UncategorizedAfter an all-day game drive, we were back at the safari lodge, famished and ready for dinner.
It was a buffet. And the spread… wow. Steaming dishes, aromatic sauces, colorful veggies, sizzling meats, the works. Everything looked amazing. At the end of the Buffet, I saw the foods that are common, but here at the start of the buffet were dishes I had never heard of before, and I was like, this is what I want, mahn!
There was just one problem: I had no idea what any of it was.
I grabbed a plate and decided to “be adventurous.” I piled on a bit of everything: a curry that smelled divine, some rice, and a few items I couldn’t even pronounce.
Now! First bite… and my mouth instantly started questioning my life choices.
The curry? Apparently it was Kolhapuri chicken (a fiery, red chicken curry from Maharashtra known for bold chili flavors) so spicy it could have made a lion shed a tear.
Then Next, I tried what I thought was a mild vegetable dish. Nope. It was Vindaloo (a tangy, extremely spicy curry ). My face turned redder than a Kenyan sunset. I grabbed my water, but the jug was lukewarm. Rookie mistake.
At this point, I should have stopped. But no! I was like, maybe this one isn’t as spicy…
Then came a mound of rice with what looked like a garnish. I took a bite. Hello, Phall curry (often called the hottest curry in India, made with insane amounts of chili). By now, my tongue had officially gone rogue.
I tried a piece of bread to cool down. It didn’t help. The naan (soft, fluffy Indian flatbread) seemed to mock me, smugly soft, while my taste buds burned.
Nearby tourists were calmly enjoying their plates, smiling serenely as if this was a spa for the senses. Meanwhile, I was silently begging: “Please, mercy!”
When I was at the serving table, I even asked, “Is it spicy?”
The person smiled warmly and said, “No, no… it’s just mildly spicy.”
Mildly.
MILDLY.
If that was mild, I don’t want to meet the food they call “hot.” That curry didn’t whisper spice. It delivered a full motivational speech to my nervous system.
Somewhere between the first and second bite, I realized I had been lied to. Politely. Calmly. Respectfully.
But lied to.
My lips were tingling. I’m pretty sure I briefly unlocked a new chakra.
And the worst part? The chef walked past and asked, “Everything okay?”
With tears in my eyes and steam probably visible from space, I nodded and croaked, “Delicious.”
Because pride is stronger than common sense.
That night, I learned an important lesson:
When someone says “mildly spicy” and they grew up eating the food… that is not your “mild.”
From now on, I’m sticking to foods I can pronounce.
Across the buffet table, I saw the familiar foods I actually knew: dal (a lentil stew), butter chicken (creamy tomato-based chicken curry), paneer tikka (grilled spiced cheese cubes). There they were, just sitting there, calm, serene… almost judging me.
They were looking at me like, “Bro… you just left us for that fire?”
My pride hit the floor, right next to my now-empty plate of vindaloo. I had abandoned the comfort of foods I understood for a wild, spicy adventure… and paid the price.
Because Indian dishes? Yoh.
They don’t play.
