The Ugly Human

I woke up angry this morning. While I was going through the usual morning chores due to the absence of my man-Friday, I couldn't concentrate on whatever I was doing. So I sat down and wrote this piece to share this state of mind with my family and friends. Written in 15 minutes, I'm posting it without much edit. Please excuse any errors.

I wish I could turn myself into an insensitive asshole so that I wouldn’t get affected by all the crap that goes on around me every single day of my life. Today it’s panic within the North East community from being discriminated against, a new government sponsored scam to loot the country or twenty other incidents that are all over the news. Sometimes I just want to run away but where does one go? Is your country war ridden for years? Do you have the threat of another imbecile Republican president returning to administer your country? I want to be in ‘la-la land’ but I can’t seem to find it.

If you ask me for my opinion, or even if you don’t, here’s what I think should happen. Aliens need to invade our planet and humans need to be wiped out from the face of the earth. We’ve had our chance and what have we done? Destroyed our forests, ruined our climate, wiped out species, killed and milked for greed and completely lost our conscience somewhere along the way.

Everyday I am more and more embarrassed and ashamed of being Indian and human. We are easily the ugliest species ever. Live and let die. Who cares about anyone else as long as I have something to gain? Who cares if you are on the street or if you cease to exist, as long as I get what I want. Because I want more and more and there’s no end to the zeroes in my stack of desired wealth. Millions are passé. Too many billionaires now. Let’s aim for a trillion. And what’s the ‘word’ for once I get the required three zeroes after a trillion? Gazillion?

Ugh.

And what do most of the ones with a conscience do? We sit in our living rooms and rant about it. Maybe post some link on social media or email so we can be a count in a protest that mostly doesn’t lead to anything. Were we able to save the trees in Malleswaram where the administrators sneakily chopped them off in the middle of the night? What is going on with our forests? Mines? Tigers? Lakes? Landfills? Random shootings?

Of course we have no money to feed and house our poor. We do however, have a large budget to send an entourage of our politicians on a tour to several developed countries so that they can study and learn from their processes. Sure. Who are they kidding? Do we look like a bunch of complete idiots? Is the report from the study ever going to be made public? Will we see a change from it. Fat chance! A taxpayer sponsored holiday for our ugly politicians who will most likely make a nuisance of themselves and make the locals think that all Indians are uncivilized and uncouth.

And now that I’m done with my bitching and ranting, let me go back to my comfortable life and make plans for the weekend.

Yes, I hate me too.

RIP-ped Part 2

If you haven't read Part 1, please scroll down.

Using a suggestion from a friend, I am posting pictures of my beloved jeans. A poll is being conducted based upon my relationship with this not-just-any-piece-of-clothing.
Please choose one of the following:

Save?
Discard?
Wear as is?

Your comments are greatly appreciated.

RIP-ped

With a heavy heart, today I must say goodbye to you. While you’ve been an integral part of my life and as difficult as it is for me to give you up, I no longer have a choice.

The memory of our first meeting is still clear as day. It was 2007 - my first winter in New York was coming up and I needed to buy myself some cold weather clothes. As I was walking by the Sale sign outside The Gap on 68th and Broadway, I decided that I should check out their winter line. However, within a couple of minutes I realized that the collection in the store was of no interest to me. It was then that I saw you. Dark blue, not too skinny and not baggy, sitting on a hangar directly in my line of vision. You were the first pair I picked up and you were my size.

Inside the trial room, you slipped on easily, snug but comfortable. It was as if you were custom made for me. I knew I had to have you. The cost of acquisition was unimportant (after all how expensive could Gap jeans be anyway?) and as I took out my credit card, I paid no attention to the dollar figure that I was signing under.

We’ve been to a lot of places. Paired with a blazer and dress shoes, you’ve accompanied me to nice restaurants and even a matinee performance at the Opera. When I gained a couple of pounds, I wore you with my shirt out, the lycra helping with my breathing. As you began getting older, you got close to my Converse shoes and T-shirts. I liked how you were growing up. Fraying at the bottom, then slowly a little on one knee and the left back pocket. It seemed strategic and cool. I was enjoying the new mature you.

