While my better half took a well deserved vacation, I took the opportunity to indulge in a fit of excess that would not have been possible while sharing a bed with another human being. Pity the cat.
Flaming Wok and Grill is a curiously named Indo/Paki dive situated on the picturesque stretch of Halstead overpass at Chicago Ave., between bus station and cement factory. I can only speculate that the Flaming Wok was in a previous incarnation some sort of similarly divey Chinese affair, and that its' new owners just couldn't be bothered to change the sign. Having taken a peek at the kitchen, I can verify that there is neither wok nor grill. What there are, in addition to the 30 or so taxis parked in front and 30 or so cabby's eating, sleeping, drinking the deliciously viscous and caustic chai and watching Indian soaps, are 6-8 unheated, unsanitary hotel pans of braised and stewed dishes of similar color sitting in a broken steam tray.
While this may sound like an explicit invitation to food poisoning, there are a few factors that I think mediate this risk. Firstly, while it is true that I am often drunk, when I visit the Wok I am invariably drunk, and usually very drunk. It is a craving that requires alcohol to nurture, and of course, a dining decision that one is not likely to make with a clear head. That said, having a gut full of unmotabolized alcohol makes for a less friendly environment for pathogens. Secondly, and without any real supporting evidence, I have a similar theory about the amount of chili in the food. Many of these dishes are so impossibly spicy that I imagine the chili to have a sort of curing effect on the food, making it an inhospitable growth medium.
Finally however, the bottom line is that in 8 hours or so I am going to be experiencing severe gastro-intestinal distress. When this happens, the cause will be neither clearly attributable nor particularly relevant. Is it the chili? Salmonella? Rotavirus? Alcohol poisoning? The only thing I know with any degree of certainty is that I will be suffering for hours if not days, and that every cramping, sweating moment will be worth it.
The dishes themselves are difficult to critique individually, owing to the language barrier, my naivete concerning Indian cuisine and cognitive ability at the time of the meal. The lack of a menu is not so great a hindrance, since I am satisfied to order one of everything, in addition to nan, rice scented with bay leaf, allspice, star anise and flecks of lamb trimmings, and several cups of the ubiquitous chai. I will pass on the potato and pea filled samosas as a starchy and unnecessary distraction from the real task at hand.
The dishes revolve around braised chicken and lamb, lentils, and stewed vegetables. While to the untrained eye, they may all appear to have been composed from the same somber palate of browns and ochres, each has its' own unique, painfully delicious flavour. The lamb is overrun with clove; the chicken, star anise so prevalent that I can't avoid crunching into the seed pods every few bites. The dishes are intensely over-spiced, each evoking strange sensations and wild synesthetic color-scapes.
The supple flavor of ghee and heat of an unseen army of exotic chilies are the only constants. Until that is, I try the dish of sauteed okra and baby eggplant. Instantly, I am aware of my error. This dish contains neither okra nor eggplant, but rather some cruel example of biological mimicry. They are whole chilies. After the initial shock, the waves of heat begin to run through me. Another bite. Dizziness, sweating, euphoria, ecstasy. I vainly try to cool my palate with the accompanying yogurt sauce. It is a puree of yogurt and
raw green chili; not particularly effective and I secretly suspect, a macabre culinary joke. It is an inoculation of fire, a preface to future agony. I have purchased a round trip ticket.
I spent $50 (including tip) on this visit. I will spend the next 3 days finishing the take-out in what could be described as a sort of Indian cleanse at the conclusion of which, while having consumed somewhere in the neighborhood of 12,000 calories, I will have lost 5 pounds and developed an excruciating hemorrhoid from which I am still suffering.
Keep the Change.
Flaming Wok and Grill
901 N Halstead St., Chicago, Il
312.274.0599
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3 comments:
Henry, this post is awesome for several reasons. Let me break it down for you.
1. It made me want to vomit.
2. It made me hungry.
3. Imagining you spending 50 dollars on this kind of food brought to mind a bizarre memory of you sitting on the porch at Anna Bannana's, probably almost a decade ago, rubbing your belly and exclaiming that you'd just eaten a FIVE GALLON BUCKET OF BEANS. What the hell was that about?
4. Seriously though that food looks like barf.
5. Nice blog.
FWAG is a life choice.
I'm no FWAG, butt you eat at your own risk.
i think you need to found a gastrointestinal triathalon. the winner is whoever can drink the most bourbon, then eat the most FWAG, then... think of a third thing, maybe perform some physical challenge that involves spinning.
and besides that, you should probably drop everything and just write incredible shit like this all the time.
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