Damndest thing...this jetlag. It's coming up to twenty past one in the morning, and here I am.... and who's going to believe me at work when I get in all bleared eyed and incoherent blaming it on the jetlag. I would have said my morning reputation was in shreds, but truth be told, I just don't have a reputation to speak of when it comes to the am and the office... so much so that despite all the melodramatic gasps when people find me in at 8.30, no one seems to remember those monumental occasions when it comes to slagging off Apara and her daytime appearances at work - cry wolf! gah! I have been awake since Monday morning NYC time, and now it's Wednesday am UK time, and I'm still bloody awake. Wasn't it enough - the interminable wait for the delayed flight at JFK's cruddy terminal 7? Their duty free shops and waiting areas are almost reminisicent of CS International Airport, Mumbai! Then the flight from hell - bawling babies, muttering men, nasty cabin crew, the sudden piercing of garish lights during a totally unnecessary, tasteless and excessively loud dinner service, whining people missing their special asian vegetarian meals. It's bloody midnight - eat up or shut up!
But to the highlight of my misanthropic adventure.... Caesar salad. Like no other. If I was lyrical, I'd pen an ode to this creation, but since I'm not, allow me to describe the most unique de-construction of a Caesar I've ever seen....and I've seen a few - the best being the one they used to serve up at Bellissima in Bombay, positively addictive, and that's hard to say about a bunch of leaves, toast and some dressing! Still, there I was, not really hungry.. just mostly bored with the waiting around in the hall of hell that is terminal 7, so I venture into this restaurant where an insipid hostess informs me in martyred tones that they've just finished the last order for the drinks... good start. I wave her aside and demand food and a seat under some light so I can read my book - an erotic tale of twins sharing their lover. Ok, so it's pornography, but hey, the style was literary... verrrry literary. Since I'm not really hungry, I absentmindedly eavesdrop on the Bangladeshi wait staff, but they're not slagging anyone off, so I turn my attention to the menu and the next table, where the chewed remenants of a corn cob send me into nostalgic rapture of bhutta in the rain on Marine Drive. I can almost smell it roasting on the charcoal, the angry red, yellow sparks finding your bare skin. I can't just ask for a corn on the cob... or so I believe, so I sigh and gaze at the uninspiring menu again. Obviously too much fine dining in NYC, my lips curl in disdain as my brain processes the descriptions and my stomach turns. A Caeser salad is simple. Elegant. Hard to ruin. So when the smiley Bangladeshi waitress asks 'Is that going to be enough for you honey?' I just smile at her nodding my thanks.
There's my corn on the cob - a bit boiled, but all in all, not a bad taste at all (well, if you daub buttery cheese flavoured stuff on anything hot and roasted, you can't go wrong can you??).. and then I stop, like a ricketly old car that stalls at the traffic light, my front teeth still attached to the bhutta as lo and behold... another bhutta is brought towards me. Except this one's green. Mother of God! (and for all you believers, I do NOT say this in vain). It's the Caesar Salad. The most unique interpretation I've seen yet. I manage to disengage my teeth from the cob, and even set it back down on the dish that it came in, all without using my eyes. They're in thrall. I inspect the salad from all angles. It looks like an unhusked ear of corn with bits of creamy white stuff and bits of grated cheese on it. I poke at it experimentally with my fork. For some reason, I have two of those implements, but no knife. But, they did have those lovely paper serviettes that pretend to be cloth... I wave at another Bangladeshi mimicing a rusty guillotine, and she brings over the necessary steel.
Faced with this bold statement of a salad, I lose my customary assertiveness, and gingerly saw at the top of the green object. Nothing happens really. So I muster my machoness and hack at it. Houston, we have visual. It's an entire whatchamacallit of iceberg. Head of lettuce I suppose - but it looked more like a cigar on steroids. I mutter to myself 'It is I... LeCigar, disguised as a wilted corn field...and I shall only say zis wance...' People are looking at me, so I take up my book with great nonchalance and read a few lusty lines. But my attention is back to this UFO in front of me, and I have to put my book down. All my faculties are engaged as I call upon my best hand eye co-ordination to wrestle the Caesar into submission, inadvenrtently knocking one of the three pieces of fried bread that were masquerading as croutons onto the tablecloth. No one's looking, so I stick it back on the plate and spike it with my fork. It's so well fried, that it splits the moment my fork makes contact, and I feel a bit like I'm wielding Poseiden's trident. Somehow I manage the chop off a hunk of leaves, the outer ones redolent with velvety dressing and specs of grated cheese (rumour had it was parmigianna, but I couldn't say...), the inner ones all bright green, leafy and well, tasting of leaf, and crumbling bits of crouton - a complete mouthful - and after a brief struggle with some overly affectionate leaves, I reign supreme. I chew thoughtfully. It tastes like a Caesar... mostly.
Like Dora the Explorer I hack my way through most of the vegetation, but have to stop halfwayish for some immoral sustenance, before regrouping for the next assault. Moral of the story? Not a good combination - a salad that fights back above the waist and a sexy novel that undermines from below..... an interesting meal, shall we say...? I left a generous tip... :)
Gasp! Two weeks and counting...
As usual, I succumb to the pressure of those near and dear to me, and return to the blog under duress. Another cutlet I'm rather fond off made not so gentle inquiries about my latest update, and I had to guiltily confess to not straying near here since I tore myself away to finish the vacuuming... and why not you ask? Well, the parents are here aren't they? and when i'm not bullying them (the little, belligerent, pugancious female parent) into going for a walk, or arguing about who gets to wash the dishes, or pay for groceries (this time the tallish, beer guzzling male one), I'm traumatising them by taking them to Ethiopian restaurants where the menu advises one to eat the tablecloth! :) Such a joy to have children, wot?! And what's more, we're now embarking on our ultimate revenge of the long suffering older sibling and parents... yep, we're descending upon Mimi & Rahul in NYC, tomorrow. Yay!! Revenge is sweet! Served cold or warmish with onion rings on the side :-). Poor Mim's gone on a buying spree - bed linen, towels, and hasn't stoped whining about my deliveries that are being stockpiled in their flat waiting for my ascendency. Going to be a fun week given that they live in a lovely 1 bedroom apartment opposite the gay, naked yoga class (Yep, ladies day, every Saturday morning for breakfast ;-))... guess I'll be sleeping in the tub!
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