Saturday Curry

Elena has announced a menu around the world, which seems a more civilised method of travel than most of the alternatives. Tonight we reached India without leaving the Gulf of Aden. There is much to be said for a journey whose principal requirement is arriving at the mess with a plate and a workable appetite.

Dinner was chicken curry with rice, lime pickle and flatbread, all produced in a galley moving at seventeen knots. I remain impressed by this. At home I can make preparing toast appear logistically demanding while standing on a floor that has never travelled anywhere. The warm bread and the sharp smell of pickle made that domestic record seem particularly poor.

The curry justified a second helping. I approached this not as greed but as a proper acknowledgement of effort, a distinction that would probably survive less scrutiny than I intend to give it. Rice, sauce, the bright sting of lime: the whole plate offered a convincing argument for remaining seated and abandoning any pretence of moderation.

Priya watched me return and moved the lime pickle closer without being asked. She did it neatly, without interrupting anything, as though correcting the position of a useful piece of equipment. We are reaching the stage of friendship where small acts of kindness are immediately disguised as logistics. I thanked her. Her look suggested that efficient provisioning should not require a speech, particularly from someone already reaching for more bread.