Fuckin' Indian Food

Finally, something blogworthy...

Tonight should have been a normal, boring night in the life of Kid Dynamite.

Like most other nights, I arrived home to an eagerly wagging tail, courtesy of Oscar,

and we went to the dog run for an hour. Oscar took three dumps, humped a few bitches, and ran like a maniac around the gravel enclosure.

We came home and rested, watching Monday's CSI:Miami, before Mrs. Dynamite finally arrived home at 8pm.

"What do you want to eat?" I was fucking starving.

"Believe it or not, I could do Indian tonight," she replied, which was odd, as Mrs. D is not a big Indian fan. However, since we'd had Thai last night, and I wasn't in the mood for Chinese, I was more than happy to lob in the immediate standard Indian order to my go-to guy at Ghandi Cafe:

1 Nan
1 Onion Kulcha
1 Chicken Tikka Masala (Mrs. D)
1 Lamb Sagwala (KD)

Being a veteran, I ask the guy on the other end of the phone, "How long will it be?"

"Turrty meenuts sir," he assures me, and I hang up and set the table.

I killed some time on the computer reading Pauly's epic trip report of the 2006 Bash at the Boathouse, and by 9:05, foodless, I was fully TILTED. I hit "redial" and politely inquired as to the status of my order.

The guy told me something about a "problem with the bike," (the place is only 5 blocks away) apologized and told me it would be 5 minutes.

Again, savvy consumer that I am, I said, "Will it be 5 minutes? or 25 minutes?" Don't try to bluff me MOTHERFUCKER - Do You Know Who the Fuck I Am?

"Five meeenoots sir," he assured me, and I hung up.

At 9:25, I was steaming enough to dump a full buy in with A-Q unimproved on the flop, and I called back, no longer as polite, basically saying "Where is my fucking food?" The dude now tells me that the delivery guy left 5 minutes ago, and that it would be there in 1 or 2 minutes.

Since I know this place is maybe a 2 minute bike ride away, I decide to go sit on my front steps and wait for him. I mentally mark 9:30 as the cutoff time, after which I'm going to refuse to take delivery of the food.

9:30 rolls around - no food. I storm inside, telling Mrs. Dynamite "I'm going to get pizza - when the fucking food comes, tell him he's too late and sent it back."

Mrs. Dynamite, not one to crave confrontation, immediately retorts, "I'll go get the pizza," and she takes off.

At 9:35, the doorbell rings. I make the guy wait for 2 minutes before I buzz him in. As I'm doing so, Mrs. Dynamite calls with the pizza report, and I tell her to wait a minute, as I'm dealing with the delivery guy.

It's an Indian kid who can't be much more than 16 years old, well dressed, as Ghandi Cafe's delivery men always have style.

I tried to stay calm: "Are you going to give me a discount or something? I ordered this NINETY minutes ago," I began. He looked at me, exasperated, and replied merely, "Sir," as he gave me a helpless look.

"Look, I order from you guys a lot, and I like your food, but this is ridiculous," I threw him a compliment to keep it friendly. "I can't be sitting here all night waiting for the food, and I will not tolerate being lied to on the phone. At 8:05, the guy told me 30 minutes. At 9:05, he told me 5 minutes. At 9:25, he told me you already left, and you didn't get here until 9:40. I know you're only 5 minutes away. Not for nothing, but I can't eat Indian food at 9:30pm."

The kid continues to give me an exasperated look, and makes no move like he's gonna comp me the meal. I am torn because I know if I devour the food at 9:30, I'll be running to the toilet at 2:30 am trying to make it into the bathroom before my ass explodes. On the other hand, I'm starving.

"Listen," I tell him, "Will you please just make sure you tell your boss what I said, and have him call me if he wants to talk to me about it?" More blank stares and exasperated look.

"Wait - you don't speak English - do you?" It finally hits me. He shakes his head "no," and now I can only laugh. I even tipped the kid - hey, I'm not a total dick, I know it's not his fault.

I went back inside and called the restaurant, getting the boss on the phone, who was very apologetic, telling me that the delivery guy had his bike stolen up on 18th street. I insisted that all he had to do was tell me the truth, and that I could handle ordering from somewhere else if he told me it would take an hour and a half, which was a much better scenario for everyone involved than his people stringing me along all night. He agreed, and promised to comp my next meal. Freeeeeeeeeeeroll!

Now, complaining about food and food service is not something I do often, as it always involves the classic fear of "they're gonna spit in my food." Yeah, it's possible the guy spits in my food the next time, but I'm hopeful he won't, as I used my international diplomacy skills to politely and effectively explain myself.

Mrs. Dynamite wondered aloud if that was the same delivery guy who got his bike stolen, and what he must think of America: "What a country - they steal my bike, then some guy spends 5 minutes yelling at me and I have no clue what he's talking about. Where are the streets paved with gold? And this is my first day. Oy vey."

Here's the best thing about Ghandi Cafe: the "review" snippets they have on their menu from actual user comments - I am not making this up:

"...I'd say the biryani is a big soggy, but other than that, thumbs aloft!"
"... Not the best Indian food I have had, but one of the better ones in NY."

Talk about rave reviews!!!

Awaiting the gastrointestinal effects of a late Indian dinner,
KD