It is only kismet that ensures that an evening of the most ludicrous Bollywood offering a house teetering on the edge of a precipice, a swarm of bees, a collection of inspired gangsters and some other random people, peppered with inimitably delivered lines that include "Oi, Sarkari aaspataal ki tooti hui bench", "Aaae bin ped ke phal..." "Aaj kal to buiscuit ko bhi Ji bulati, jaise yeh ParleJi" and the gently inquiring "Bonnet kahaan hain?", culminates into lunch the following day at Dishoom. London's answer to Bombay's disappearing Irani haunts.
The softly whirring ceiling fans, slanting mirrors over the counter, gola machine, a vivid poster announcing Sabitadevi in Dr. Mahurika or Modern Wife... with Motilal is the perfect foil for kheema pau (reminiscent of the kind served up by the smiley men at the Xavier's canteen) washed down with Thums Up as we suavely fling insulting filmi gangster dialogues at each other between slurps. Sadly, apart from a Berry pulao, the main menu slides into the Punjab, and the passion fruit/ginger and pomegranate/chilli golas are far too sophisticated for a kalakhatta trained palate. Still, the cutting chai in the requisite glass does the trick, as do the chunteys in their leftover mousse bowls with aluminium chamchas, and we pfaff, happily nostalgic, warbling the tunes for Fanta (brought on by the sight of a Vimto poster). A sali boti, dhansaak, cutless and caramel custard would render this eatery sublime. The rules of the house declare All Castes Welcome, so I shall return with Mr. Walker this week for another round of nostalgia.
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