2008, at last!

Okay, the time for me to ditch the ditzy blonde who has been greeting us all as we enter the disco is long overdue. Down she goes, relegated to 'previous' rather than pole position, where she belongs. She was never going to stick around for long, anyway - blondes never do.

Anyway, change is in the air in general, outside of the realms of this little shindig. The full moon that hung over Bath last night, bathing the streets in a silvery-pink glow, was still hanging around at 8am this morning, adding an ethereal, silky texture to the sunlight that was already kissing the tops of the hills. It was as though the world needed all the extra light it could get - don't we all? It's been grim down here lately - rain, rain and yet more rain; dark grey skies and mud all over the pavements. But this morning, there was a literal new dawn - one that I knew we were gearing up for even before I saw that generous moon appear last night.

Yesterday afternoon, I found myself actually mustering up some enthusiasm for a trip into town. After what seems like months of slumping around the house in my slippers, I got up even earlier than usual and put all my energy into a Valentine's Day dining feature that had been hanging around on the schedules for way too long; by 2pm, I was free to trot down the hill and put all my skill and judgement into finding birthday presents for Mike (he'll be either 6, 42 or 79 on Sunday, depending on his own personal outlook on the world). Job done (I can't go into detail here, for obvious reasons), and it was time to go and do some real work at GP: new menus, plans for the future and a newsletter, being silly all the while. From the office window, I noticed that panto season has finally given away to a more stimulating programme at the Theatre Royal; "It's Behind You!" indeed - and thank goodness for that. And then we went off to take our regular Monday night table at the Boojon (see review below, if you can be bothered - it does sort of tie-in with the general theme of this post). Change may be in the air, but the best rituals ride those soft, gentle breezes and move along with us.


The Boojon (restaurant review)

Tradition is for life, not just for Christmas. Similarly, resolutions revolve around existing patterns: too shiny and new, and the good old ways just aren’t going to make them welcome. But although old habits may die hard, new ones eventually find a confident foothold, too.

Take the regular curry house get-together that established itself as a start-the-week ritual for my select band of merry men as 2007 rolled along. We go to the Boojon Tandoori, a contemporary Indian diner (ie, no flock) on the edge of the city centre, because we always enjoy a big family welcome from the lovely folk who do all the hard work for us, and the soundtrack – sort of, Erasure goes to Bollywood – is as lively as the flavours, if not our post-weekend demeanour.

Our order always goes something like this: a pile of papadoms followed by a main course selection with an emphasis on prawns, a supersized tarka dall, something meaty for me fella (forgivable, seeing as he often joins us after a five-a-side footie session in some local mud pit) and the usual bandwagon jumping groupies: pilau rice, nan bread and sag/chana sides. We’ve been known to veer off the established course - one evening, for example, we all had ‘proper’ starters; another time, my dad ordered (and swooned over) tandoori lamb chops (standard ‘medad’ food with an old Raj twist). But generally, we stick with what we know because it’s so darn good.

For a start, the papadoms are properly fresh, crispy pickle shovels, tasting only of themselves and their exotic accompaniments, not the familiar rancid tang of recycled oil. These blameless paps pretty much set a precedent for what’s to follow - the Boojon just doesn’t do excessive sat fat. From our saucy prawn selections over the months, the sweet and sour pathia and the nicely sharp achari have proved themselves to be worthy hardy perennials from a greatest hits list that includes a sublime dansak, a creamy paneer and a positively racy jalfrezi, and never once have we had to navigate a course through a tidal wave of oil. Meanwhile, I have it on excellent authority – from Bath’s own version of David Beckham, no less - that the lamb tikka rezala is “hot and fresh and tingly and tangly” (he means it’s, like, really good?), and we go for the tarka dall to share because it tastes like one imagines velvet would taste if it were infused in a bath of warm garlic (which might not look that good on paper, but is actually supersexy IRL). Even the chicken biryani – which I ordered once against a backdrop of sneers and accusations of ‘being common’ from, laughably, Bath’s own version of Hyacinth Bucket - is world’s apart from the dry, brittle bullets of yesterday’s reheated rice that we Brits have come to know and endure.

But does our little corner of curry house heaven cost us the earth? Hardly. We usually fork out around a tenner per head for our feast, the no-corkage BYO policy (I recommend begging the dregs from one of the posh bars around the corner) adding to the traditional January wallet-starvation relief.

If January Mondays can be this good, who knows what the year ahead might hold?