Injun fud

Last weekend, I went out and took my team of 5 out to lunch because, apparently, unbeknown to me, good managers are supposed to take some time out of the office with their directs once in a while to bond. Or in my case, be all awkward around each other and shit because in the back of your mind, you know that your directs have been reading your blog ever since you came on board the company and most of them think you’re mentally too unstable to be in charge of a business unit. And to be allowed near let alone operate any form of electronic equipment.

Let’s move along.

What’s more unforgivable than the fact that I haven’t taken my team out to any form of team building activity in my three year tenure as a manager is the fact that I let one of my team members choose where we’re going to eat. An even more unforgivable mistake? I let this asshole choose.

Now, I’m not exactly a food connoisseur but I don’t have bad taste either. If I were to describe my palate, I would probably liken it to that of a college student’s. If a typical college frat boy loves it, then chances are I’d love it too. I like gallons of cooking oil on my food, I like slathers of mayonnaise on it, I love cheese and excessive amounts of condiments on it.

Also, when I go to restaurants, I have this habit of staking it out and take my time to carefully study its menu. I hate having to ask for waiter recommendations and prefer to  know what exactly what I am going to order as soon as I am seated.

For God knows what reason, this asshole chose to go to an Indian restaurant for our team lunch.

Now, before I proceed, I want to go on record that I am, in no way, racist. I love Indian culture and truth be told, one of my closest friends is Indian. (Sup, Sanjay. I haven’t forgotten about that hundred bucks I owe you. I’ll pay you soon. I know, 110 bucks it is.)

What bothered me the most about our lunch is the fact that I couldn’t pick my food in advance. This is not because of a momentary bout of indecision, but rather because of what the fuck was on their menu:

• Paneer Mumtaz
• Tawa Kheema Mutton
• Dal with Methi Leaves
• Jumbo Paper Dosa
• Chicken Bouli Handi
• Kulfe
• Kheer

My Initial thoughts on these menu items:

1. I consider myself considerably smart, well-read and cultured enough to have a working knowledge of Persian, American, Greek, Japanese and Thai cultures. But when you’re looking at a menu where the only words that ring a bell are “Chicken” and “Jumbo”, you know you’re in for one huge clusterfuck.
2. “Paneer Mumtaz” sounds like the roasted appendages of a 1980′s Indian child star and really, I don’t think I’m brave enough to try that shit out.
3. “Tawa Kheema Mutton” is absolutely balderdash. It’s like me opening a restaurant and saying that my specialty is “Beef Kukurikapu.” Utter nonsense. But of course, no one calls the restaurant out on it at the risk of being called uncultured.
4. I have a feeling that “Bouli Handi” isn’t food. It sounds more like slang for when a girl masturbates a guy and accidentally clasps his testicles tightly when he approaches orgasm. (i.e. “So Kate was down there giving me the most vicious Hand Job ever right? When I was about to come, I pulled on her hair and out of nowhere she was giving me a Bouli Handi. Next thing I know, she’s crying in the corner because I punched her in the face out of instinct.)
5. “Kheer”–Excuse me, but I think the politically correct vernacular would be “Homosexual.” Fag.

The meal was, surprisingly, delectable. I don’t know what the fuck we ended up ordering but it was this chicken stew with curry and Indian spices. It was so good I can only assume that it was made from good dreams and the laughter of innocent, orphan children.

Of course, the meal was not without food items that didn’t really do it for me. One thing, their rice had cashew nuts, raisins, peas and what tasted like motor oil. The only description I could muster after a few spoon-fulls was that it tasted like an old memory and is probably what an antique shop would taste like if it was edible. Of course, I acknowledge that this rice may be acclaimed by food critics world-wide and only I couldn’t appreciate it. I’m simply too uncultured, dumb and poor.

All in all it was a good meal. But to the owner of that restaurant: Seriously dude, turn the “authenticity” down a notch. We get it, you have a real Indian chef you flew from Hyderabad and your menu is in Indian. Just, really, tell us what the fuck’s in the food! Dammit!

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