My son finally went to Cockfosters

My teen son is a typical boy and has always wanted to visit the London suburb of Cockfosters -- in his mind, any place with a name like that must be so cool. I don't know what he thought would be there -- strip joints, naked women, general debauchery? Anyway, my in-laws in London go out sometimes on a Saturday night, and they invited us up to meet them for a curry. When my sister-in-law said the restaurant was located in Cockfosters, I knew this was Mikey's big chance to investigate this vice den.

We drove up yesterday as evening was falling. "Look," I said in mock excitement, "there it is, at last!" I began snapping photos to recall this moment in the future:



More fun to me, however, was not the thrill of being in Cockfosters, but of eating at a swell Indian restaurant. British people love to have a curry on Saturday nights, which consists of drinking as much Indian beer as you can handle, stuffing your face with poppadoms that have been dipped in a series of spicy or fruity chutneys, followed by onion bhajis and chicken tikka, or some very hot dish. The hot chilis in the food lift the spirits immediately, and by the end of the meal, you feel that all is right with the world.

Here we are last night:

(My sister-in-law Paula had just returned from Paris where someone had taught her that you need to pose for photos, hence her arm on the table here.)