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.