Eating out!

Having grown up in a Bengali middle class household with parents who believed in the bountiful goodness of a mach-bhat (fish-rice) meal, eating out was an evil word in our house. Meal in a restaurant? My mother would screw up her face in a look that said a thousand abominable words. Why eat out when you can relax and enjoy a meal at home? They are for people who cant cook, who like spicy, oily food, blah blah, blah. You'll get acidity, diarrhoea... she would launch into the not so sonorous gastric ailments.
And that was that. So I never discovered the pleasures of eating out until I was working and old enough to sneak out and pay for the outing. But the childhood inhibitions were always there at the back of my mind and I was cautious experimenting. South Indian, Chinese, Punjabi cuisine was as far as I ventured. Then, when I went abroad I gingerly explored the Mexican, Thai and the general European cuisine but most of it was restricted to fast food joints. I rarely went to eat at restaurants abroad because a) I am always cash strapped and b) I'm allergic to sea food and am scared to order something that might contain them. There's also a third reason. I hate to be surprised and really don't want to experiment too much. I've burnt my fingers (or tongue) doing that. My first meal at a Japanese restaurant in Delhi was a disaster. I thought the sushi looked like chopped up raw snake and the sake- warm water at a doll's tea party because it was served in little cups. My brother, who had generously treated us, was disgusted at my lack of 'sophistication'.

But my lack of experience in eating out has a way of surfacing when I'm on holiday that doesn't augur well for my family. At the Palace Hotel in Chail in Himachal PRadesh I ordered Au Gratin and Mediterranean baked salad when everybody around us were digging into butter chicken and nan after a long day of sightseeing. Folks wiped their mouths, burped and left the dining hall by the time our dish arrived. We had to eat with the sound of banging pots and waiters folding up tables and chairs! Another time at Fatehpur Sikhri we were staying at the ASI guest house. The chef came to our room to ask what we wanted for our evening meal. 'What can we get?' I asked. 'Anything.' he said. 'Indian, Mughlai, Chinese'. I was still unaware of how misleading that phrase can be. I got taken in by his words. 'Chinese?' I said. The kids loved Sweet and Sour chicken so I told him to make that along with Hakka noodles and manchurian soup. The chef wrote it down dutifully and disappeared. 'I'll call you when the food is ready,' he said.
We were strolling in the gardens when I spied the chef leaving in a bicycle around eight in the evening. I began to get a bad feeling when no call for dinner came even by ten. Hungry and disgusted with two wailing children, we decided to go to the dining hall to catch the bull by its horns. Other families were on their dessert and there was no sign of our chef. We parked ourselves at a table and called the staff to register our complaint. After many words the chef showed up, his hair at ends and a glazed look in his eyes. 'Your food is ready sir,' he apologised and served our dishes. The food wasn't bad but the soup and the sauce had definitely come from a tin. 'Itna der kar diya?' I charged the chef.
'Special khana banane mein time to lagta hai madam.' he replied.
'Par maine apko 8 baje kahin jate dekha' I wasnt going to let him get away.
'Ji haan. Main to apka khana banane ke liye samaan lane gaya tha!'