Indian Take Away
The grand dining hall of the White House gleamed under the chandeliers as Prime Minister Narendra Modi and President Donald Trump took their seats at a table adorned with golden plates and crystal glasses. The meeting had been set up as a diplomatic dinner—an effort to strengthen U.S.-India relations, discuss trade, and foster global cooperation. But neither of them knew that the real challenge of the night wouldn’t be political negotiations, but the meal itself.
“Mr. President, I have brought something very special from India,” Modi announced proudly as the servers placed steaming plates of chicken vindaloo before them. “A dish rich in tradition, spices, and flavour.”
Trump eyed the fiery red curry suspiciously. “Looks… interesting,” he muttered, poking at the chicken with his fork. The aroma of roasted garlic, cumin, and an unholy amount of chillies filled the room.
Modi, a seasoned lover of Indian cuisine, scooped a generous portion onto his plate, smiling. “Try it, Mr. President. It is one of India’s finest dishes.”
Trump hesitated but, not wanting to look weak, stabbed a chunk of chicken and popped it into his mouth. For a brief moment, there was silence. Then, his eyes widened. His face turned pink, then red, then an alarming shade of purple.
“Holy—” Trump wheezed, reaching for his water. He gulped it down, but the heat only intensified. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, streaking down his face like tiny waterfalls of regret. His hands flailed as he fumbled for a napkin, his signature golden hair looking slightly dishevelled.
“I— I cannot believe anyone could eat this crap!” he gasped, his voice hoarse from the fire burning in his throat. “This is… this is a crime against humanity!”
Modi’s expression darkened. His moustache twitched with offence. “Mr. President, this dish is a national treasure!” he declared, slamming his hand on the table. “If you cannot handle the spice, that is not my fault. It is your tongue that is weak!”
Trump reached for a piece of naan in desperation, stuffing it into his mouth like a man stranded in the desert. “This is an attack!” he groaned. “Who made this? The Indian military?”
The Indian prime minister crossed his arms, shaking his head in disappointment. “America always asks for our best, and we deliver. But if you cannot handle our spices, then I shall ensure that India never sends another chili to America again!”
Trump, still wheezing, waved his hands. “No, no, wait! Let’s not be hasty, okay? I love India! Great country! Tremendous country! Maybe just… send some milder stuff next time?”
The room fell silent. Modi stared at Trump. Trump stared at the plate of vindaloo like it was a ticking time bomb. Then, finally, Modi let out a sigh and nodded.
“Fine. Next time, I will send you butter chicken,” he said.
“Now you’re talking,” Trump muttered, still dabbing his face with a napkin as he reached for his Diet Coke.
And with that, U.S.-India relations remained intact—though the fate of Indian chillies in America was never quite the same again.
