Who do you cook for?

There are two kinds of people. Ones who eat to live and the others who live to eat (considering that the latter don’t really live to eat and that this is just a metaphor to describe how much they enjoy food.) But I come across a third kind. Some people in my family. These people are so dead on the dining table that you would hope that they could at least eat to live. If these people understood that this food was providing them nutrition to carry on their trivial activities and their essential pursuits, that this food was the most enriching thing in their lives, maybe even a gift from god, they would eat with little more attention.

Every time I cook I expect my partner to attentively eat it. I expect that my partner will pay as much attention to it as he does to anything else. From the point of view of the partner, I tell myself that it is not always possible. Not that he doesn’t appreciate it ever. He does. But is it wrong to expect it every time? Each time? Is it wrong to feel disappointed? Isn’t cooking each meal like creating something new? Doesn’t all the attention and passion and love go into that meal? I heat up the pan then add the oil and then add the spices making sure at each step each one is hot enough that everything I put gives a crackle but not so hot that it burns away. Every step in the cooking process is carried with utmost attention, respect and honesty. I have dropped a little methi in the oil and then added four more grains and contemplated over four more but finally held myself back. Every grain of methi, jeera, dhaniya, rice, dal, is counted for and cared for. Not a drop is added ignorantly. Instead of just heating something later I have cooked it half way through only to completely cook it later ensuring that it is hot while eating. This avoids ruining the texture of the dish. I calculate minutes to ensure food is hot, that three things that take different cooking time are done cooking at the same time. I don’t cook any dal with any sabzi. I don’t just chose any chutney. That salad today has been chosen for a reason. Ask me. I have thoughtfully cooked arhar when it was sunny, and moong when it was a little cold and humid. I write a poem, I paint a picture, I sing a song, I cook a dish. Not one takes any less love than the other. And then it kills me when someone doesn’t make the most of that meal, when the food fails to cheer one up, when I see people stare away at the plate and eat like the dead. Animals eat better. The food seems to nourish them. I think I should start feeding stray animals. I can just imagine them gobbling up all my food. Oh! How much I would love to see someone relish my food. And most importantly every time!

So is it wrong for me to be disappointed? Is cooking not like creating art? If I created art everyday wouldn’t I expect it to be received with care each time? Doesn’t a teacher expect the students to be attentive and receptive in class every day? So when we blame the thoughts in our head for not appreciating what’s in front of us shouldn’t we question if trivial people and their trivial matters be considered important enough to not acknowledge the honest plate of hardwork and smartwork on the table?

My mom says that she cooks so that she can look at my content face when I am eating. Who do I cook for?

Chili’s- Ambience Mall, Vasant Kunj, New Delhi

I know Chili’s is not in Dehradun. But for us, who eat out in Dehradun, its as if there builds a power in us to see through the restaurant, the food, the ambience, and the intention. And we usually don’t like what we see. I cant help but share my disappointment.

I don’t care what you think of me. I am not going to lie. Yes I was free on Monday at twelve in the afternoon and that’s when I planned to eat at Chili’s. But isn’t that supposed to give them more space and time to serve me right and serve me good?  Well, ask them. A place that leaves two people poorer by two thousand rupees shouldn’t be forgiven. Unless, of course, the God of the World of Non-Academia couldn’t take our Monday afternoon freedom and gave Chili’s the task of punishing us.

Everyone knows Chili’s by now. I am not wasting any of our time in talking about where it is and what it looks like. Yes, it looks attractive, red and green. The waiters look neat, the tables clean. But that’s the least it should do! As we settle down, we ask for regular water. The waiter arrives with water in two plastic beer mugs . And I am thinking, in a posh restaurant why is there plastic on my table. And I don’t have to touch it to feel it. Its visibly old and almost opaque with the scratches and the dark stains that water leaves on plastic over regular long rigorous use. On asking the waiter to change it, the re-arrival wasn’t so prompt. As if my ‘feed-back’ (pun intended) needed a discussion in the kitchen: “What’s wrong with the plastic mug?”  My whole being silently screamed, “EVERYTHING!”

We were given the menu next. I opened it, turned a few pages trying to comprehend the logic to the order in which the dishes were mentioned. Soon, I found myself frantically wading my way through those pages, frantically gasping for air. The tacos and quesadillas were together. But I couldn’t bear their separation from the ‘fajitas’ through three pages of non vegetarian burgers and vegetarian sandwiches and burgers and something else. Believe me, before leaving I wanted to look through it again to be able to take notes on what was wrong with it, but I dared not. I might be crazy enough to be smiling through this, but I am not so crazy that I would open that green red yellow abyss of painful bewilderment. I was in need to wetting my throat. We ordered some beer.

But oh my dear god, He, the God of the World of Non Academia was indeed after my life. Each of those beer mugs weighed a kilo and a half each.  Believe you me, it’s the truth. It did weigh that much.  I know you are thinking, “Well, it must have weighed a lot, but a little exaggeration is normal, even expected.” But I am not lying. I be stomped to death with those three kilos that sat on our table, if I lie about it. No matter how hard I held it, it loosened from my grip when I lifted it to my mouth and tilted to a strange angle. I could see my vein bulge out of my wrist. I finally held it in both my palms, like a little child who is asked to finish his glass of milk in a gulp.

From that thing that must not be named- the abyss of pain- my husband picked out two of the simplest dishes for himself and for me. The first one because it sounded simple and the second because we could see its image. We signaled the waiter to take our order. It was the third time he crouched next to our table. What in hell is this fake comfort level that waiters are being asked to build in the name of ‘style’, with the customers these days.  You can be standing on your feet and still be comfortable. In fact when you crouch and stand and crouch and stand, ten times next to my table, even when I need you for practically 3 seconds, I can see the discomfort on your face.

