Sunday, 01 February 2004 | Predator

There's a strip of road in East Village that's lined with Indian restaurants; they stand side-by-side soldier-like, wearing almost identical red and gold uniforms. I've heard it called Curry Row, although I suspect that isn't the official designation. It's also been suggested that there's a single giant kitchen located in the bowels of the street that supplies all of the restaurants with food, and, as a result, it doesn't matter which one you choose.

You don't choose, anyway. The moment you pause outside of one of the restaurants—to look at the menu or glance through the window or ask the people you're with where they'd like to go or to simply tie your shoe—you belong to the restaurant in front of you. The staff are predators that sit in wait for your feet to stop moving; as soon as you're stationary, they fly out the door and gesture you inside, telling you of (perhaps) free music, a free glass of wine, or free dessert. They sting you with some sort of paralyzing poison that prevents you from saying no—they sing to you like sirens—and you hypnotically shuffle inside.

Of course, it's easier to watch the hunt from a distance, as a third party. Tonight, after the reading, seven of us sat at a table at one of the restaurants, in front-row seats just by the door. We'd spot the prey and watch the restaurant greeter respond. Get 'im! One of us would whisper. Sometimes, he'd snap them in with the grace and speed of a frog that's tongue-lassoing a fly; other times, he'd notice them too late, and they'd continue down the red and gold path.

The food in these places, by the way, is quite good, and, once you're inside, the predatory staff instantly becomes friendly and accommodating. Our restaurant supplied live music (one of the musicians played a sitar), including one track we decided sounded something like the Indian version of The Simpsons' opening theme. While we ate, a very bored 8-year-old boy (who was likely the son of one of the employees) wandered around and watched patrons; as soon as he was noticed, he'd recoil and run away.

The friends I'd gone to the restaurant with didn't know each other all that well, which made it even more satisfying that they all got along so well, that they were so good at making each other laugh, and that they effortlessly made me forget about my nervous hangover.

The pre-show anxiety was worse, when my legs felt unnaturally weak and like they were no longer part of my body. I wonder how many times it would take for my legs to like the stage, to be planted like sturdy and sure Sequoias. Today they were saplings.