One of the things I find most confusing is the practice of going for a curry when you’re hammered. Having tried this with friends a couple of times, I have concluded that anyone who likes the pints-then-curry act is a liar or feels so awful regularly that the feeling afterwards is nothing abnormal. There is no type of food I dislike more than bad Indian: the places where a vindaloo means three scoops of curry powder and a rogan josh means two; where onion is undetectable in the sunflower oil bhaji. The last time I went to a bad curry house after drinking, I left the place with a curious sensation, a suspicion that my small intestine had been pushed up into my oesophagus, that a layer of ghee had clogged up my stomach acid pumps, that if I were to take a swig of water then it would just immediately splash out of my mouth, and that a part of my stomach was in danger of getting trapped in a door. Specifically, of the off-licence over the road.
Cantonese and Turkish food are much, much better for post-drinking. Stir-fried noodles soak up lager very well, while every single Turkish restaurant in the country has contrived to be a 7/10, so you know there won’t be any nasty surprises.
No serious eater is properly accomplished without having discovered an Indian place that no one else knows about
