Dubious Dinner Plans in Bangalore
Looking for food in all the wrong places.
American Germaphobe India Saga (part 5)
This is an ongoing true story of a work trip to India where I, a spoiled, frightened, American germaphobe, desperately cling to my waning sanity by finding humor in the fear.
Previously I described my unexpected social adventures experienced in my search for the hotel restaurant, but had to stop short of telling you the rest of the story, as, just like a trash berg floating down the Little Ganges flowing by my hotel (I’ll get to that little gem in a later blog), there is a lot more hidden beneath the surface of the muck.
And, soft adventurer that I am, I was ill-prepared for what awaited me.
THE DECISION
Level “C” deposits one in an area that looks like the behind-the-scenes employee-only halls of many hotels. There is little to reassure the confidence-challenged guest that “yes, you are where you should be.” I’ve got three options: (1) retreat back to the elevator and carry the shame and regret of being a quitter for the rest of my life, (2) commit to a five year mission of exploration and go left toward a poorly-lit T-intersection of hallways devoid of helpful signage, hoping to one day stumble upon “the restaurant,” or (3) go right toward a pair of bland, unmarked, closed fire doors. My usually-vigilant but apparently jet-lagged sense of caution must be impaired, since as I mutter to myself “a little peek behind those doors won’t hurt” no voices wiser than I challenge this ridiculous assertion. In fact, a part of me is convinced that this is what Captain Kirk would do, and in following his lead, I am rising to his level of courageous initiative.
Now, for those who are already rising out of their body-molded nerd-nestling gaming chairs to challenge my choice of Kirk vs. other role models of leadership, especially those who want to debate the finer points of “Kirk vs. Picard,” let me put this argument to rest with data. And no, I don’t mean Data the android, I mean facts, which should carry more weight than either of our opinions, and would make Spock happy to see us dealing on such a rational, logical level.
So sit back down and digest the following results from literally many seconds of intensive internet research:
Amazon.com has two books for sale relevant to our debate.
- The book What Would Captain Kirk Do?: Intergalactic Wisdom from the Captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise sells for $7.87 and has a coincidental 787 reviews, 78% of which are 5-star ratings.
- The book What would Captain Picard Do?: Captain’s Orders from the U.S.S. Enterprise sells for $7.99 and has a mere 138 reviews, 76% of them 5-star.
Numbers don’t lie (the same way that guns don’t kill): while the Picard book may be more expensive and in apparently higher demand, the Kirk book has more ratings with a higher % of 5-star ratings, clearly indicating that Kirk’s is the right advice to follow.
I rest my case.
So, with my Kirk-inspired sense of adventure cranked up to 11, I head toward the fire doors. After all, those thick doors were meticulously covered in decades-old gray-yellow paint and left helpfully unmarked by India’s Minister of Information for a reason. They are practically begging for me to go through them. I mean, it’s not like there was a “Beware of the Leopard” sign warning me off.
THE “RESTAURANT”
Throwing caution to the moldy winds wafting thru the hall, I go through the fire doors and am pleasantly relieved that they open into an area more “guesty” looking and which serendipitously includes the entrance to a restaurant named “Ginseng.” There is a hostess podium right outside the doors, but it is devoid of hostessness. (I guess that makes it hostessless?)
I walk on in, boldly going, as it were.
The dining area of the restaurant is moderately spacious, perhaps able to seat 50 people. As I quickly take in the scene, I note that only two of the many tables have people sitting at them, otherwise the dining area is devoid of patrons.
An old proverb drifts through my mind like a tumbleweed:
If nobody uses it, there’s a reason.
I’m not sure I like this, but my options are limited what with my self-imposed constraint to stay in the “safety” of this hotel. I attempt to assuage my misgivings by reminding myself that it is still somewhat early in the evening, and perhaps the dinner crowds determined to dine here are on their way but delayed, stuck in Bangalore traffic.
Rationalization is a skill, I say.
The dining area is darker than I would like, creating a homey, cozy feel in much the same way that darkness does for a rat-infested inner city alley late at night when barely touched by the cold light of an ominous full moon.
My eyes adjusting to the dimmer light, I walk farther in and finally spot the hostess. I ask if I can see a menu, intending to carefully evaluate the wisdom of committing to a meal here. Instead of handing me a menu from the obvious set she is carrying under her arm, she instead orders me to follow her, walks over to a table, pulls out a chair with a royal purple seat cushion on it, and uses an authoritative hand gesture which clearly communicates that I am to sit.
