The Missing Piece

The missing piece

The other day I stepped out of Office, braving the rain and hopscotched my way over million pot holes to reach a posh restaurant. I always was intrigued by the name of the joint - a strange combination of a glamour star of the 90s and a very flaky Keralite version of our popular dosa. 

Ushered in with much fanfare, I sat down in a seat so that I could also view the bustling, chaotic traffic just outside this mini oasis. I browsed through their elaborate menu and settled for the ‘mini- lunch’ –non-veg of course – the price seemed relatively a good bargain at such a posh restaurant and compared to the other mind-boggling fantasy rates.

The waiter looked at me condescendingly at my choice and said ‘ is that all sir’ I affirmed his rhetoric question. After taking a long glance at me which I too reciprocated, he said,  ‘sir, in mini-lunch there will be no piece in the curry’ I quizzed him what it means, then he explained that I will get a small portion of chicken gravy or fish gravy minus the chicken or the fish.  He also added that if I have to order the ‘missing piece’ then I should go for their special meals which costs a bomb.

Trying to take in the meaning of what he said, I reached out to the mineral water bottle, so refreshingly placed on my table. He said, sir you’ll have to pay for the mineral water too! I then reached into my bag and drank from the water bottle I always carry with me and told him to bring the curry minus the piece. As he turned away, I could see through his soiled suit which he might be wearing for the umpteenth time without washing that he is cursing me.

I turned to the menu again to check out the other “specials’ on the list. On the 1st page itself, I was instructed to wait patiently for 45 minutes for their ‘express’ meals to arrive. I looked around to find that I am one miserable soul sitting in their restaurant at the peak lunch –hour. Of course I know the answer now.

As I stared at the miniscule cup of “fish curry” that accompanied the mini-meals without even a morsel of a fish – nah not even a bone, I wondered what they are saving or whom they are serving. I made a mental note never to visit the place again.

In the evening on my way back home,  I had to get dinner -  as the previous day, my wife had exercised her right to visit her parents' home. I went to the familiar neighbourhood biriyani kadai run by a very amiable “bhai’ and his extroverted wife who manages the shop in the evenings. His joint is not posh –does not even have a name board but was milling with crowds of boisterous youngsters and office executives with their bikes and cars parked as per the norm these days – haphazardly.

Bhai and his bheevi wished me with a smile and he rose up to give his chair for me to sit. As I settled down, he continued to enquire about my health, my family and before I could even order started slapping sumptuous, flavoury biryani on to a plate with a familiar, assuring thump of the ladle he uses with aplomb. He made sure that a generous leg piece is always added and packed in an extra packet of kathrika kootu for my daughter. As I sipped on the steaming cup of masala chai his wife always gives me whenever I visited their shop, my disastrous lunch experience in the afternoon flashed in my mind’s eye.

As I rose up to pay, he also threw in an extra packet of vengaya patchadi.  I know that I will get this same treatment even when I order ‘kuskha’ from him – in-fact, he will slip in a boiled egg or two in one of the kuskha packets even though egg-biryani costs more than kuskha. 

And the biryani somehow tasted more divine that evening.