How to Tell You Are At A Pretentious Overrated Restaurant

1. There are only rave reviews online. Nobody, save some bitter soul who lost his reservation after showing up “only one hour late”, has anything even average to say about the place.

2. The waiters call the wet tissues presented at the beginning of the meal the restaurant’s “signature touch”.

3. The people seated next to you are creating a commotion over a game of tug-of-war with a roomali roti.

4. The restaurant claims to have authentic Punjabi chefs while the “live kitchen” appears to have been invaded by the Chinese.

5. You have to rescue your cousin who has been wedged between an effusive waiter greeting patrons at the neighbouring table and the back of a chair.

6. The beaming waiter asks you to select any appetizers and drinks on the menu and the conversation goes:
- “What would you like to have? Please order anything at all.”
- “What would you recommend in prawn?”
- “Sorry, we’re all out of prawn.”
- “All right, so get us some beer to start with.”
- “Which beer, sir?”
- “Tuborg?”
- “Sorry, no Tuborg.”
- “Kingfisher?”
- “Sorry, no Kingfisher.” (In the city that is home to Uncle Mallya’s brewery)

7. You settle for a tall glass of Heineken which is promptly garnished with a handful of onions and radish by a clumsy waiter.

8. The restaurant does not have regular tandoori chicken. The waiter recommends a pindi whatchamacallit chicken which is a good example of how a chef can effortlessly reduce a chipper succulent bird to tasteless brown goop.

9. Your cousin is dejectedly pronging bits of fish kebab in his plate after the following exchange:
- “Sir, would you like the fish? Or would you like the fish?”
- “Erm… Lemme think. Shoot, I can’t decide. Oh, well, I think I’ll try the fish.”
- “Sorry, sir, we’re out of fish. I just dropped the fish at your feet.”
- “Ok, then I’ll have the fish.”
- “Very good, sir.”

10. Everyone is clawing their way toward the only tasty thing at dinner – the surprise birthday cake with a single candle.

11. The highlights of the evening are your hungry uncle mistaking the wet tissues for complimentary snacks and your cousin gurgling with happiness because someone spelled her name right on the cake – even if it meant having to squish a little icing on the cake hurriedly to convert a “G” to a “C”.

12. Everyone agrees that the best thing on the menu was the logo.

Bottomline: Jiggs Kalra needs an alternate career. I am done with pretentious restaurants. Give me some real food, please. Preferably on a plate, thank you very much.

Waiter, Wipe that Smile Off Your Face

How Do You Solve A Problem Like BC?

BC is possibly the most foul-mouthed person I know and takes offence - in a rather comical way - at the most absurd things. Her surliness over seemingly ordinary circumstances or people is what prompts me to claim that she harbours a dozen complexes (hence her pseudonym). A charge that she refutes with profanity that most certainly cannot be published here.

So the other day, KO called me to join her and her two German friends for dinner at this rather good Punjabi restaurant. BC said she would join us later. The four of us were guided to our table by a rather cheerful and friendly waiter named Alistair.

Now, I love cheery people. BC, for reasons best known to her, detests them. She even objects to the dozen smiley magnets on my fridge door. This would explain why she issues death threats if I so much as greet her in the morning. It is why our opinions of cheerful people differ so. While I completely “heart” them, she finds them “annoying”.

Anyhow, back to our waiter Alistair. The sincere fellow fussed around our table, ensuring we were comfortable and took our beverage orders. Then while we mulled over our food menus, he decided we must all be foreigners. As I listed each dish we wanted, he painstakingly described what it was, even going so far as to explain the meaning of “achaar”. Not wanting to offend him, I patiently heard him out and nodded understandingly as he completed each elaborate explanation.

I blamed his assumption on KO’s accent. KO blamed it on mine. The gospel truth is that only one of us has an actual “accent”. The other (me, me, me!) has what is universally called a “neutral accent” with an occasional inability to pronounce certain names. Capisce?

BC arrived a while after our food had been served. As she pulled a chair up to our table, Alistair appeared and beamed down at her. “You’re late!” he remarked as he helped her settle in. Now, here is where our perceptions differed. While the rest of us chuckled, BC was offended, thinking he had admonished her for her tardiness. “Oh, I wasn’t aware we had some kind of a set time”, she mumbled dryly.

Then Alistair “offended” her again. As she picked up her glass to drink, he asked, “Would you like a drink?” BC started, almost sloshing her drink onto me, before bemusedly pointing out that she already had a drink.

