Travels and a fish

I was out all day yesterday with a friend and, on our various adventures, we stopped by a popular restaurant for lunch. It is well known for its coastal cuisine and especially for its shellfish. We got there a little later than we usually do lunch, because of various errands, traffic and occasional sharp bursts of rain that made us duck hurriedly into stores and under awnings, so there was no waiting, as is the norm in that eatery, I know from one previous experience. My friend lives where sea fish is more or less a luxury and, like me, she is rather proper in that she prefers to eat what is available fresh close to its source rather than what is sourced from light years away. We had stopped by a well known bakery and bought fresh breads, redolent of the seven grains used in one kind and the olives and oregano in the other. And we wandered in with a little cloud of baking aromas like an aura surrounding us, and demanded to be fed.

The maitre d’ (there seemed to be many of them) looked oddly at us, then decided that we were of an unknown species but would probably tip well, and seated us at a decent table. Unfortunately, the diners were placed intimately neat each other, since it was a fairly crowded and small space, and we heard much conversation that we were not sure we really wanted to hear, including that between a stout gentleman and his lady, who was introducing him to her daughter - which left us speculating about who was what to whom. The proximity apart, it was a pleasant dining experience, all in all. My friend and I did our share of gossip, giggle and gustatory satisfaction, watching, listening to and commenting on our neighbours without much fear of being overheard, since everyone was so busy chatting and we spoke a definitely different breed of not just language, but accent as well. We asked for a menu, ordered beer (for her) and a cola (for me) and sat back and felt our legs twitch after the sudden dash into the restaurant out of the rain.

The roster for us was simple, but delicious. Pomfret cooked in an especially spicy masala-mix, my friend wanted, and was assured that it would be perfectly to her taste. Something not too hot, I emphasised and got tikkas, marinated pieces of rawas grilled in a tandoor. I was told to choose a vegetable, since I lean happily towards all things green, and picked on paneer palak, something I like most of the time and rarely eat since in our house rude jokes are made about spinach in that smoothly pureed form and Father refuses to eat paneer if he knows it is being served (we who can cook also can camouflage, he sometimes realises). And then there was a raita (not the raaeetah of Nigella Lawson fame, but the more conventional Indian version as served in a public eatery), without which my friend does not believe a meal to be complete.

It did not take long for the food to arrive, hot and redolent. The waiter started with the tikkas – large cubes of fish coated in a violent-looking red masala that was unexpectedly mild and enveloped the perfectly grilled rawas in a loving embrace (dear God, I sound like her again!). On our urging, since we were both hungry and in a bit of a hurry, the rest of the food was brought in, and we were served pieces of pomfret piled with something that looked most dangerous but was, surprisingly, not as bad. The ‘gravy’, so thick that it was almost a casing, was very spicy indeed, even the tiny bit that I accepted, but it had distinct flavours of coconut and curry leaves and something else that was not mirchi-hot, but delicately persistent. It was very good and, if it did not have as many chillies ground into it, I would have asked for more. The paneer palak was wonderfully green and white, cool and fresh in texture and appearance. The raita left something to be desired, heavily onion-laden and scanty in all else as it was. And the methi roti that I wanted was one of the best I had eaten, with lots of bitter-green fenugreek leaves patted into a butter-crisped flatbread. We wound up with a small round of frosty malai kulfi, not as good as the Parsi Dairy stuff we both are addicted to, but not bad at all.

It took us about an hour and a bit to get through lunch, pay and leave. And we would do it again some day, with more time to spare and less places to be, things to get done, people to meet.