The Ultimate Fusion Taste Explosion

Sitting, as is my wont on a sultry August afternoon, on the terrace of a local watering hole, my attention was drawn (thanks for that Bill) to the new signage that had appeared outside of a restaurant a little further down the street. What had been an almost abandoned Indian eatery for its relatively short life had reinvented itself as a place of Indian/Italian cuisine.

As boggled minds go, mine went.

Unfortunately, as the gold mine in question, was not open, nor displayed a menu (in any language) I was forced to draw upon my imagination to put together the sumptuous meal that, should I be allowed to enter such a palace of gastronomic delights, would no doubt be placed before me.

On reception at the portal, attended by a young lady dressed in red and white striped sari, I would indulge in a glass of Asti with a hint of cardomann flavouring whilst waiting for the maitre d’, resplendent in turban and oily black moustache, to guide me to a table, which I am sure, I would have had to reserve at least three weeks in advance.

Once seated my waiter, Guiseppe Singh, will, with the speed and efficiency well know to both cultures, place before me a brass tray containing a few nibbles to enjoy whilst perusing the offered faire. Aglio olio samosa perhaps, a bhaji of buffalo mozzarella and, of course, a pomodori pompadom or two.

With eyes wide and watering mouth I shall scour the carte d’hote looking for the choicest delicacies therein. To start, I believe, I will indulge in a murgi minestrone (medium) with a glass of their cheeky fenugreek Frascati.

Then on to the main, oh the bewilderment of choice, shall it be spaghetti sag or macaroni madras (hot)? But in the end I settle for a bolognese biryani (mild) with a side of peperoni paratha. A very fine Calcutta Chianti goes well to wash it down.

Finally the desert tray, in all its glory, is bought before me. Do I dare? Is there room for more? At first glance it looks a little tame, disappointing even, where the turmeric tiramisu and the aloo gobi & garlic gelato? Then I spot it, the crème de la crème, hidden as if not daring to show it’s face in the neon of day, Chana Dhaal Zabaglione, too good to resist.

The bill, when it eventually arrives, will be very reasonable for such a veritable feast and off into to night I shall trot with ne’er a thought of what the morrow, without a doubt, would bring.

Sorry, I going to have to stop here, all of this writing has made me hungry. But, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll eat in tonight.