Some Like it Hot, and Only Hot

The definition of a culinary colonialist is someone who, looking-up from the rocket salad, opines hot curries be all heat and no flavour. Instead of just admitting that he or she is a namsy-pamsy with a molly-coddled palate unable to stand a bit of heat, the respective commentator will throw around killjoy lines such as: “A hot curry is not a curry as too hot a spiciness suppresses the flavour of the food”.

curry

As a result, real curries – Indian, red-hot, sweat-inducing – are being eschewed by foodies. Instead we get these horrid Thai things which taste like a coconut milkshake with a hit of chicken stock, or those precious South African Malay concoctions calling themselves curry. In the latter, turmeric is used to create a luminous yellowish plate of food flavoured with a few spices stuck in a sickly sweetness. If Peter Pan or Boy George wanted curry, this would suffice. But truly, a Cape Malay curry is as close to the real thing as Justin Bieber is to getting a starter place in the Auckland Blues.

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Port for Thought

So far, it has been a good year for Port drinking. And if things continue in this vein, my Douro resident permit should surely be in the mail. What’s more, since committing to dropping two bottles orfPort a week three months ago, my GP reckons I am in far better shape than ever. Blood pressure is temperate. The pulse is as calm and regular enough to manage a Formula One pit stop. And a painful stabbing check produced the verdict of my liver being is as unblemished and pure as a nun’s thigh.

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