Apparently, menus are only for people sitting at tables. So I sit.
I feel uncomfortably manipulated but my only idea other than compliance is to jump suddenly back up, point to a far corner of the room and scream “what on Earth can that be?!?” and then run away like a frightened squirrel. It’s a viable option, so I keep my mental finger poised over that big red panic button just in case it is needed.
So sitted, I am handed a menu and the hostess departs for more important duties which apparently include maintaining the hostesslessness of the hostess podium. (Since that last one hurt my brain, I swear that is the last hostesslessnessing. For real this time.)
THE ORDER
A waitress approaches and asks if I want something to drink. My butt only having just blessed the surface of the purply-padded seats, I stall and say that I want to examine the menu first before I order anything. She stays put and waits, watching me as I do so. It is a Chinese food menu, but the only things I recognize are Kung Pao chicken and the word “custard” embedded in one of the dessert descriptions. I look up and meet her eyes, thinking that I’ll have to take a chance and order the Kung Pao.
She sees through my veneer of controlled calm and senses my trepidation.
With a look of pity that I choose to misinterpret as sympathetic understanding, she tells me that she will bring me the “other” menu. I don’t know whether to feel insulted or loved, and I’m actually a little afraid I’m going to get the kid’s menu and will have to order a Mac-and-Cheese Cup or the Happy Hot Dog and I really don’t want to experiment with the Indian versions of these. But I am instead given the “café” menu which has more sensible things like chicken sandwiches and even burgers!
I am intrigued.
However, I am also jet-lagged and Kirk-inspired, and so believe myself to be on a brave mission to experience the Indian culture. I decide to make a bold move, going where no man has gone before.
Kung Pao it is.
Oh, and a diet coke, NO ICE please.
Again I get that “understanding” look. On second thought, maybe it was pity or even condescension. Doesn’t matter — I’ll take what I can get.
THE SERVICE
While waiting for whatever will come next, the other patrons at both tables get their checks and leave. I now have the restaurant all to myself. I’m like a king, feasting in his banquet hall with only my servants to keep me company and attend to my every dining need. In theory this would be nice but…
In the end I’ll wish they’d just leave me alone and let me dine in peace. You really can have too much of a good thing, as I will shortly illustrate.
Sooner than I expect, the food arrives, delivered, presented and served by a hoard of wait staff far too numerous to justify a cost-effective waiter-to-patron ratio. There is one bowl filled with white rice and another with the Kung Pao. One waiter spoons out some of each onto my plate, asks if all is ok, and when I affirm it so, they all smile and depart — sort of. I can sense them loitering in the darker edges and corners of the room, watching. Waiting. Ready to spring into action.
I am only moderately threatened by this, however, as I assume they will remain on the outer fringes, respecting the sanctity of my lonely dining experience, leaving me uninterrupted until I summon them like that banqueting king I envision myself to be.
But alas, I fail to appreciate the true power of Indian hospitality.
I assume that I’m like most of you in saying that I really don’t know what it’s like to be a king. Sure, I’ve seen movies with kings. I’ve read books, and heard stories. I’ve studied history (inasmuch as “studied” means “crammed for school tests only to forget 99% of what I was supposed to remember”). But I don’t really know.
But now, having gone through this experience I think I’ve gained a sense of what it might be like. There are two important perspectives to grasp here.
From my perspective: the Kung Pao is actually good and so I’m looking forward to taking a second portion from the serving bowls once I have consumed what was scooped onto my plate. Since I’m dining alone and not competing with other diners for a limited resource, I can comfortably delay the replenishment of my plated Kung Pao until I have depleted said plate of its remaining morsels. Furthermore, the supply bowls are conveniently sitting on my table within reach, each equipped with a serving spoon with the handle angled toward me as if to maximize my chances of an easy and successful replenishment. So my innocent plan is to (a) finish the last few bites on my plate and then (b) grab those spoons and refill my plate.
From the perspective of the wait staff, things look different: the man has come to be served, and it is their purpose, livelihood, and even pleasure to serve. The facts are that (a) the man and his dinner are limited resources and (b) the wait staff are seemingly infinite in number. This means that there is not enough serving opportunity to go around, putting them in competition with each other in a serve-off showdown where in the end there can only be the quick and the dead.