You knew that I was never a ‘one pair of jeans’ kinda guy. While I had to have an entourage, you were always special. You were the pair that has traveled with me the most, across states, countries and continents. I could never leave you behind. The Armani's and the Lucky's couldn’t dethrone you. Which is why they continue to sit in my closet, much less worn out, much less a part of my life.

Each time I put you in the washer or sent you to the laundry, I wondered how much longer we would be together. Trashed around with other clothes, wrung and tumble dried over high temperatures, how long could you possibly last? But you did. Five years, hundreds of wears, hundreds of washes, the pocket now hanging by it's threads, my wallet exposed to the world, I was just not ready to let you go. Until now ...

My dear pair of now medium blue 1969 Gap original fit jeans, there's nothing I can do but to bid adieu. You are ripped in a spot that has left me with no choice but to end our relationship. If it was the knees or the bottoms, I would turn you into shorts and save you. If it was the pockets, I would just use the front ones to store my wallet.

But at the crotch? Really? I don’t think people would appreciate seeing my underwear.

I see you sitting in my closet and I know that it will take me some time before I can let go of you completely. At this point I have no ideas. I must hold on to you as long as I my wardrobe has room. How does one dispose off jeans with respect? Cremate? Bury? Couldn’t possibly dump you in the garbage.

RIP my favorite pair of jeans. It just won’t be the same without you.

My Place or Yours?

It annoys me a little when restaurants in Bangalore claim to have a Sunday brunch but neglect to have any breakfast items on their menu. Why not just call it a Sunday lunch if that’s what you’re serving? Where are my eggs, pancakes and french toast? Where is the ‘br’ in my ‘brunch’?

When I make plans with friends and say “let’s have a meal at My Place”, I have to then clarify that I’m not inviting them over. Instead I’m suggesting that we meet at the 24 hour restaurant at the Movenpick hotel. Which, as you may have guessed, happens to be called My Place. Eating out can be so difficult sometimes!

A couple of Sunday’s ago, it was my third visit to the above mentioned hotel. I don’t know what it is about the place but everyone working there looks uncannily happy. F&B Manager and part time vocalist, Rahul Korgaokar, claims that the staff genuinely love what they’re doing. “As part of their training they’ve been on the other side, having meals in our restaurants, staying in the rooms etc. They know they have a stake in the success of this place and every one of them wants to play their part in making sure that it happens. Starting with making your experience special.”

And special it was. My brunch joy knew no bounds when I saw the live breakfast station that would make for me eggs every way and pancakes just off the griddle. Brunches have to stretch over hours so you can do justice to all the painstakingly delicious dishes that are laid out. Whether it’s the oyster bar, the seafood salad station, sausages just off the grill or the cheese fondue, everything has to be savored.

I’m convinced that the walls at My Place have ears. I happened to mention to my friend that the fondue wasn’t as good as the one I’d had the previous time that I was there. Ten minutes later, lo and behold, Chef Pravin Bagali sent across a fresh pot of hot melted swiss cheeses at our table, just as delicious as the one I had remembered.

In the balcony were the grill stations. We ate the melt in your mouth lamb chops with a hint of fennel. Chicken, which is not my favorite meat by far, so tender and delicious that I wanted seconds. But I had to be restrained as amidst glasses of champagne and deliciously innovative cocktails, I still hadn’t checked out the ‘unch’ of the ‘brunch’.

Speaking of cocktails, we happened to be sitting close to the bar and as soon as our glasses would get near empty (a rather frequent occurrence) we’d have an orange-basil martini, or a tiramisu martini, or a pomegranate something-or-the-other martini at our table, delivered with a smile. The 3 creative bartenders were keeping tabs, making sure that we never had an empty glass, exchanging smiles, looking for a thumbs up or down (the down never happened though I lean big time towards the espresso drinks). Sukanya and I were feeling horribly pampered.