The Big Mouth Bites were supposed to be four mini tenderloin burgers with cheese, sauteed onions, smoked bacon, and ranch dressing served with extra jalapeno ranch dressing, and homemade fries. The buns were moist but the burger as a whole didn’t have enough saucy sweetness to balance the saltiness of the patty and cheese. When I split open the burger to look for some sauce, the finely chopped sauteed onions looked quite sad and lonely without any sauce or bacon. There must have been some but it couldn’t be seen with naked eyes.

The Crispy Honey Chipotle Chicken Crispers effectively ditched its first adjective: Crispy. The sauce must have been poured over the fried chicken at least fifteen minutes before bringing it to the table, leaving it cold and soggy. All I could eat from that plate was a whole steamed corn cob.

While nibbling at it, I felt rather sad. I was sitting in a restaurant that was shallow in its spirit; dishonesty mocking me in my face, through its food, through the menu, through the waiters smile, through my glass of water. I was sitting there in that restaurant, with every bite holding on to my wallet tighter and tighter, looking for happiness in an unseasoned steamed cob of corn.

You think I would dare the desert? Of course I didn’t. We asked for the bill and quickly made exit. At least that afternoon, Chili’s had no soul.  

La Mia Casa

A vibrant yellow on a long green stretch, La Mia Casa shouldn’t go unnoticed but it just sits so well and warmly tucked in the green that it’s very unlikely you wouldn’t need to take a long U-turn to reach there.
It’s only right that The Great Escape was pulled down to bring up this new café cum bistro cum restaurant on the quieter half of Rajpur Road stretch. There is nothing about the place that reminds us of its predecessor. Built in a very Portuguese colonial style, this place screams ‘Come have breakfast here’. (I will take a quick chance here to mention that the place has some delicious breakfast menu to offer). With always enough space for my car, I don’t have a reason to complain about the parking. Even if some day I don’t get the best and the most convenient spot, parking can never be a problem on this stretch.
The gate opens into a small lawn with vintage style tables and chairs strewn about. Even though the trees, all decked up with hanging lanterns, would provide a nice shelter during the day, they do have umbrellas to go up on each table. But that’s exactly what forced me to look for a place inside. The red and yellow plastic umbrellas were quite unsettling. That, and the unsettling chairs (pun intended) that look quite small and shaky, especially when it’s a pebbled lawn. They have a seating just inside. I took a peek and found it small and still not cosy. As if someone had that space and therefore put up tables and chairs but wasn’t convinced with the idea of seating people there. There was no love in that room. I chose to take the stairs. Even though I hadn’t seen it but I knew that’s where all the energy was, the soul was. Something pulled me up the stairs and I liked what I saw. A small terrace open from three sides, covered in green from the top, lanterns and planters lining the edges. The tables and chairs were wooden and looked sturdy. Some seated two – other four. Lamps hung low on the tables. And while my friend found it to be too close and too bright, I found it just perfect. I felt it brightened the table (and hence, later my food), keeping the light away from us. And when one of us bent too close to the table, the light played very dramatically with our faces.
The menu was brought immediately. It looked neat and organized and easy to browse through. The font was dark and legible. The descriptions seemed complete and accurate. And each dish was marked with a number for ease and clarity in placing the order. We ordered Mushrooms on Toast with Coffee from the breakfast menu, a Grilled Lamb Burger, a Fusilli Pasta with Alfredo Sauce and a Grilled Chicken Florentine with Black Pepper Sauce.
The orders came in as they were prepared. The bubbling cheese and mushrooms loaded on toasts looked extremely appetizing. Served with tomato ketchup, there were four of those babies sitting on a plate. I cursed myself. It was my friends order.
Next in line was the Fusilli in Alfredo sauce. A generous serving with two small loaves of grilled bread, it looked like a decent dish. The sauce could have been creamier. But it still tasted good – it could well have been Fusilli in Béchamel.
The grilled lamb burger sat on most of the plate leaving just enough space for a portion of French fries and vegetable salad in mayonnaise sauce. A medium grilled lamb patty, with layers of cucumber, tomato, onion and cheese sat between beautiful round buns. Sadly, these buns were a little dry but the gorgeous sauces just about compensated for the dryness.
Soon the waiter walked in with the chicken Florentine. I, through the corner of my eye, had my attention on the door. Anxious to see how would have the Chicken Florentine been treated, I had been waiting. His gait was slower and heavier, his chin up. Confidence shone on his face. Probably he knew what he was carrying. As he put it on the plate, my happiness knew no bounds. Two well sized chicken fillets stuffed with spinach and corn rolled and grilled, covered in black peppercorn sauce, accompanied by mashed potato, cleanly moulded and served with some grilled vegetables. A tiny but sufficient serving of extra sauce also came in with the dish. The chicken was served medium rare hence succulent. The peppercorn sauce rendered the pepperiness, salt and flavour to the chicken. Grilled vegetables went well with the whole thing. The smoothness of mashed potatoes deserves a special mention. They could have been a tad bit creamier and a little more seasoned.
Too full for dessert, I chose to leave it for the next visit. And the peppery creamy taste in my mouth was too precious to lose. All these dishes went really well with the ambience. Although I wish the café well in the business, I would still be selfish and hope to reach at the not so crowded hours of the day. I enjoy a little peace and quiet with my food.
La Casa Mia, if you are reading this, please do not stop giving out the complimentary chocolate with the bill. That is what most of us will come back for. Not a lot of things in this world surprise people more than a piece of chocolate that one wasn’t looking for.

Breakfast for two: Rs.400-500/- (Approximately)
Meal for Two: Rs.600-800/- (Approximately)
Address : 159 E Rajpur Road, Dehradun – 248001, Uttarakhand