So just as the faint spark of a glimmer of a thought that I might soon be approaching the semblance of needing to replenish my plate barely begins to form in my mind, the quickest of the server ninjas leaps from across the room, his arm outstretched and reaching for the bowls’ serving spoons even from meters away. As he approaches I try and wave him off, asserting that it is ok, I’m more than capable to serve myself, but this message only seems to harden his resolve and create an inexplicable offense in his heart.
For me to serve myself means they would have failed in their purpose, bringing shame to themselves, their families and their country. Failure is not an option.
It was all good though. I’m not complaining. It’s just that as an American, I’m used to a different standard of customer service where the rule seems to be “ignore the customer and they’ll go away sooner.”
THE AMBIANCE
Now, let’s talk about the ambiance. It’s an important part of the dining-out experience. Aside from the proper amount of lighting, ambient music is also among the top factors that make or break a restaurant’s ambiance. I already mentioned that this restaurant was ill-lit, and in a later chapter I’ll explain the significance of this observation in horrific detail. But when it comes to ambient music, the Ginseng did not disappoint, though I confess that my expectations were pretty low to start with, having dined more often than I care to admit at McDonalds back in the good old days of safety in the States.
Indeed, just like most restaurants that attempt to rise above the standard experience of a McDonald’s, there is music playing in this establishment too. Since my reasons for coming here did not include listening to the music, I ignore it with all but about 1% of my brain. That 1% is like Siri or Google or Alexa or the NSA listening for key phrases to wake up, or like your brain listening for your name to be mentioned in other peoples’ conversations. My brain does that too, but it is also always on alert for things that the rest of my brain might find amusing.
About mid-way through my meal I started having the feeling that my brain’s passive scanning had detected something needing further investigation. It’s that feeling you get when you realize that life has suddenly given you a new and interesting puzzle, but with just enough pieces missing to make you wonder if the puzzle is incomplete or if instead you’re just not intelligent enough to understand it.
Suddenly alert, I turn my attention to the music. Indeed, my brain was correct to raise an alert. There are some strange lyrics going on here.
My arms are long, my hair is woolly.
The music is just on the edge of my being able to hear the words, so I don’t get them all. I can tell it is a woman singing, and doing so with feeling, but getting just a phrase here and a word there, I cannot be confident about the song’s message. So far it sounds like it could be a song written by Chewbacca, which naturally piques my interest.
My butt is strong…
I confess I might have misheard the phrase but since I’m thinking this is a genuine Wookiee-authored artistic masterpiece, this phrase is in the realm of possibility. Granted, I’ve never really thought much about Chewy’s booty, but now in hindsight (haha) I can imagine it would be quite strong. Strong enough to inspire song, though? Perhaps if it served a heroic role in some bloody battle I can imagine Klingons crafting a perky tune about it, and the singing woman does sound somewhat aggressive or maybe even angry like I imagine a singing Klingon woman with fanny envy might sound, and with this train of logic I begin to be convinced I am on the right track.
I listen on.
My name is Aunt Sarah…
Ok, this is odd because while I can believe that Chewy had praiseworthy gluteus muscles worthy of song, I don’t recall anyone calling him Aunt Sarah, not even in Empire Strikes Back where there were lots of daytime-television-worth secret family relationship reveals. My confidence erodes in the “Chewy hypothesis.”
I google for the lyrics while I eat, figuring that the first few words of the song should be enough for Google to know what I want.
As it turns out, Googling “my arms are long” gets me tons of complaints about people with arms they feel are too long asking what can they do about it. Stuff like this is why our future AI overlords will be skeptical of mankind’s potential in the new world.
Google’s auto-complete also suggests that maybe the question I ought to be asking is “why are my arms long like muskets?” This causes me to wonder how long muskets are and whether my arms measure up well to the “musket standard.” Well, now I have something new to worry about, but I decide to stay on mission.
It turns out that the song is Four Women by Nina Simone. On the surface the song seems to be about a lady who is inflicted with multiple personalities of differing races suffering vicariously her mother’s rape by her white father and who now sells her body for promiscuous purposes, while on the side she murders people because she’s understandably bitter about ancestral slavery.
Welcome to Ginseng, the Family Restaurant! Bring your kids! Eat, be entertained and be educated!
