I'm dubious about the Chinese look coupled with the bandage high heels. It's just as well that I'm not toting a gun today. That would have just been the height of tacky. Perhaps I've just been too strongly influenced by Singapura. The ensemble will have to do, and I meander to my destination. All very well till I ease myself down. Clearly sitting down in a short dress is a mistake, and my resemblance to a badly beaten hooker takes on infamous proportions as the bluish purple weals across my thighs gleam darkly against the cream of the dress. No amount of tugging from any angle is going to make me look like a nice girl, so I resign myself to artistically draping the table linen over me and think instead of the hapless, beaten up coke can (which ought to have been decimated (ok, so perhaps I exaggerate a tad) but for a bunch of rabidly appalling pellets that preferred to reside impotently in the barrel. Yup. Good thing the imagery was over two days.....

Happiness is....

.... sharing laughter over an exquisite meal. Just thinking about last night makes me feel all dewy eyed and satiated (a copious lunch involving potol bhaja and Ba's chicken might have something to do with it as well), ready to grant the world's every wish.

A perfect evening at Indigo, where there were just enough people to make it not creepily empty, but not too many to annoy (and not a single E for effort sighting!), attentive and thoughtful service (my shiverings were put to rest by a proffered shawl {it may have been a table cloth, but it's the thought that counts!}), and a repast fit for the gods.

The creamy opulence of the buffalo mozzarella dipped in a fascinatingly good coriander pesto (asking for it on the side was sheer redundancy) is foreplay by itself, but add plump, juicy tomatoes to that combination and it's like an orgasm in your mouth as the tomato explodes, leaving your senses lushly satisfied. The souffle which ought to have been Camembert but wasn't, was beautifully puffed, but a cheddar can only be what a cheddar is destined to be, so we shall move rapidly along to the succulent cow that wound its way to our table, all pretty and pink with the sultriest of mashed potatoes and drained the rest of my lovely Cherin Blanc. And for those weaklings that assume that is where the fantasy ended... tsk, tsk - for shame. Have these pages not taught you better?? The oft indulged in duck breast reached it's sublime potential last night. I have never in all my years been accosted by a breast so perfect that a mere mouthful make me want to bestow camels, knighthoods and my kingdom. It's velvet silkiness drapes around your mouth in the most luscious manner and the mere thought of the next morsel makes you moan. The crisp skin clings protectively to the layer of duck fat as it lovingly embraces the juicy pink flesh. Conversation ceases as tiny, inarticulate sounds accompany each bite. The wine, beans and puree unnecessary, yet taking it to another level of je ne sais quoi. I struggle with my devil/angel - wolf it down in one go, lick your chops and look around for more vs. curling your tongue around, feeling it fill your mouth before a bite releases the magic, indulging in the flavour as you masticate slowly to lengthen the pleasure. I settle for a hybrid and lay back replete, eyes fluttering shut with supreme satisfaction, pleasure and utter happiness.

Their menu claimed "The best of 10 years". Last night certainly was...

Grilled Artichokes Kaffir Lime Tomatoes Buffalo Mozzarella

Coriander Pesto

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Cheddar Cheese Souffle

Sun Dried Tomato Kalamata Olive Crostini

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Seared Prime Filet Mignon

Grilled Asparagus, Anchovy mashed potatoes, Three Peppercorn Sauce
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Pan Roasted Breast of Duck

Coriander Orange Glaze Baked Turnip Puree Green Beans

Death becomes her

I’ve always been quite clear about how I want to die – spectacularly, succinctly and suddenly. A smush down to earth during a sky dive would pretty much cover it. Another fantasy did have a eaten by a pack of sharks, but while it does meet my fundamental requirements, it also necessities a greater level of pain than I anticipate during my point of departure. Driving back to Pune late on Saturday night, I realize the young man who is ferrying me with such reckless abandon, could well by positioned to deliver my requisites. I’m seriously impressed with the confidence with which the car weaves about, a mere centimeters away from other body work, like a deft seamstress wielding a needle over an intricate piece of embroidery. My hand surreptitiously sneaks to the side in search of a seat belt, and encounters some slack and draws it discreetly across my chest, left hand fumbling for the buckle. My negotiations end abruptly as the belt sags impotently in copious quantities around me. Well, given my definition, we would need to explode in a fireball, so a seat belt would really be moot. That thought comforts me considerably, and I snuggle back to enjoy the skills that would put Schumacher to shame. What impresses me even more, is that despite the raucous belting of the horn, flashing of lights and veering to the edge of intimidation as we shoot past, on the wrong side, hugging the rim of the road, sandwiched between two trucks close enough to feel their breath, he smoothly transitions out of the way of oncoming speedier traffic when on the right lane, not needing more than approaching headlights in the rear view (it might be a stretch to assume he occasionally glances at the rear view, but his actions would certainly imply it). His sheer effrontery at the toll nakas takes my breath away, and my mental cursing of his aggressive approach to the left which leaves us mired in the midst of vehicular confusion as realization sets in that the booth is closed, turns into unbridled admiration for his chutzpah as he brazenly snouts the car in front of a long suffering in queue beleaguered truckkie and we zip off to freedom. The same lad fetches me for my return journey and despite a sedate (and deeply frustrating) 80/kmph on the expressway, his artfully dodging on the ghats and in traffic and miraculous gate crashing at the toll naka, ensures that even an unnecessary detour via Worli makes it a three hour door to door journey. And I’m still pondering the coolest way to die…