AT LUNCH HOUR

This was meant to be a restaurant review. But it’s turned out to something else altogether. There is the odd mention of food though. Contributed by the Ed.


1 p.m. A faint rumble in the region just above my belt signals the onset of lunch hour. I step down from my artificially-lit, air-conditioned, fourth-floor office into the bright sunshine outside.

The familiar awaits me: streetside vendors not plying their wares, choosing instead to chat and argue among themselves; female tourists—large, loud Caucasians with huge folds of puppy flesh dripping out of their low-waist khakis—getting their hands hennaed; the petulant dwarf in a Pathani suit swearing gruffly into his Nokia 6610; pokerfaced taxi drivers refusing to accept fares to anywhere.

I step gingerly onto the sidewalk. Hours of staring at a computer screen has left me a trifle disoriented. I negotiate my way around countless blobs of spit-snot-paan spittle to get to my destination: New Martin’s Hotel.

I have never been able to figure out why the majority of Goanese restaurants are called Martin’s. Either that or Uncle’s Kitchen. Sometimes an extra something is thrown into the above combination to give you, for instance, an Uncle Joe’s Kitchen. But that’s about all the variation you can expect.

This particularly eatery is a rather tiny affair with seating arrangement for exactly twenty people. I go and sit at a table for four already occupied by three men. That’s one of the advantages of eating alone. You don’t have to wait ages for a free table.

I order a chicken vindaloo and as I wait for my order to arrive, I unwittingly become a part of the discussion unfolding around me. Not that I actually, physically participate in it. It’s just that as I listen, I find myself mentally agreeing or disagreeing with certain points, forming queries and retorts in my head. Although they’re conversing in English, it’s evident that two of three men are Bengali. And like most Bengalis, they’re discussing the state of politics in West Bengal.

The third person doesn’t seem to have much to add to the conversation. He nods a lot though and utters the odd monosyllable in between mouthfuls of Goa sausage chilly fry. After he’s done with his meal, he says a quick goodbye to his friends (or colleagues, perhaps) and departs. For a while, the only sounds are those of knife and fork clanging against cheap china.

“So Prabal da, do you want to order another dish,” asks the younger man, breaking the sudden lull in conversation.

“No. I have already overeaten”, replies the second, professorial-looking gentleman.“By the way”, says the young man with a slight wink, “I hope you know what we’re eating.”

“Steak, right?”

“Yup, beef steak,” replies the young man, a huge grin on his face as though enjoying a private joke. He looks at the professor as though waiting for a reaction.

The professor continues to eat, unfazed. “So what? I eat beef. Sometimes.”

By this time I am done with my vindaloo and step over to the counter to pay the bill. The two gentlemen are still ruminating over something. But now they’re out of earshot.

I get back to office and scribble in my notepad: two Bengali gentlemen with leftist leanings eating beef steak at a Goan restaurant. Interesting scenario. Write about it.