Native Bangaloreans (or should I say, Bengalureans?) settled abroad never want to miss an opportunity to savour local food when they are back home visiting their kith and kin. So when Ramu, a ‘chaddi dost’ of mine came visiting from the US, we decided to meet at a popular local joint known for traditional thali lunches. However, we had to change plans and settle for snacks of the idli-dosa variety to honour his gastric limitations that temporarily forbade him to consume anything ‘heavy’.
Ramu’s place of stay was literally at one end of our sprawling city, which forced us to meet at the Central Business District, opting for a high-end restaurant as a safe bet. The restaurant boasted multi cuisine specialties in its online menu, that also (fortunately for us) included South Indian snacks. So we entered the place with modest intentions of having perhaps a plate of idli-vada or upma followed by filtered coffee.
A liveried doorman with a smiling countenance welcomed us. He sported a moustache that was as heavy as the ebony door he was about to open for us. His right-handed deferential salute acted in symphony with his left handed clasp of the door’s decorative brass handle.
It appeared unusually dark inside, contrasted perhaps by the bright sunshine outside. A sign said ‘Wait to be seated’ in impressive calligraphy with nobody around. Designer wallpaper draped the high walls with a chandelier suspended from what seemed to be the geometric centre of the sparsely filled hall.
Finally, a ‘suit and boot’ person appeared from nowhere and inquired, “How many?” in spite of seeing only two of us. He ushered us in and led us to a table. Yet another person drew the seats away from the table to make way for us to sit.
Neatly starched, maroon coloured conical napkins stood like pyramids, covering the china laid on the table with tightly wrapped steel cutlery kept by the side.
After a wait of about five minutes, a person, also donning a suit and tie, came with a notebook and pen to take our orders. I had already started thinking to myself, ‘Does the humble idli-vada or upma deserve all this?’ He carefully took note of our order, repeatedly asking us whether we did not want anything beyond water for a drink. It took another five minutes for water to be served plus a further 20 minutes for our idli-vadas to appear.
Our heroic attempts to consume the fare was accompanied by the clanking sounds of cutlery. Filtered coffee, it seemed, was an alien concept for this restaurateur. We reluctantly drank espresso, the nearest equivalent to filtered coffee. Exiting the restaurant, I asked Ramu, “How did you like it?” The inveterate diplomat that he is, Ramu replied, “Great ambience, no?” I instantly knew he had not liked the food. As for me, the idli was like a piece of rock and the vada scored very low on the crispness scale.
Can wallpaper, starched napkins, liveried doormen, carpeted floors, high back chairs, et al make up for taste or lack thereof ? Never, I would say. The good old proverb proves itself right perhaps a thousand times every day. The proof of the pudding is (always) in its eating.
And if I may add my own, ‘Taste trumps ambience’. Any day.