Stand back, we’re closing in. The chancel, nave and chapter of Bell End are humming with the aroma of garam masala and the feisty twang of Rob Howard noodling his sitar. Yes, it’s been 24-hour party Tabla Homotown in the Clown Cathedral these past couple of days. Selwyn’s chicken mughlai is coalescing in the refrigerator, cheek-by-jowl with Throbert’s marinating tikka masala. Perkin’s lamb maharaja has been elbowed into the trunk of the Howard Passat, languishing in clergyman’s parking outside the great doors. Aloo Motor Gobi – which sounds like it might be the clarion cry of a Hindu suicide bomber, but is actually vegetarian tokenism in the form of something jaundiced and cauliflowerish – squats in its constituent parts on the mighty table. We await the opportunity to manhandle Andrea Gentl’s naans; to palpate Constance Giamo’s plump chapatis: to stuff Linda Aldredge’s fragrant paratha. For those gathered pregnantly on the innermost ring of St Sanjay Patel’s rectum, tonight is Bell End’s inaugural Indian Supper, celebrating the legacy of that corner-shop martyr of the Goldhawk Road, who always had 20 Bensons and a box of matches, yea though all other lights were out over Blighty.
Curries, more curries, curries, pilaf, naan, samosas, gin with concord grape jam and juniper syrup … the only question … why in the Greasy Gonads of Ganesh would anyone miss this? Anna Alexander, Carolyn Rauch, Jeanne Graves, this question may haunt you for decades to come.