This week’s choice is “Vindaloo in Merthyr Tydfil” by Les Murray, a tale of drink-fuelled hubris.
Fair play, it was frightful. I spooned the chicken of Hell
Les Murray (1938—2019)
in a sauce of rich yellow brimstone. The valley boys with me
tasting it, croaked to white Jesus.
Poem 215. Vindaloo in Merthyr Tydfil
The first night of my second voyage to Wales, tired as rag from ascending the left cheek of Earth, I nevertheless went to Merthyr in good company and warm in neckclothing and speech in the Butcher’s Arms till Time struck us pintless, and Eddie Rees steamed in brick lanes and under the dark of the White Tip we repaired shouting
to I think the Bengal. I called for curry, the hottest,
vain of my nation, proud of my hard mouth from childhood,
the kindly brown waiter wringing the hands of dissuasion
O vindaloo, sir! You sure you want vindaloo, sir?
But I cried Yes please, being too far in to go back,
the bright bells of Rhymney moreover sang in my brains.
Fair play, it was frightful. I spooned the chicken of Hell
in a sauce of rich yellow brimstone. The valley boys with me
tasting it, croaked to white Jesus. And only pride drove me,
forkful by forkful, observed by hot mangosteen eyes,
by all the carnivorous castes and gurus from Cardiff
my brilliant tears washing the unbelief of the Welsh.
Oh it was a ride on Watneys plunging red barrel
through all the burning ghats of most carnal ambition
and never again will I want such illumination
for three days on end concerning my own mortal coil
but I signed my plate in the end with a licked knife and fork
and green-and-gold spotted, I sang for my pains like the free
before I passed out among all the stars of Cilfynydd.
This poem tells the story of an evening’s entertainment: after a day of rock climbing in South Wales, the Australian narrator visits a local pub, The Butcher’s Arms, before finishing the night off with a visit to the Bengal curry house.
Despite the entreaties of the waiter, the narrator calls for the hottest curry available and will have nothing less than a vindaloo, confident in his “hard mouth” and rather arrogant in his pride. The bells of Rhymney (a reference to the Pete Seeger song popularised by The Byrds the lyrics of which are by the Welsh poet Idris Davies) seem to encourage him, their sad tones (as recounted in the song) becoming bright under the influence of alcohol.
The curry itself is awful, the meat swimming in a sauce redolent of spices and chillies so strong that his companions exclaim blasphemously (“The valley boys with me/tasting it, croaked to white Jesus”) but bit by bit, bite by bite, he continues this endurance test, watched by the other customers perhaps in horror, perhaps in admiration (“observed by hot mangosteen eyes, by all the carnivorous castes and gurus from Cardiff”) until, his eyes streaming, he cleans the plate and licks the cutlery clean.
The aftermath is predictable as his meal wreaks havoc on his digestion: “and never again will I want such illumination/for three days on end concerning my own mortal coil” and he passes into unconsciousness singing heartily in a nod to a Welsh poet renowned for his drinking, Dylan Thomas: “I sang for my pains like the free” is a reference to Thomas’s poem “Fern Hill” which ends with the line, “Though I sang in my chains like the sea.”
There is a Butcher’s Arms on Allen Street in Mountain Ash, and an Indian restaurant nearby (the Kohinoor) and although this is quite a distance from Merthyr Tydfil, I suspect it is covered under Murray’s poetic license!
I like this poem because it is funny and it tells a great story. I always imagine it recited in an Australian accent but when I first came across it in the Poetry Please book, I didn’t realise Les Murray was Australian and so imagined a Welsh speaker. I think my favourite line is, “I spooned the chicken of Hell in a sauce of rich yellow brimstone”.
Sadly I have been unable to find Les Murray (or anyone else) reading this poem online, which I think is rather a shame.