The perfect Sunday, is waking up to a paper with ten thousand inane supplements, which you will spend a good part of an hour reading. It's sipping a gallon of hot, sweet tea while you read the inane supplements. It is a perfectly fried egg, dusted with freshly ground black pepper and a sprinkling of salt.
Today was NOT that Sunday.
It started out with us rushing out of the house because we'd planned to have breakfast at this place called The Crepe Station, on Carter Road. Word of advice, do NOT go there before the clock strikes twelve; they have exactly one-third of the items on their menu (and this is the breakfast menu, for chrissake!) and the service is godawful. The waiter at our table seemed really pissed that people had actually come in for breakfast. I mean, what kind of losers go out for breakfast?? Also, it appeared that English was not his first, or second, OR third language. Every request we made was met with a look of supreme blankness, which had us worrying a little and forcing us to speak like so - "Can We Have A Sand-Wich Please? Cheese And Tom-a-to? No? But It Is On The Breakfast Menu!" - only to be informed by the very stoned looking waiter that, no, THAT stuff's available only after twelve o' clock. Of course! Who has breakfast before twelve! The very thought! After settling for the only items that seemed safe - scrambled eggs and toast (how wrong can you go with scrambled eggs and toast, right?) - we discovered that we were dealing with some very talented people indeed. The toast turned up in a pretty basket, stone cold and jaw-achingly chewy; the scrambled eggs, for want of a better description, porridge-y (zero, ZERO texture, bland as hell and with STRANGE LIQUID RUNNING OUT OF IT!! AAaarrggH!!). Remember that question I asked a couple of sentences back? About how wrong you could possibly go with scrambled eggs and toast? Hoo boy! Did I get MY answer!
Hennywaayy...Unmitigated-disaster-breakfast was made up for by beautiful, beautiful lunch (No, no. We don't live from one meal to another; there was a gap of a good four hours between 'em...honest!).
Goa Portuguesa, you are hereby conferred the title of Saviour of Sundays. For your glorious sauteed prawns, for your succulent, dipped-in-batter-and-deep-fried-rawas and last, but not the least, for your cheesy-but-sweet, Hawaiian-shirt-clad, guitar-strumming, eighties-Hindi-film-song-singer. If you're ever in Bombay, Blog-People, give 'em a try. You won't regret it.
The only, *only* disturbing part of this lunch date (and I'm turning into one of those people who'll find something to crib about in any situation, aren't I? Ah well, my blog, my crib-fest), was the family at the next table. Mr and Mrs. Lucifer (AKA, PAAPPAAAAA!!!-DEKHO-ROHAN-KYA-KAR-RAHA-HAIII!! and MUMMMEEEE!!-ANNIKA-KO-BOLO-BAITH-JAAYEEE!!), and their three precious little demon seed, AnnikaaAAH-bete-aunty-ke-table-pe-jumpy-jump-nahin-karte!, Aaryan-dekho-voh-glass-girne-vaalA-HAI and Rohan-bachche-tumhara-khaana-IDHAR-hai!
Mr and Mrs Lucifer saw absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in their three little *angels* lining up in front of our table and staring at us with frightening intensity. For extended periods of time. Or their using our table as support for whenever 'jumpy-jumping' took an unexpected turn (and so what if the people need to make a frantic scrabble for their lunch which is rapidly slipping off the table? What's lunch without a little panic attack?). Or little Rohan, grabbing my sunglasses for a little chew-and-drool session. It was only the timely entrance of the proprietor, which saved us from crawling under the table and bawling into the napkins.
I mean, I don't really have anything against people having children*, but seriously parents! I mean, has it occured to you that since *I* haven't signed up for the experience yet, it's not really *fair* to inflict your progeny on me? If they have not reached an age/the stage where they can sit down quietly and eat, do they *really* need to be taken to Goa Portuguesa? Order in! Go to McDonald's! Or at the very least, tie them up in their chairs**.
* Well, to tell the truth, I sort of do. Or no, wait, what I mean is, if you are having them, you should jolly well put a little bit of effort into making them behave relatively human.
** I know. I'm tempting fate here aren't I? I'm so going to be saddled with a kid that needs to tied up and strait-jacketed all the time. But you know what people? Whatever that child may be, what he/she will NOT be, is inflicted on society at large.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
7 comments:
Goa Portuguesa sounds fabulous. I wonder if they have Sorpatel. Sorpatel, scooped up with some fluffy melt-in-your-mouth Appams, is the closest to heaven you can possibly get to on Earth and still get back.
No, no, not the traditional Sorpatel with all that organ meat and assorted unmentionable stuff. Sometimes traditional is not best. But the prop-ah Sorpatel, like Auntie Mavis used to make it, with just the diced pork, thank you.
Sougata, Oh it *is*!
Re: Sorpotel
I'm sure they do. And what's more, I'm sure it'll be good.
Maybe not Auntie-Mavis good, but good. :)
How about sorpotel made with diced little-monsters-who-aren't-quite-human (so it isn't QUITE cannibalism)?
J.A.P.
Now THAT sounds absolutely delicious.
*evil grin*
Askaway:
Thank you for dropping by, and your comment. I couldn't get to YOUR blog though.
> So if anybody needs a life, a break, and an evening at Goa Portuguesa, they do.
But that's my point exactly! See you go to a place like GP when you want a child-free, peaceful, grown-up dinner experience, yes? Then what's the point in bringing along those dreadful destroyers of peace, children? Not only are YOU deprived of a nice peaceful meal, but you have pretty much deprived everyone else of the experience as well. Not entirely fair, no?
That said, I know there's the whole guilt-trip that comes along with leaving children at home; not an easy choice, but I guess it's one you have to make sometime.
Post a Comment