One last comment about the restaurant’s ambiance: the power went out during my meal for about 2 minutes. It was dark. VERY dark. But not quiet. With the music silenced and everyone staying fairly still to avoid stumbling into things, you begin to hear noises. Inexplicable noises coming from unexpected directions. These I will attempt to explain in a later chapter.
A MICHELIN-RATED DESSERT
I could not finish my meal. The waiter seemed to think this was an atrocity but I’m only human and should not be expected to eat food quantities that are measured in liters no matter how American-sized my belly may be. He did convince me to try dessert, however, which was not difficult given that as a large-bellied American I am used to eating more than I should. Indeed, any moderately-astute waiter can tell just by looking at me that I’m not likely to say “no” to an offer of dessert. (Incidentally, I am likely say “no” to the offer of a desert, as I can imagine a real estate acquisition of this type would violate the “location, location, location” rule of thumb. This is the train of thought resulting from doubt about dessert vs. desert and having to let Google instruct me on the proper ways of Englishing. But again, I digress.)
I decided for something light as a means of communicating that I am not a glutton, and so I ordered the chocolate mousse. At first this seemed to confuse the waiter until I pointed out that this selection was on the non-standard menu that I had been given. After another understanding look that lasted just a second too long, the waiter left me alone to work on building up some new anxiety about what an Indian chocolate mousse would entail.
It took about 10 minutes for the mousse to arrive, during which time I was able to formulate at least 7 worst-case scenarios for how this dessert would disappoint me and how I would then have to disappoint the wait staff by refusing to eat it whilst claiming that (a) they did a good job, (b) that they served me well and (c) that there was nothing wrong with either the food or the service, and then figure out how to effectively distract them with an appropriately large tip in light of all this confusion.
Upon seeing the dessert from afar coming toward the table, I realized I had failed to anticipate “extreme volume” as a variable in my worst-case scenarios, but it was too late now for any additional planning. The mousse was conveyed to the table in a surprisingly large glass dessert bowl nearly overflowing with what I can only describe as a mountain of chocolate shavings topped with a cherry. It reminded me of Devil’s Tower. As they set it down in front of me, I felt compelled to echo Richard Dreyfuss from Close Encounters of the Third Kind:
This is important. This means something.
Alas, I did not, as I thought the reference would fall on culturally indifferent ears.
Being no fool, I chose to examine this new treasure before blindly jumping in. It smelled ok. Not exactly like chocolate mousse but also not unlike chocolate mousse. Using a spoon, I performed a brief exploratory surgery to examine under the chocolate shavings, and discovered that indeed there was chocolate mousse hidden under the outer layers, much like Jupiter is rumored to hide a planet-sized diamond in its core. (It’s true — I read it on the internet.)
My first bite was a combination of the shavings and the mousse together. I think I can best describe the experience by comparing it to that of eating a shredded chocolate rubber tire. All in all it was not bad, keeping in mind that chocolate makes just about anything taste better than it otherwise would. The texture was just something… uniquely chewy… and it took a while to decide whether I liked it or not.
In the end I decided that I did like it, but would never order it again. You figure out what that means.
Like the dinner, I also did not finish the dessert. While part of the reason for this was just that it was too much even for me, in truth there’s only so much tire one can chew before the jaw begins to fatigue, chocolate flavoring notwithstanding. Still, given the challenges overcome in this effort, I consider myself a champion, having consumed about half of it.
With another dining victory under my now-too-tight belt, I took care of the check, and in order to avoid making enemies of the restaurant staff where I would inevitably eat many more times during the rest of my stay here, I apologized to the waiter for not finishing my dinner and dessert, quoting Darth Vader by saying that I had failed him for the last time.
Seeing the confused look beginning to form on the waiter’s face, I hastily departed so as to avoid having to explain the reference in an awkward continuation of the interaction.
Did I tip? Well, no, but only because I saw they put a “service charge” on the bill and I read in my previously-mentioned extensive research that such is a valid substitute for the tip. Did I ask the waiter or hostess what they were expecting? No. I try and make such mistakes only once in a 24-hour period and the lesson Eyesh taught me back at the airport the previous night was still fresh in my mind. Did I regret leaving no tip? Yes, but in a way you won’t expect and will have to read about in a subsequent chapter to find out.
It’s only Sunday evening in our story, with plenty of time between dinner and work the next day for more “adventures” to be had… Read on!
