Indian food is like sex. (I warned ya.) Vindaloo, Paneer, Tikki, Masala, Tandoori, Basmati studded with seeds, Lassi- these sound like dirty words to a fair skinned maiden. Think about it from every sensual perspective; the passionate tastes, full of color, the smells, the intense craving, and the even more intense satisfaction.
I've been craving it for a few weeks, since I last took my brother-in-law to Shalimar, downtown Ann Arbor. That was my virgin experience in an Indian restaurant. I had made some dishes myself from a cookbook and chosen Indian from the Plum Market hot food bar, yet eating at Shalimar (this isn't really a restaurant review because I'm so much a virgin) connected the dots for me.
So I sheepishly called my hard working husband at 5 p.m. and asked him to go out of his way to pick up Indian tonight. I couldn't hold out against the craving any longer. He acquiesced and agreed to be there by six to pick up anything that I ordered. Wonderful. I hate having to beg.
It was fabulous. All that I expected, plus some. Left me satiated and happy, and slightly out of breath.
Consider me addicted, having only licked the top of the iceberg. Slowly.