Of Lloyd Webber (cont.)

Yes, I know: long time, no write. No excuse. Utter failure. Major guilt. But believe me, it wasn't out of malicious intent or rugged indifference that I have neglected to post for a while. You are constantly on my mind. Thus, now when I am celebrating the completion of a draft of the sixth of my nine papers, I turn to you, oh cyber-readers, out of joy and seeking inspiration!

Where did I leave off? Oh, yes, Phantom...

Well, let me just say that Phantom of the Opera is one of the most visually stunning of any musical. From the illumination and raising of the shattered chandelier to the darkened shadows of the Phantom's dungeon, the play's visual artistry is only matched by the innate power of the music. Even sitting in the audience quoting every line of every song, I still felt chills when the Phantom's organ theme began and cringed in fear when we "passed the Point of No Return." Utterly incomparable.

The actors, unfortunately, were not. Christine had a nasally, childish tone throughout much of her performance, but her mastery of some songs like "Phantom of the Opera" completely stupefied me by contrast. Raoul was okay, but, frankly, not good-looking enough. :) The diva was also disappointing. I was exceedingly surprised to learn that she actually came from an opera background, because her technique often seemed stifled and inconsistent, while her voice lacked the power usually concomitant with extensive vocal training.

Nevertheless, the play was amazing. I'm sure Andrew, sitting next to me, got tired of my clutching his arm at my anticipation of my favorite parts. And I may actually have gotten converted to "Masquerade" (I never liked that song on the CD). Thank you, Mom and Dad; it was the most amazing birthday present ever.

The only thing, in fact, that could make it better was...Indian food! I had previously visited my friend Karen at Oxford, so she came down that Saturday for our first excursion to Brick Lane, that most hallowed of all London culinary localities. Karen, Julie, Valeria, Gauri (friend from Singapore), Sophie (friend from Northwestern), and I loaded up our Oyster cards, prepared our stomachs, and set off for Aldgate East tube stop.

Brick Lane is quite a cultural experience--a whole street of curry houses, each trying to entice groups into its particular establishment. To get the best deal, you have to bargain. As a group of six, we were in high demand, so whenever we walked past a restaurant an employee would accost us, offering us "deals" ranging from 25% off to a low-cost, multi-course set menu. As one of the most bold of the group (as well as one of the most miserly and most addicted to Indian food), I assumed the role of barterer extraordinaire. Don't be fooled; I hate to bargain, and I'm not very good at it, but I wasn't about to get ripped off on my birthday celebration. The conversations typically went like this:

Indian guy (imagine strong Indian accent): You looking for good curry? I'll make you a deal: 25% off. Any item on the menu, including king prawn. Really good deal; go ahead, look at the menu.

(we gaze, trying not to let our growling stomachs show themselves on our faces while appearing completely indifferent and unconvinced)

Me: Well, it looks good, but do you have a set menu?

Indian guy: You want set menu? I give you one round of drinks, 3-course meal, 10 pounds. That's any starter, any main dish, including king prawn, and rice or nan, 10 pounds. Really good deal. And I'll throw in papadam [spelling?].

Me: Well, you can't have eat a meal without rice. How about rice and nan?

Indian guy: Rice and nan? Okay, I'll give you one round of drink, any starter, any main dish, including king prawn, rice, and nan.

Me: Well....

Indian guy: And no service charge. Really good deal.

Me: I don't know... (still trying not to look hungry)

Indian guy: You like wine? I'll throw in 2 bottles for the whole table. That's two bottles of wine, or any drink, any starter, any main dish, including king prawn, rice, and nan. 10 pounds. Really good deal.

(I look at my compatriots, who are beginning to look at me rapturously--out of hunger or out of anticipation, I'm not sure)

Me: What do you guys think?

Compatriots: It's up to you. It looks fine with me (and variations)

At this point, one of two things will happen. Either I will say, "Well, it is a good deal; I'm not sure. We may be back," leaving a very indignant Indian guy shaking his head in a manner that suggests YOU were not worthy of HIS notice anyway (I guess they've figured out that people don't typically come back after all), or I will say, "Okay, looks good," with me and my very happy compatriots filing through a door held by a very smiley (yet still superior) Indian guy. After all, YOU came to HIM and asked to be fed.

There are a few things to take away from this. One--there is something about the king prawn. I've yet to try it, or even see someone order it. Two--they know you are hungry; you can't fool them. And three--never go to a place with a neon sign. The last two times I have taken people to Brick Lane (Katie Rodriguez and Jon the first time, and Katie Hay and Lena the second) and fallen for really good deals from places with neon signs, the food just, well, wasn't up to par. We made the cruel, ironic mistake of choosing a fantastic place the first time, when we were celebrating my birthday. The nan was cooked to absolute perfection, utterly devoid of brown, overly-cooked bubbles and yielding to the touch like Bill Clinton to a White House invite. The sweet-spicy combination of my dish was good, but I liked others' better, so I more than willingly sampled my friends' dishes and proceeded to accuse those with small appetites of a lack of appreciation for Indian cuisine.

By the time we left the restaurant, our sinuses were clear, our stomachs were bursting, and our breath was horrible--all the signs of a quality Indian food experience. I have taken all my London guests to Brick Lane (don't worry, Mom and Dad; these make up almost all of the instances of my eating out), and have yet to meet one who doesn't treasure the experience. Even Katie Rodriguez, former Indian food detester, has been converted, even at a place Michelle and I deemed less than extraordinary. Our palates are certainly becoming refined; I am interested to go home and see if my favorite Indian restaurants are as good as I recall, now that I have experienced the complete magic that is a Brick Lane London experience.