Umm, sorry.

There's this Indian buffet restaurant on Circular Road, right opposite Central Mall, called Riverwalk Tandoor. If you believe in getting your money back in terms of quantity during buffets, forget it. Even though it's just 20 bucks (for weekend dinners, no less) for a spread of 8 - 10 dishes, ranging from good to fucking excellent, I doubt you'll be able to go more than four rounds. Sure, you can cheat and not eat the carbohydrates but I'll pity your cheap ass.

The white and biryani rice are perfectly-cooked, none of that soggy and clumpy shit you get at chain Indian-Muslim restaurants with mediocre food and service because the customers don't give a fuck anyway. But really, the main star of Riverwalk Tandoor is the naan. You have to order it because the restaurant knows how beautiful freshly-baked naan tastes and looks. You seriously have to take a good look and whiff of it, naan can compare.

If the naan's the stereotypical broad-chested Bollywood leading star with a head full of hair and an upper lip full of moustache, the Butter Chicken must be the stereotypical broad-chested love interest with a forearm full of body hair. Everything else is good too, don't be mistaken, but the Butter Chicken and naan are perfect together, that combination almost justifies the full cost of the meal for me.

You might want to go light on the dessert though, a couple of them were too bold for my tastebuds. The very same tastebuds that had chewed-up fragments of a duck foetus' beak and kinda enjoyed it. Not to say that the selection of dessert was nasty but they are very heavily-flavoured and might come as a surprise to anyone who thinks that Roti Prata is Indian food.

For some reason, the last two times I've been there, I had the intense urge to do a number 2 after the meal. I'm pretty sure it's not because cockroaches and rats frequently take leisurely swims in the vats of gravy in the kitchen but because of the bowel-rocking ingredients used in the food. Anyway, I rushed to the toilet in Central Mall after the meal last Saturday, with lots of shuffling about while waiting at the traffic lights to ease the intestinal pressure.

I got into the toilet and heard a little boy's voice in one of the closed cubicles. Hey, no big deal, he's not old enough to be in the toilet by himself. I entered one of the cubicles and was again, shuffling about while unbelting because Goddamn, the pressure's always the most intense when you're actually in the cubicle because it's the anus' way of making sure it gets to let out the torrent of shit being held back by its friend, the rectal muscles.

Then, I hear a woman's voice. It's the boy's Mom. She's telling him to get up from the toilet seat. One of us was in the wrong toilet. I look at the bin beside the toilet bowl. Why is there a bin in the cubicle? My shit literally stopped forcing its way out for a minute while I was figuring everything out.

I opened the door and stepped out. There was a woman looking into the mirror, checking on her eyelashes. She was talking to the boy, "Tyrus, are you done?" And then she saw me, she froze for a second. She then panicked, looking around for clues to re-assure herself that I was the blind one who bull-rushed into the wrong toilet, not her.

I said, "Umm, sorry." and rushed to the correct toilet (Not that it was possible to get it wrong the second time around) and took a huge dump. I had a good shit.