In an effort to make up for his faux pas, Alistair then served BC with some kebabs and added, "Madam, have some onions." The problem BC had with this? There were, in fact, no onions in the dish. She hissed, "But there are no onions in there!" He beamed down at her again and said, "No, do have some more onions." "This man has lost his onions," BC mumbled to me.

The last straw (to her - the rest of us were completely amused) came when he took it upon himself to explain to her what “gulaab jamuns” were. “Balls of dough fried in sugar sy--” he began before she cut him short. “I know what they are. I just don’t want those stuffed ones. You know, the ones with that c**p in it”, she said, gesturing wildly while the rest of us chuckled again.

As we left, seen off by the cheery Alistair, I remarked, “What a pleasant waiter. One of the nicest I’ve met.”

BC scowled at me. “Brilliant, go ahead and worship the man that crushes me with his venomous tongue”, she spat. “May his sugary dough balls turn to bitter ash."

And just like that, the cheery Alistair was a marked man.

Sigh. Did I mention complexes before?

Of Chillis, Berries and Mithuns

So I’ve got the King of hotness at home.

Well, before certain males begin to preen and the curious gossip-mongering lot make a dash for my Facebook page in an attempt to dig up the latest and greatest on yours truly, let me cast a slight damper on things.

I am referring to the Naga King Chilli, sourced from an acquaintance who hails from the state of Nagaland. This particular variety of chilli (as Wikipedia told me) has earned its place in the Guinness Book for its spiciness.

Having long been the Dallay chilli’s greatest fan (arguably), I was quite excited to get my hands on this variety. Unfortunately, I’ve managed to source just a couple of dried ones, ready to have their seeds planted. Let’s hope that in three months’ time, I’ll have more to write about the little dynamite. (Alternatively, if you are in Nagaland when you’re reading this and of altruistic disposition, let me know if you could send me some fresh stuff!)

That aside, I have a little box of something called ‘bukari’ from Nagaland. I can only hope that is how it is spelled or pronounced, for Google has failed me, as have Wikipedia and every other self-proclaimed storehouse of knowledge.

For the adventurous gourmands, this is a made of a particular borum and tastes a lot like the variety of tituara or lapsi I got from Darjeeling (the sweeter, blander sort as compared to the Nepali/Sikkimese/Kalimpong stuff). It’s peculiarly sweet-ish, got the slight aftertaste of an overripe-bordering-on-rotten fruit and leaves a fat round seed lolling around in your mouth. Not really much to write home about, but considerably worthwhile blogging about I thought - since it’s a) new and novel (to me at least) and b) the Internet can’t shush me for yammering on about a trifling berry.

Thanks to the new Naga acquaintance, I’ve also learned that the Mithun is supposed to be incredibly delicious! No, gross… not that inebriated-looking Disco Dancer silver-suited Bollywood actor fellow of yesteryear with the son whose only claim to fame is his strange moniker. This is a species of gaur that is also Nagaland’s state animal.

The sombre-looking beast - the sort that throws you a look that could fry an egg or wither a blimp - appears perpetually irate. I suppose it’s wise to say one ought not to proffer him one of those king chillis.

A "Rose" By Any Other Name

It’s that time of year again when everybody is absolutely sloshing around in festive bonhomie.

Almost everyone I know seems especially fond of this time of year, barring an otherwise-genial former boss – although I suspect his animosity was more to do with Rudolf’s red nose than anything else. But that’s another story.

So this is that time of year when my neighbour puts out her garish thermacol cut-outs of bells and scary Santa faces that can only be termed paedophilic to say the least. Not to be outdone, I string up my single green tinsel wreath and single string of twinkie lights.

After baking a batch of choux buns to be served at a small Christmas brunch being hosted at my place – well, just a brunch that was convenient since Christmas is a non-working day – I settled down to a conversation with my old pal KO.

So much for festive bonhomie! The vile... oh, wait, I shall call her names until after her Wine & Cheese Xmas eve party this evening... Well, the woman calls me an anti-national.

The reason for this slight upon my oozing patriotism you ask?

Rose cookies!

Yes, I shall still call them “Rose Cookies”. KO, who balks at saying anything vernacular in nature for fear of her innate Britishness buggering the pronunciation , mocks me for calling them “Rose Cookies” as opposed to what she deems is the proper name – “Achappam”.

Achappam? “Who, outside of Kerala, even knows that term” I spat and sparked off a long-drawn argument with Her Royal Highness over what the real and proper term for these fried Christmas delicacies is.

Finally, I decided to settle the matter. Who else would be a better judge than Lord Google? Final scores read: Rose Cookies 84,30,000, Achappam 7,680.

KO, what do I say? A rose cookie by any other name may taste just as sweet – to slightly borrow a phrase – but I and 84,30,000 search results prefer sticking to Rose Cookies!