The lunch consisted of Swiss favorites like the veal zurichoise and rosti, Indian favorites such as mutton biryani and a mean meen curry amongst a variety of flavorful Asian dishes. We were spoiled for choices of delicious fare. There was also a juicy turkey that was carved and brought to our table. By now we had been there for about 3 hours, tried a large variety of foods but hadn’t been anywhere close to the vegetarian options. We thought we should save that for another day (Not!).

I’m not going to spend a lot of time on dessert. Regardless of where I’m eating, nine point nine times out of ten, I’m disappointed. The presentation was beautiful and nothing in the extensive spread tasted bad but was also not especially memorable. Although the carrot cake with a thin layer of royal icing was subtly spicy and quite nice. My suggestion to you, the customer - have an extra lamb chop. My suggestion to the pastry chef, give us some classic European/Swiss desserts. Mini chocolate eclairs with a home made custard filling would be a mouth-watering start!

I can’t end this piece without talking about the wonderful, wonderful staff. Warm, friendly, caring without being overbearing are only some of the adjectives I can think of. Several hugs were exchanged when we left.

For the price, mentioned below in detail, the Sunday brunch at My Place is a steal. But don’t go there because it’s great value for money. Go there because it’s the best. Get there for breakfast and stay on for lunch!

My Place brunch – Rs. 1950 inclusive of tax per guest, includes Sula Brut, Sula red and white wine, Fosters, Smirnoff, Jameson Irish Whiskey, Bacardi and fantastic cocktails.

Mövenpick brunch – Rs. 2450 inclusive of tax per guest, includes Piper Heidsiek champagne, Hardys wines of Australia and Three Peaks wines of Chile, Budweiser, Absolut, Chivas Regal, Havana Club rum and fantastic cocktails.

The Big Fat Parsi Wedding

Growing up in Calcutta, the biggest treat for me was an invitation to a Bengali wedding. While I couldn’t care less about the wedding ceremony or the bride and the groom, the anticipation of the meal that was to follow almost had my heart pounding. And although I admit to exaggerating a little bit, the level of excitement that I felt was pretty damn high. It’s been more years than I care to think about, but I can never forget the rows of narrow wooden tables laid out with paper, dinner plates of banana leaves and the delectable courses of the most amazing dishes that were served to us.

But let me stop myself here because as you can tell from the headline, this piece isn’t about the big fat Bengali wedding.

Sadly I’ve never had the privilege of attending a Parsi wedding. So why, you may ask, am I writing about something that I know pretty much nothing about. Or you could just read on and have your question answered.

Spento Cooper and his lovely wife Annie, owners of the Turquoise restaurants in Bangalore, have carefully hidden on the menu of their Indian restaurant, a 5 course Parsi wedding meal for two. When I saw that, my heart began to poun .... oh shut up already!! But seriously, I could not wait to try it. And there was no reason to (wait) of course.

So one evening, with gnawing pangs of hunger, I made my way towards the restaurant, ready to, in technical terms ‘pig out’. For those of you that haven’t been to Turquoise, you really should go, especially if you live in Bangalore. With two floors, one hosting European cuisine and the other Indian, the warmth of the restaurant immediately grabs your attention with carefully selected upholstery, comfortable seating, a large bar and very pretty lighting that change colors.

By the way, Spento turns into the head chef when it comes to serving Parsi cuisine at the restaurant and having got to know him a little bit by now, I could tell that he was fidgety! My growling stomach was making me somewhat fidgety myself. Settling myself down with a glass of wine, I was now completely ready to be served massive quantities of food.

Our meal began with the Marghi na farcha, batter fried chicken in masala paste. It was a decent way to begin, but in retrospect was the least favorite part of the meal for me. Unless you’re a big fan of chicken, my recommendation would be to get it packed and save your appetite for the dishes that follow.

Patra ni macchi or fish marinated in coriander chuttney and steamed inside a banana leaf was our second course. The authentic recipe calls for a pomfret fish, which is the way I had always eaten it. This time however, we had the basa version. The chuttney was delicately flavored with a hint of sweetness, not taking anything away from the natural taste of the fish. With the marinade being as good as it was, I didn’t miss the pomfret.

