Leave me the spots on my apples, please.
So it's been sometime since I last got my bhatura-and-chickpea-curry fix at my usual haunt. Having been hit with a sudden craving at this realisation, I set off on the happy task of satisfying it.
As I approached the eating hole from my usual trajectory the first thing I noticed was that it had newly installed the omni-annoying electronic queueing number board, facing outwards from the restaurant. The second thing was the notice right below it advertising for hired male help. An elderly gentleman stood stone-still in front of both, blocking the entrance to the eatery; I wondered briefly if he's in queue for takeaway or an interview. Nevermind that - a bad thing is afoot, and thy name is Change.
I squeezed past the guy and stepped into the Vila and find the only familar face was that of the cashier's; the white-haired uncle who always took my order with a half-smile - knowing full well that I always ordered the same things - was nowhere to be found. Damn... had he had gone to the great Taj in the sky? Who would bring me extra helpings of chickpea curry and ask me if 'Everything ok?'.
With great trepidation I settled in and place my order with a young chap sporting a handlebar moustache. At that late hour I was invariably the only Chinese person in the place, and I steeled myself against a fresh round of blatant staring from the new kitchen crew and their wall-eyed runners, who judged the way I ate with my fingers and poured the masala tea from cup to bowl, scornful of my incursion and pathetic attempts to assimilate myself into their world. With careful rationing, I made my curry last as long as the bhatura, overriding the twin spectres of dry flour and further interaction with the hostile help.
Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, this was waiting for me when I stepped up to the payment counter at the end of my meal:
Fennel-in-a-can, complete with endorsement by Bollywood lovebirds.
Also, irony-at-a-glance, 'Contains permitted synthetic food colours & added flavours' / 'Natural, Herbal & Healthy'
I felt sucker-punched by some great cosmic commercial power. No more complimentary, saliva-exchanging teaspoonful of stale organic flannel from an open bowl. From here on in, flannel shall be marvellously sterile (Hygiene Seal), portable and ultimately selfish. There was nothing else to do but to sucuumb to it, allusions to the bottled fennel's enchanted properties notwithstanding. I shelled out 5 times the price advertised on the bottle (Rs.5) and slouched away in defeat, clutching the thing that was both a source of joyous fresh breath and sell-out sorrow.
I'm munching on it as I type. Slowly and deliberately, but less forlornly with every crunch. For the upside of it is that the fennel is still essentially everything I need it to be: colorful, sweet, with that pleasant and dramatic variety of tastes: Colored Fennel, Dry Dates, Mishri, Coated suger balls, Silver-coated Cardamom, Rose Petals, Betel Leaves, Herbs, Natural & Artificial Flavoring Substances.
In a plastic nutshell: still very Indian.
Besides, PassPass' cool quotient beats the tired orange TicTacs anyday. ;)
Manakum.
As I approached the eating hole from my usual trajectory the first thing I noticed was that it had newly installed the omni-annoying electronic queueing number board, facing outwards from the restaurant. The second thing was the notice right below it advertising for hired male help. An elderly gentleman stood stone-still in front of both, blocking the entrance to the eatery; I wondered briefly if he's in queue for takeaway or an interview. Nevermind that - a bad thing is afoot, and thy name is Change.
I squeezed past the guy and stepped into the Vila and find the only familar face was that of the cashier's; the white-haired uncle who always took my order with a half-smile - knowing full well that I always ordered the same things - was nowhere to be found. Damn... had he had gone to the great Taj in the sky? Who would bring me extra helpings of chickpea curry and ask me if 'Everything ok?'.
With great trepidation I settled in and place my order with a young chap sporting a handlebar moustache. At that late hour I was invariably the only Chinese person in the place, and I steeled myself against a fresh round of blatant staring from the new kitchen crew and their wall-eyed runners, who judged the way I ate with my fingers and poured the masala tea from cup to bowl, scornful of my incursion and pathetic attempts to assimilate myself into their world. With careful rationing, I made my curry last as long as the bhatura, overriding the twin spectres of dry flour and further interaction with the hostile help.
Just when I thought things couldn't get any worse, this was waiting for me when I stepped up to the payment counter at the end of my meal:
Fennel-in-a-can, complete with endorsement by Bollywood lovebirds.
Also, irony-at-a-glance, 'Contains permitted synthetic food colours & added flavours' / 'Natural, Herbal & Healthy'
I felt sucker-punched by some great cosmic commercial power. No more complimentary, saliva-exchanging teaspoonful of stale organic flannel from an open bowl. From here on in, flannel shall be marvellously sterile (Hygiene Seal), portable and ultimately selfish. There was nothing else to do but to sucuumb to it, allusions to the bottled fennel's enchanted properties notwithstanding. I shelled out 5 times the price advertised on the bottle (Rs.5) and slouched away in defeat, clutching the thing that was both a source of joyous fresh breath and sell-out sorrow.
I'm munching on it as I type. Slowly and deliberately, but less forlornly with every crunch. For the upside of it is that the fennel is still essentially everything I need it to be: colorful, sweet, with that pleasant and dramatic variety of tastes: Colored Fennel, Dry Dates, Mishri, Coated suger balls, Silver-coated Cardamom, Rose Petals, Betel Leaves, Herbs, Natural & Artificial Flavoring Substances.
In a plastic nutshell: still very Indian.
Besides, PassPass' cool quotient beats the tired orange TicTacs anyday. ;)
Manakum.