{Oh, but you and 195,000,000 Mallus say "Achappam"! Sigh!}

Lapsi or Titaura, anyone?

People familiar with Kalimpong and thereabouts may be familiar with "Lapsi". If you're wondering still, then may be if I said, "the red tamarind-type thing which is a little sour, a little sweet and a little spicy", that could ring a bell or two? This is not to be confused with the commonplace red tamarind sold around Delhi and up north. Lapsi is Nepalese in origin and is commonly found in various forms around the North East.

I first had a taste of this addictive, finger-licking-good whatchamacallit way back in school. A friend of mine would bring little packets of the stuff for us to savour. I remained blissfully unaware of the actual name, ignorantly supposing it to be the common tamarind.

However, I recently found myself trawling the bazaars of Kalimpong looking for the "red tamarind thing", determined not to disappoint a friend back home who had specifically asked for it. I located hoards of it in a small shop run by a crotchety-looking woman, who grunted when I asked her if this was "imli". I take it she meant to say, "Whatever, stupid tourist."

Later, I found that this is actually called Lapsi (pronounced "Lopsy"), which is really a fruit grown in Nepal. The fruit is then used to make various condiments like the sour-sweet-spicy sticky stuff ("Titaura"), pickles, chutneys and whatnot. The plain dried/boiled fruit is sold as well, which looks sort of like an apricot, but tastes and feels like a jujebe of sorts.

More Googling turned up that the stuff is exported from Nepal to the west. I laughed when I discovered that each tiny packet retails for something like $9 on the net, when I picked it up for Rs 5 in Kalimpong! Let's take a moment and gloat.

Really gloat.

Gloat like there's no tomorrow.

Oh, and this goes out to the gossip trawlers (you know who you are): if you're wondering why I've been savouring sour-sweet weird things, no, there isn't one in the oven! I've always loved sour-sweet things. Now go discuss all that, while I sit back and enjoy my Titaura. And if you're wondering whether I might give you some, the (plagiarized) tag line on the packet says "A gift for someone you love", so.....

Pitaya on my Plate

So this morning, my mother went off to the local grocery around the corner, Namdhari's, and returned soon after, thrilled to bits with her 'spoils of war'. She took out this flaming pink fruit with tiny green flaps all around it. It is called 'Dragon Fruit' and retails at 160 bucks a kilo. Which basically means you get one fruit for that price.

Since we're both fruit bats by nature, our excitement over this new find could scarce be controlled. I dashed off to get my camera while she ran to telephone her brother with the news. Even the birth of a new baby in the family couldn't possibly evoke as much excitement.

Once the photo shoot was done, I did what any normal person would do in these circumstances. I Googled it. As it turns out, this fruit is also called Pitaya and is found in parts of South America, China and South-East Asia.

Now all that's left is to cut it open and eat it. Aut viam inveniam aut faciam!

The Giant Momo

If you're wondering what to have for lunch today, consider this: Thaifu.

I discovered this while frantically looking for a restaurant in Kalimpong that served lunch at 2:30 in the afternoon. Apparently, everybody eats at exactly noon and then looks amused when famished strangers show up asking for lunch at 2.30 pm.

Having been denied nourishment at Cloud 9 and The Park Hotel - both restaurants that I'd recommended in Kalimpong earlier - Ducky and I spotted a Chinese/NE cuisine restaurant tucked away in the basement of a ramshackle building. The restaurant, whose name escapes me now, was quite clean and nicely done up, a stark contrast to the dinghy surroundings.

The friendly waiter, sporting tattoos and a million piercings, probably noticed the disappointment writ large on my face when he said there were no non-veg momos available. He then recommended I try "Thaifu", which wasn't on the menu, but which, he assured us, was very much like a big momo and would taste good too.

He couldn't have been more right. The giant momo on my plate, served with the delectable red dallae chilli sauce, was delicious. The inside was stuffed with mince fried with spicy green chillies, coriander, peas and a little cabbage. Ducky sorely regretted the fact that he'd balked at experimenting with a new dish as yours truly wolfed down the Thaifu in delight.

Five stars for fabulous food and pleasant service, little nameless restaurant in Kalimpong!

Road Trip to Goa Part II - The Curse of Piles & Fistula

Just about 2-3 kms short of Belgaum city, I took a left toward Bellaghavi City, rather reluctantly leaving the superb expressway behind. Up to this point, our directions from a dear old colleague, a Goan local, had proved spot on. However, the general chaos and traffic and numerous intersections in the city proved confusing and we had to stop several times to ask for directions to the Amboli-Savantwaddi road. After a slight delay of around 10 minutes as we blundered around in search of the right turnoff, we finally found the right road and set off at a steady pace again, with Ducky at the wheel once more.

