Pigsy.
“Hush pilgrims,” said Tripitaka. “This is but a humble Rajastani diner, popular with backpackers. There do seem to be a lot of Indian customers here, so maybe it’s worth a shot. Look, they have a dosa (crispy rice pancake) and vegetarian curry special for only $5.”
“Alright, Tripitaka,” growled Monkey. “But if I end up having to protect you from a large group of men armed with cardboard scimitars, then just remember why they call me Great Sage, Equal of Heaven.”
Having ordered at the counter and fetched their own cutlery, our friends sat down on leather chairs at a large wooden table.
Virtuous Tripitaka had a Punjabi thali ($12) – roti bread, some rice, yoghurt and four vegetarian curries in little steel pots. “These curries are truly spicy and full of flavour!” he exclaimed.
“My chicken jalfreji ($10) is also delicious, with spicy capsicum and onion,” said Monkey. “The lamb rogan josh is incredibly tender and yummy for a mere $8.50,” added Sandy appreciatively. The sweet-toothed horse, meanwhile, scoffed a plate of hot kala jamun – ricotta, sugar and paneer balls deep-fried in ghee. “Pigsy, these are awesome sweets,” he whinnied. “Do you want some?”
“No thanks. I’m not very hungry,” said Pigsy. The others stared. “What, I can’t have shading?”
“Hang on, that fat woman looks familiar,” said Tripitaka. “Buddha? Buddha, is that you?”
“Um, huhmm – hello, yes it’s me. So you got here at last did you? Well done.”
“So we have completed our quest? We have found the perfect Indian restaurant?”
“Not perfect,” the rotund deity replied. “They don’t exactly treat you like a god here – hee hee – but the food’s so authentic, home-style and cheap that you may think you’ve found nirvana!”
Tripitaka frowned. “Lord Buddha, forgive me – but is that goat biryani you’re eating? I … I thought Buddhists were forbidden to eat flesh?”
“Er … why no, it’s … korma masala … josh … mshshoshshmmosh.”
“Sorry?”
“Oh look, I can make myself as big as a mountain – bye!”
Tripitaka sighed and turned to Monkey. “It’s true you know,” she said, removing her robes. “I really am a woman. And I want some hot monkey business right now, thank you – or I’ll speak the headache sutra.”
“Oh alright,” said Monkey. “But do you mind putting the priest gear back on?”
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