It was time for the salli boti, a dark brown, boneless lamb stew like dish with complex flavors of apricots and balsamic vinegar among a list of other ingredients. The boneless pieces of lamb simply melted in the mouth and the gravy was stunning. Although it came accompanied with a wheat rumali roti, I asked for a khasta roti to soak into the sauce, shamelessly licking my fingers at the end.

Completely full by now, I was wondering how I would get through the next two courses. Our final savory course was the famous Parsi dhansak, which Spento referred to as the mutton palau dal. The mutton cooked in flavorful rice, was served with a smooth daal and kachumber/salad on the side. Throwing caution to the wind, I dug into my plate as if it were the first course, overcome by the aroma and unaware of my lack of appetite. And since the plan was to pig out, I even treated myself to a second helping!

The dessert course came with two kinds of custards. The Lagan nu custard, a traditional home-made dessert with charoli nuts and an orange flan, both absolutely beautiful.

It was time to leave and I felt like I would have to be carried out of the restaurant. On the verge of food coma, I remember not getting hungry until late evening the next day. Which was a good thing for several reasons, one of which was that the taste of the meal lingered for a long while!

Two things to remember if you decide to get the Lagan nu Patru or the Parsi wedding meal at the Turquoise. Please give them at least a 24 hour notice. And even more importantly, bring a large appetite with you.

Twenty twelve

Every year my aspiration is to have a flat stomach. Hasn’t happened so far but I’m not one for giving up.

Why is it that we have so many expectations from our lives, the lives of others and life in general when the calendar changes to January 1st? We go around wishing everyone a year full of adjectives such as ‘stupendous’, ‘incredible’ and in the case of my friend, Naresh, who got a text wishing him a 'momentous' year. When I looked up ‘momentous’ on the online dictionary, the sentence that the word was used in as an example was ‘deciding to drop the atom bomb was a momentous decision’.

I hope I’m not sounding cynical because that’s not what I’m aiming for. I’m simply dwindling with the significance attached to the start of a new year.

Of course I hope that in 2012 the stock market shoots through the roof, that everyone I know is healthy all through the year, corruption gets eliminated and I get to have a meal at Per Se. But that would be just a little naive, wouldn’t it? I mean really - $400 on a dinner just for myself when I’m not even earning?!

On the other hand, where would we be without that four letter word that’s such an important part of our lives. Get your mind out of the gutter folks, because I’m talking about ‘hope’. Even if we sit on our pretty little asses, we hope that things will get better in the new year. Maybe a genie will grant me three wishes (actually I would be happy with just one).

Or maybe I should have realistic expectations from the year. Since I no longer belong to a gym, don’t intend to get a membership and a significant part of my life revolves around food, it’s highly unlikely that I’m going to get that flat stomach. So instead I’m going to hope that I don’t add any more inches to it.

Instead of hoping that I make loads of money in the stock market, maybe I should just wish that I don’t lose any.

Everyone I know will not stay healthy all through the year. So let me just hope that they don’t get seriously ill.

Hoping for corruption to get eliminated would be complete foolishness. So I’m just going to hope that it’s a little bit lesser in 2012.

And since a New York trip is not on the cards this year, I can’t expect a miraculous freebie dinner at Per Se. So instead I’m going to hope that I have at least 3 other memorable travels this year. Kashmir, Turkey and Rajasthan are my top choices today but not written in stone.

Whatever it is that the new year has in store for us, by the time we get to December 31st, we would have forgotten much of what happened. When I was returning home from a night of celebration this morning, I looked around at people walking, jogging, out on their daily errands. An ambulance was waiting to transport a gentleman on a stretcher. Neighborhood stores were starting to open. I stopped at the florist where the morning for the people working there was exactly the same as the previous one.

Was January 1st 2012 just another day?

Ever since I woke up this morning, the R.E.M. song has been stuck in my head.

It’s the end of the world as we know it
It’s the end of the world as we know it
It’s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine.

Have a “momentous” 2012 everyone!