RuKsaK

Georgian food is odd and tasty. One evening, I was in a Georgian restaurant, just opposite the spot where a couple of Russki toffs had lobbed Rasputin plus rocks into the river. I was with Bolshoi Dom, Cat and my wife. We ate the following:
Khachahpuri; steaming, stodgy, tangy-cheese filled bread, which puts your blood in the slow lane for a few days.
Chakhokhbili: spicy, russet stew where a chicken’s littlest bones go to die.
Shaslik: shish kebab.
Xarcho: devil-soup, with unknown boulders of meat – fiery.
Kindzmarauli: Georgian wine – puts kilos on your brain.
Cognac: gets you pissed up.
Chunky kidney beans in everything.
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We left there after several hours, drunk and full. The walk to the metro was about fifty percent longer than it might have been otherwise. Close to the metro entrance I knew I needed to get to the toilet - fast. A ‘bistro’ across the road looked right.
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I barged in, got a fluorescent poke in the eyes and dozens of maudlin Russians stared, disinterested. Desperately holding in my load, I Quentin Crisped it to the bog. Two metres from the door urgency, through failure, sunk to despair. Without warning, a full-scale, shit-based model of the Elephant Man’s head airbagged into my briefs. Got into the cubicle, dropped trousers, Mr Merrick dissolved down the back of my legs and kamikazed onto the tiles. I deposited my shit-sling underwear into the bin and started reeling off paper. Wiping your own shit from your own balls is demeaning. It was all over and the trousers were not gonna make it either.
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In the cubicle, with an irate Russian bitch rapping on the door and me ‘screaming just a minute,’ rather than ‘I’m cleaning a litre of shit off my testicles here you fucking whore!’ - I started to think.
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On one side, it was morose – early thirties, can’t hold in my turds, getting old, colostomy is not my bag - I’m dying. On the other, my ego was getting a hard-on. This is a great story – wait until I tell the guys tomorrow. They’ll be laughing. Shitting myself equals popularity, if not envy. So, the fifteen minutes in the toilet was an epiphany; the more I die, the more people love me. I was Elvis!
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Try Georgian food – at home.

Monday, November 08, 2004

Yin, Yang, Georgian food and Elvis Lives