#tibetkitchen

For a restaurant that opens at 12, by 12 20, when you walk in, it’s already and unnaturally busy. A man, sitting in one corner, is poring over a book which I classify as “History” in my mind, even as I watch him shove a pile of fried rice into his mouth, with a passion mirroring my own, and cleverly hides the title from my not-so-subtle peeping eyes.

I sit at my usual table, order my usual chilly lamb and sip a tasteless, cold liquid that is officially called “fruit beer”. The beer mug and the way I hold on to it makes me wish, more than ever, that it was the real thing. I’m becoming more and more like the ‘wasted’ Calcutta youth-bored, disillusioned and forced to resort to cheap, stale liquor for a bit of fun, ironically, even for a bit of control.

The table next to mine is occupied by a group of gaggling young women, who order Honey Potato for some reason. According to a study I read about, in the HT recently, West Bengal, my home state is the largest consumer of potatoes in this country. The columnist goes on to blame to the degradation of the Cal Culture on the rising love of potatoes and diminishing sale of fish in Bengal. I should start subscribing to the HT, I think but my lunch companion gives me the “I know exactly what you’re thinking and it is too Eli(o)tist to put into words” look. I close my mouth, and take another sip of the imaginary beer.

There’s a guy near the door, shouting away on his phone, in a language I don’t understand. Living in Calcutta for 18 years has made me rigidly aware of any language being spoken around me that is not Bengali. English works, but it’s just not the same when your meal in a restaurant is not accompanied by an interfering busybody at the next table, exclaiming “Eh! Chef change hoye geche. Mosto baaje chowmein ta!”

My parents wanted me to move away from Calcutta for the ‘cosmopolitan experience’ that Delhi provides but I will forever remain a Calcuttan at heart, waiting for Bengali slang to be heard at street corners and adding liberal amounts of chilly sauce to whatever I happen to be eating. I will also claim that Tangra is where you get the best kind of Calcutta-Chinese, my favourite cuisine and I have a sudden burning for those too-brightly-lighted, too-crowded restaurants as I eat my noodles with gusto and stab every elusive piece of baby corn as some sort of compensation.

They have a softboard in one corner, where I once put up a poster of some event I was working crazily for. The same poster, which I have hidden, somewhere in my room, represents the major problem with me-I get bored after the first week of heady excitement. And no amount of beauty or challenge can then change the forced, zombie-like attitude I take towards the work. Till it eats me up slowly and I end it all with the abandon of a heartless freak, an irresponsible brat.

I’m never bored of Chinese food though. Or any kind of food for that matter. Every dish I’ve ever tasted, every chair I’ve sat on during meals, has had a story to offer. Stories that are worth turning into memories. Stories that are worth telling.

The tiny cubicle-like restaurant that I first entered, over 2 years ago, has given way to a semi-decent place where tables just keep being added. It’s good to see seedy restaurants flourishing-I don’t know what I’d do without the cheap lunches here and the half-decent cure for depression that it offers. It’s almost worth the strange expression in Brad Pitt’s eyes as he stares warily at you from the poster on the wall.