Masala Omlette
Travelling with my uncle and cousin through India, my uncle gave me a few pieces of key advice:
-Keep your mouth shut in the shower (Delhi belly)
-Drink/brush your teeth with bottled water (Delhi belly)
-Don't look at beggars, or you won't go 5 feet without handing out cash
-Don't drive at night, unless you have a terrible, terrible death wish
-Send the youngest person (in this case, me) to check the toilets before you go in.
-And always, always order a masala omlette for breakfast. At first, I followed this advice without hesitation, my uncle knows India, he's a well-travelled man. So dutifully, I order a masala omlette every morning, we all do, and they're not half bad.
Trouble is, after a month of heaving drinking, waking up hungover, and seeing another pale, oniony, peppery eggy mess plonked down on the table in front of you, you begin to dread getting out of bed in the mornings. Each fucking masala omlette becomes a personal torture, and after over 3 weeks, i'd had enough.
'Scrambled eggs, please', I chirrupped.
Stunned looks from across the table.
'What the fuck are you doing, SigmaX0?' inquires my uncle, taken aback.
'I can't eat any more masala omlette. It was nice the first 20 times, but now just the smell makes me want to die'
So my uncle and cousin's masala omlettes arrive, and they tuck in with unbridled enthusiasm, like they've never tried one before and it's some rare, exotic knob cheese scraped from underneath God's foreskin. And after an excruciating wait arrive my scrambled eggs, my disgrace. Pure white, and floating in a translucent milky soup, they look like spunk squash. I want to hurl.
The next day, and every day afterwards, I ordered masala omlette. Good advice, that.
( SigmaX0 Dear Die Hard. You rock!, Wed 26 May 2010, 13:16, Reply)