Masala Art

Yesterday he did not break his own rule, knowingly. His wife gave him hell. Should have been the other way around.

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No, it was not about purposely giving the wrong expired rank and name to the Military Police guys while entering Parade Road, since his long flowing beard and habit of playing sufi music on the car stereo always got him into the "random checking" line, from where he shamelessly used the "Press" sticker on the front windscreen as well as the press card in his pocket to become even more obnoxious than he normally was, much to the agony of his long suffering wife who after a quarter century of tolerating such idiotic behaviour was finally getting back the old fire she lost after marriage in the whirlpool of children and in-laws and joint family politics. She would tell the poor suffering cops that they were welcome to keep him, for as long as they wanted, could she just have the car?

She had learnt to live with his habit of living on the edge. Later on in life, it would be re-nomenclatured yogic, not difficult if that was the truth for ideologies adapted for this century but in reality a throwbacks to the ’70s.

Nor was it about over-speeding in a 6 year old bright luminous purple and barbie pink (7 coats, lovingly applied in near perfect nil humidity conditions, subsequently mauled by city-scratches and idiot savants checking to see if it was a "sticker") Maruti Zen fitted with oversize rims aft and low aspect ratio tyres powered by a 1.3 litre aluminium engine reworked to give almost 110 bhp on an all up weight of less than 800 kilos, downhill after the Netaji Nagar flyover at over triple the posted limit down-gearing to catch the wrongly designed bouncy camber just micro moments before the feather-weight over-powered under-rubbered car lost all grip coming into and on the fast right hand curve swerving sideways towards the central divider if you didn’t know exactly how, on Ring Road, westbound after the Bhikaji Cama Place Hyatt, always a radar trap. The home-made radar confusing device presented to him by his sparky buddy, now working with the net interception department, made sure that he simply never got nicked, and was gone before they could even react. That the traffic cops knew his car by sight was another sad story when the challans arrived at home anyway, and then he wondered about the wisdom of painting it simple white.

A little counter flick on the steering wheel, a two-finger "V" shaped slot upwards move to the gear lever, manual gate from 4th into 3rd with engine revving way past the redline, tyres squealing as the rear protested every instinct to force the front onto the centre divider. Understeer, oversteer, bullshit, just make sure you miss the two-wheelers on the left and the bricks falling lose on the right, as the front corkscrews right left right left and then finally straight. Everytime. A manic grin everytime this was achieved, these are the joys he would indulge in while keeping a side-eye on her face, waiting for a reaction that never came while she filed her nails without batting an eyelid, without missing a beat.

Delhi version of a punt. When she was not in the car, he drove sensibly. Little boys can never impress real women with fast driving, however skilful. That does not stop them, him, from trying. A quarter of a century into married life!

It was a mutual love for (safe? compared to bikes, sure!!) fast driving that got them together. Later on in life, her students would tell her about how they spotted her pelting, late at night, not difficult to identify if the car is painted purple and pink. When he was around, she would pretend she just did not like his toys, and drive her mundane stable little Korean.

Nor was it about wearing brown shoes with blue denims, a habit born after a lifetime of training that this was simply not done.

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What it was is and was about pigging at restaurants. Here, however, is a preamble.

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Years ago, his friend visited Delhi.

Naturally, somewhere down the line, inspite of the heat and the humidity of the month and inspite of other matters making mindspace into mush, they ventured forth into a lunchtime kabab orgy. Nothing extra-ordinary by Delhi standards, in fact, if memory serves correct, the galauties as well as the seekhs were a wee bit too oily. Or maybe the fat content was sealed in to give them that extra crunch which goes down well sensuously, a wee bit like a young couple having sex, every organ rigid and every pore alive, penentrating the eventual orifice with slick rigidity after a full body oil massage.

Since his friend could never, subsequently, visit Delhi, he gave up eating kababs. In Delhi. And then, in the rest of India. His scriptures talk about giving something up when he wants something, so he simply gave up kababs. Except when he met up with his friend in other countries. But those kababs were, simply, never the same. And his friend would always speak about those kababs.

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So last night they decided they were going to celebrate. Something totally unrelated, as mundane as a tax assessment order.

Here is what he wrote on their feedback form:-

""Greetings!

Here is feedback for you on a meal at Masala Art . . . evening light dinner/Tuesday/08jul’03 . . . our now expat banker daughter suggested it, she probably has a bigger expense account that yours truly, so we decided to give it a go, otherwise as Delhiites, forgive us, but we have our favourites. In anycase, the parking lot grab at Taj Palace does frighten us.

a) From the lobby, you can’t make out where it is. Is everybody supposed to be a regular?

b) The service and server attitudes were impeccable. This has been a Taj Palace trademark. Let me say at the outset itself that we arrived and left satisfied. So the rest of the report is not a complaint, but observations. Many of us have worked in kitchens and eating places, in India and abroad, so you will excuse the inevitable comparatives that creep up?

c) The meal itself, we requested light cooked in Olive Oil and low in spices, was also fine. Though roties can be served warmer and I don’t know about this, but is sheermal to be served cold? Also, the prawns got mashed up in ? ? ? and the over-whelming taste therein was of potato.

d) The young man taking the order was attentive and helpful, but not carrying a writing pad or PDA or anything else on which to record orders. As a result, we got Khatliyan Aaloo instead of the lotus stem preparation we asked for. The potatoes were then changed for the lotus stems, but that does seem to spoil the synchronisation of the meal somewhat. We also got charged for the potatoes in lieu of the lotus stems, and that was a bit off, makes one wonder whether the lotus stems were scraped of from somewhere without a KOT?

e) The sea-food and health-food selection appears to be inadequate. But then, maybe Delhi residents don’t want it that way, so we will let that pass.

f) I think, I just think, that a menu printed in Hindi as well as Urdu, available for those who want one, would be excellent value. Maybe even as a take-away gift?

g) Paan could be made afresh and served individually, instead of placing a selection of pre-made paans in front of the customer? The idea of having a paan, I think, is to walk up to a paan counter?

h) There were people smoking on a table, not close to us, but close enough to impact our sense of smell. Please implement the "no-smoking in public spaces" rules? There cannot be any compromise on this, I think. Some Yank will sue someday, so it is better to implement this before that happens. I mean, there is no point taking civic initiatives if this cannot be done by us, the so-called elite.

i) The two-piece plate concept is cute, but then while using fingers for the roti/sabzi, one manages to push some into the space in between.

j) Two of the damasc napkins had a buttonhole, one didn’t. And they were too stiff to use otherwise. I think you should have an option of larger soft napkins for ladies.

k) At these prices, we could expect some live entertainment?

l) There has to be a "light" version of kaali daal. Please invent it. This shall be a hit. The one you served was very tasty and very rich in pure butter, eminently burpable. Something like the burp one gets after a shrewsbury biscuit from Poona.

Thank you for a pleasant evening. The little packets of mishri were divine and very thoughtful.""

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She gave him hell because he parked the cars wrongly, and they were the other way around in the morning, thus delaying her departure.

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