Singapore’s Szechwan Chicken
There is a Szechwan dish called “Burning Pot Chicken”.  In Rosewood it would be called “Oh dear, what have I just put in my mouth!!”  The colours and ingredients are wonderful; beautiful pieces of golden chicken, the smoke represented by grey Szechwan peppercorns, whole white garlic cloves and bamboo shoots, and for fire a bucket of the world’s hottest chilli – red being the universal colour to symbolise ‘Quick -get me help -I need first aid’.

I gave it my best shot.  I was going to give up after the first smack to the head – but then I became Mr Stubborn Little Welshman, a man my children so adore.  There was no chilli high.  There was a chilli ‘sorry-Linda,-no-I-can’t stop-my-nose-running’, a chilli ‘ now-my-eyes-have gone-blurry’, a chilli I-know I’m-mumbling-it’s-because-I-can’t-speak’, a chilli ‘great,-now-I’ve-got- the-hiccups’.  But definitely no chilli rush of endorphins to make a Rosewood boy high.  Or even feel good.  Just prolonged and terrifying pain.

The earlier lunchtime meal by contrast was foodie bliss.  Looking for a decent Indian meal we chose to eat at a North Indian restaurant close to our hotel.  I didn’t really understand what the Maitre’d  was saying (perhaps that should be Mahatma d’ ?), but the essence of it was “There’s a special buffet for lunch, we’ll offer you two meals for the price of one if you sit quietly, eat quickly, then get out.”  There were special guests coming.

Singapore’s Minister for Trade and Commerce was being feted by his Indian counterpart.  There was a caste of Indian and Singaporean dignitaries, functionaries, the press corps – and the two of us.  It was a fascinating opportunity to watch how power is exercised; who’s in, who’s out, and who’s so far out they have to sit at the kiddies’ table – not even an introduction to the wigs. Blokes who could have sat with the kitchen staff or the two of us for all they mattered in that company.  The food was sublime – the best Indian we have eaten outside India itself – without doubt. And it was half price.

At least late that evening the wonderful Indian lunch gave me something about which to quietly reminisce.  I still couldn’t speak. I was still suffering through my chilli that-Szechwan-meal-was-hours-ago-and-my-face-STILL-feels-like-it’s-going-to-drop-off, but it balanced by memories of the most wonderful Indian delights. Damn you Burning Pot Chicken. Go back to Hell. Indian curries are the new heavenly high.

The chilli high is a cruel myth.  Any Rosewood boy can tell you that.

(Yes Scotty,  at least one misspelling is intentional not including ‘Mahatma d’, you know I love puns and I know you hate brackets.  Such is life.)