My holiday glee and general bonhomie was shaken as we overtook a bunch of rowdy college boys on bikes. One bike sped up and stayed slightly ahead as the pillion rider precariously tried to focus his camera-phone to snap a picture of me through the windshield. I instinctively slunk down in my seat, grateful for my super-dark tinted windows, while Ducky stepped on the gas and left the offenders behind in a haze of dust. However, I continued seething with rage and indignation, brooding over the harsh reality of eve-teasing in India. It is a menace that will never go away simply because the belief that women are nothing but sex objects, far inferior to men, is so deeply ingrained in the psyche of a vast majority of Indian men. I hope those boys contract severe piles and fistula.

Thankfully, the landscape along the Amboli-Savantwaddi road (state highway 121 in Maharashtra) restored my cheery spirits. We stopped briefly to take in the sight of strange fields of sunflowers. I had thus far believed and learned that sunflowers always faced the sun – however, this lot of sunflowers resolutely kept their bright faces turned in the opposite direction! I suppose they were afraid of getting tanned (another “horrific” calamity so deeply entrenched in the Indian quest for beauty and perfection)!

I curiously took in the sights of piles of cashew fruit being sold along the road and the Marathi style of tying a saree. I can’t imagine why India’s moral police is so up in arms over western clothes like jeans and t-shirts when women wearing the saree in this particular fashion flaunt so much of leg AND inner thigh! Hey, Muthalik, Maharashtra is your home state, isn’t it? Have you ever looked at women in your own backyard?

Once we passed Amboli, we began a climb through a ghat section toward Savantwaddi. The view was spectacular with lush greenery stretching for miles around us. Comical monkeys gazed with unabashed curiosity at our passing car – I gawked back equally shamelessly.

We stopped at Vithal Kamat for a spot of lunch. This restaurant was interesting in more ways than one. The “Malvani” thali was delicious, complete with a drink made of kokum and coconut called “Sol Kadi”. Of course, Ducky is famous for always wanting to order something completely incongruous to the place he is in and in trademark fashion, decided to order a Punjabi thali! I scowled and vetoed the idea immediately, so he settled for the Malvani thali as well and later (rather grudgingly) admitted it was good!

Vithal Kamat has the strangest restrooms! The entire place is built to be eco-friendly, but I thought the restrooms were taking things a tad too far. Each toilet has a door and two walls. That’s right, TWO walls. Where the third wall ought to have been, there is a thick green expanse of trees! I must confess it took me quite a while to convince my sphincter muscles to relax and “go”.

Vithal Kamat also had one of the most pleasant and genial watchmen I have seen. He greeted us with a wide welcoming grin, told us not to worry as he’d keep an eye on Slinky while we ate, and saw us off with a beaming smile and a wave as well. We handed him a generous tip, which he didn’t appear to be looking for in the first place, before setting off again.

From Savantwaddi, we crossed into Goa. A lone policeman at the border flagged us down and wanted to see the car documents. What Ducky showed him instead was his military I-Card and we were promptly flagged through. That military I-Card saved us a lot of time and money. Thanks to it we didn’t have to pay toll at any of the toll gates along the expressway, which saved us almost 500 bucks up and down.

After asking for directions to Mandrem, we finally arrived at Cuba Beach resort. This was one fun road trip, plenty of memories and plenty of people (hopefully) reeling from severe piles and fistula along the way. North Karnataka might just have a bountiful grape harvest this year (snigger).

Silly-guri

That night we dined in Siliguri at Hotel Ranjit. The place was filled with big Marvadi families with dozens of spoiled, wailing kids. Ducky and I settled down to enjoy some beer, tandoori chicken and fish tikkas. However, it was not to be. The fish was a letdown and I got a few disapproving looks from the women around. Virtuous women do not guzzle beer around these parts apparently. Not that I really gave a rat's arse. One kid came and stared at me (the sinner) with her kohl-filled eyes until I began toying with the idea of issuing her some kind of threat of bodily harm. Fortunately (for her), she lost interest and wandered off to hammer a table with a pepper shaker. I was entertaining all sorts of images of permanently destroying the little wretch, when even nature decided it had tolerated more than enough. The child simply toppled over and whammed her mouth against the table. I had to restrain myself from standing up and applauding. Her bleeding mouth and loud wails finally caught the attention of her so-far unconcerned mother. We decided this was a good time to vamoose from the place. Please note: My maternal instincts have obviously not kicked in even now.