I have only two passions in this world: good cinema and quality curry. But as much as I’d like these two universes to work, there is simply no way to enjoy a rogan josh, a tikka masala or a vegetable korma in the theatre. In fact, it’s a bloody disaster. In theory, it seems like a beautiful combination, like sex and chocolate milk. But in practice, it’s really quite a horrible experience.
Chocolate milk never called me back.
The first time I ever went to Gold Class, I was taken aback by how flash everything was. My ass had never known a comfort like the in-cinema lazy boyz, and having a Heineken delivered to me in the cinema by in-staff ninjas was a luxury reserved for emperors. But what really took my heart was one item on the menu, one that had be proclaiming to the townspeople below…
Blinded by excitement, I ordered the butter chicken. However, the moment that beautiful dish landed on my collapsible food tray, I realised the error of my decision almost immediately.
There’s a lot of hand-eye co-ordination involved in curry-eating. You’ve got to ladle the right amount of sauce and spread it generously over the wad of rice they give you. Then you have to spread that rice around to make sure the sauce soaks in evenly, while making sure you don’t drop a single soggy grain on your spotless white shirt. Unless you’re Rutger Hauer from Blind Fury, there is no plausible way you can achieve such culinary precision in total darkness.
Regardless, I tried. And failed.
The curry also turned me into the token cinema asshole, invading everyone’s nostrils with my curry bowl full of deliciousness. They were all forced to let the smell waft by, and the only thing more distracting than the smell of cooked butter chicken is the pungent aroma of post-digested butter chicken. That scent to the nose must have been as intrusive as a cell phone light to the eyeballs or a text tone to the ears. In fact, it was worse, because I couldn’t turn the smell off or put it on silent (and not deadly).
Having gone through that embarrassing situation, I can’t imagine curry being an acceptable cinema snack for any cinema-goer, so I’m not sure who Gold Class were catering for when they put butter chicken on the menu. And before you say “Bollywood audiences” (you dirty stereotypist, you), cinemas do not cater indigenous food for every single individual culture. If they did, Hoyts, Reading and Event would be serving Hangi, potato-top pies and Marmite sammies to us movie-going Kiwis.
Actually, now that I think about it, they should totally sell Marmite sandwiches at cinemas.
