Warwickshire Avon - Staff Curries and Steganography

Now after years of pretending I could tell the difference between "notes of molasses" and "caramelized oak whispers," I've finally found a rum that makes me actually nod like a smug connoisseur: 

Gosling’s Family Reserve Old Rum. 

This isn't your average mixer no, sir. This is the kind of rum that shows up in a tuxedo, offers you a cigar, and then quotes 19th-century literature while sitting by a fireplace that crackles with self-confidence. 

It comes in a nice box, for heaven’s sake. A box! That’s how you know it’s fancy it arrives like a treasure chest and tastes like one too.

From the first sip, it whispered sweet nothings of baked apples, burnt sugar, and what I assume is the flavor of a pirate’s retirement plan. 

I’m not saying it changed my life, but I did start swirling it in a Glencairn glass while making unsolicited tasting notes to rolling eyes Sam. So this is my new sipping rum. It’s smooth, rich, and just pretentious enough to make me feel accomplished without needing to win a Nobel. Cheers to the good stuff and to finally drinking a rum that doesn’t demand a splash of Coke to be tolerable. Oh and it was £50 quid in the Prime sale, it's so nice I buy another one or two whilst it is still on offer !!

Now there’s something gloriously contradictory about sitting in the full glare of a summer sun, sweating like a giddy spice merchant at a naga chilli convention, and still somehow convincing oneself that today yes, today is the perfect day for a curry. 

The mercury was past thirty degrees, the sort of heat where even the foxes walk around in flip-flops and sunglasses, but there I was, menu in hand, peering at the usual lineup of balti belters and tikka twiddlers.

Now, I’m no stranger to the odd chicken jalfrezi or king prawn dopiaza when the weather has a bite in the air, but in this sort of swelter? Madness, surely. Or was it? Because really, when isn’t it a good time for a curry? Funeral? Wedding? Fishing trip? Jury duty? Yes, yes, probably, and if it’s not too messy, why not.

This was a new gaff never darkened their doors before. But you get a sense for these things, don’t you? From the soft hum of the extractor fan to the comforting clatter of pans behind a swing door, there was a vibe. And there it was, tucked between a korma and something likely to induce both hallucinations and tears: Staff Curry. That rare, coveted dish whispered about in curry houses across the land. Not dressed up for the punters. No frills. No cream swirl, not dumbed down for the westerners. Just good, honest, home-style spice designed to bring comfort to a weary chef and possibly a hangover to a curious diner.

I asked what meat was in it for today. "Lamb," the waiter said with a knowing look, the sort of look that says, You’re in for it now,. And by heavens he was right. It was the sort of lamb curry that hits all the right notes: rich, earthy, gently molten. Chilli heat somewhere between a madras and a vindaloo, but without the bravado. More of a warm handshake than a slap round the face with a chilli-stuffed slipper. Proper chunks of meat, and most of it still on the bone, and thick sauce so deep you could moor a barge in it.

But man cannot live on curry alone. Well, he can, but he’ll likely sweat out the soles of his shoes. So, I did what any rational angler would do in 30°C heat after a meal designed to initiate transcendence I went chub fishing. Naturally.

I had no plan, no time, and frankly no right to be on the riverbank carrying a rod, and radiating cumin like some sort of sentient spice rack. But the river looked seductive, all glimmer and glide, like a mirror with a secret. A quick smash-and-grab, I told myself. Just me, the river, and maybe, maybe, a plump-cheeked chub who hadn’t had a curry yet and fancied something off the top, or slow sinking !!

Slow sinking seemed to work as I flicked a piece under the branches with all the subtlety of a hungover ninja and watched it drift. The sun beat down. I could feel the curry reactivating with every heartbeat. And then, out of the shadows, came that wonderful boil, that sudden bulge of water, and WHAM! A chub worthy of a pub sign lunged at the bait with reckless abandon.

It fought like it had something to prove. I sweated like I’d been caught shoplifting samosas. But eventually, the net was slipped under a nice chunky bronzed fish. Not a record, no, but certainly a specimen. 

And in that moment, crust-crumbs still on my fingers and turmeric likely seeping from my pores, I realised something profound: the only thing better than a curry in a heatwave… is a curry and a chub in a heatwave, if that’s not living, I don’t know what is.

2 more fish succumbed to the bread and I bumped one off but it was so nice being stood in the water I must admit, despite not knowing what the pollution levels were like. Not much more than an hour, but that fishing fix satisfied and I went home a happy man.