A night of bahji smuggling on Brick Lane

I remember reading Brick Lane by Monica Ali many years ago. I think I enjoyed it, although, to be totally honest, the details of what it was actually about escape me. But it still seemed sensible that I should add a night out in Brick Lane to my extensive list of London literary outings - William Blake’s grave, Bridget Jones’ door, Jane Austen’s writing desk, and now a Brick Lane curry. Because apparently it’s more famous for those than it is for having a book named after it. Who’d have thought.

The expedition was the brain child of Fran, a South African friend of mine from back in the day when I was an Exchange Student at Pretoria Girls High. So even though I was in the heart of London, I could have been in downtown Jo’burg, surrounded by South Africans. Ja, ja, it was a baie lekker night okes. Even though every time I looked at Fran’s sister-in-law (wife of Kevin the King, or KTK – self named but a truthful account, or so he assured me) I kept thinking I was out with Katrina Warren of Aussie TV vet fame. And her name’s Katrina as well (cue spooky music). Here is a pic of Katrina the vet for the benefit of those at the dinner…with a couple of kittens for the entertainment value of those of you who weren’t.

We started out in a bar called The Vibe, which had about as much vibe as a divorce court on Valentine’s Day, before Frannie and co headed off to hunt us down a curry house. And there are literally hundreds to choose from, probably all catered from the same ginormous underground kitchen. If not, they should look into it. Economies of scale and all that.

Needless to say we did not choose a good one. I guess anywhere that offers two drinks, an entrée, main and tea/coffee for ten quid should be looked on quite dubiously. I realised this as soon as I took a sniff of my complimentary white wine and rather than fruity tones of peaches and smoked wood, I got a whiff of someone’s underarm.

As for ordering, all I can say in my defence is how was I supposed to know that when I ordered eight onion bahji’s he would bring out eight plates rather than eight singular bahjis? It was just a small miscommunication due to the language barrier. But no matter, we organised for the leftovers to be bagged up, so nothing went to waste. I proceeded to refer to it as a bad case of bahji smuggling, which was met with seven blank stares. It didn't even help when I tried to explain that I was referring to budgie smuggling. Clearly I needed some Aussie support at the table to get a laugh from that one. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it is just a very lame joke.  

When I was recounting this story to Paul (of festival of Paul fame) yesterday, he told me that the key to choosing a good curry house on Brick Lane is to check the toilets out first. So when you are first approached in the street by your curry man offering you a quick deal, just say ‘That sounds lovely my man, but I’d like to see the state of your amenities first’. Which would probably have saved us the underarm wine and bahji smuggling incident. The first person to venture to the toilets for the night (whose identity I shall protect, and no this isn’t one of those ‘I have a friend who has a little rash’ moments) came out after about a minute and asked the 10 year old waiter for a few napkins as a toilet paper substitute. So Paul’s theory holds true. A restaurant that can’t even muster up a few scraps of toilet paper is probably not going to provide a stellar dining experience.

Thank God the company was excellent though. Even if we did seem to spend an inordinate amount of time talking about KTK’s belly button fluff (‘why is it always blue? Even when I wear a pink shirt?’), how far you are from a rat in London at any one time (three metres), the difference between being popular and being cool (‘I was popular at school, but I was not cool’ ‘Neither was I, but I was definitely cooler than you’) and whether the London underground is cleaner than it used to be (‘my snott doesn’t seem to be as black anymore’). Ah, to be a group of seasoned intellectuals solving the problems of the world.

After eating copious amounts of suspicious looking yellow curry, we made our way down Brick Lane to Redchurch Street and selected an establishment for a night cap. And what a night cap it was. We ordered a bowl of punch for six, transporting us from India to Jamaica with the generous shake of a rum bottle. Only when it arrived it looked more like something Queen Victoria might have used in the middle of the night before the advent of the indoor toilet than something you would want to drink from. Or a pot plant. I imagined the barman getting an order for punch for six and thinking ‘crap, I don’t have a bowl big enough’ and upending the nearest indoor fern. And yet we all drank it. It sat incredibly well in my stomach on top of the hundred’s of onion bahji’s and yellow curry, as you can imagine.

In the taxi on the way back to Knightsbridge, I wondered whether this was the Brick Lane Monica Ali had in mind when she wrote her bestselling novel. Probably not. I suspect hers had a little more culture and fewer references to toilets.

I can only imagine what literary experiences Portugal is going to cough up. While A Small Death in Lisbon sounds fascinating, I’m not sure I want to add that one to my list. Unless it’s death from Portuguese tart gluttony. I’m happy to have a shot at that. 


(Have just realised that is two blogs in a row I have ended with a reference to Portuguese tarts. My waistline is in trouble.)