Junetenth

I hated June. Primarily because it heralded the start of yet another laborious, benighted, sodden academic year. In India the academic year for all levels of education (such as it is) starts around the 10^th of June. This dystopian situation is compounded in Bombay by the onset of the monsoon season, with its grey skies, flooded rail tracks and damp, garbage strewn roads. I wasn’t particularly enthused by education at that time, and I am sure the feeling was mutual.

Bombay in my growing up years wasn’t a pleasing place at any time of the year, but the monsoon made it particularly noisome, fit for neither man nor beast (the average Bombayite falls into neither category, so he is totally fit for purpose.) As a student I was in an intermediary stage of evolution and my pleas to avoid school during this season, for fear of potential damage to my nascent psychological well-being, were fobbed off with earnest exhortations of how education was important to Get Ahead in Life!

I particularly disliked this period of the year due to the necessity of walking to school with a bag full of books – I abhor all forms of physical exertion except turning the pages of a book or raising a glass or fork to my mouth. My school was about 3 miles from home and the parent body felt the exercise would build a growing body and mind. Umbrellas of course were not an option to keep both boy and books safe and dry. The raincoats then in popular use barely reached one’s ankles and made the wearer look like a sherpa with a secret sorrow.  With the dampness seeping in through rubber shoes and making the socks wet, said boy was miserable, to put it mildly.

College years didn’t change my point of view of Junetenth, at least in Bombay. However, opportunities for travel began to show themselves and I discovered the joys of traipsing through boroughs and vales, hills and plains away from Bombay. The new-found liberty of parking oneself in a restaurant overlooking a verdant vista on a side road to somewhere and titillating the taste buds with tea and fried foods (apparently a Thing in the monsoon) helped reduce the mordant dislike that I used to feel for Junetenth.

Coming to man’s estate I found myself in Paris one grey September day, set to

rise further in the realms of academe. It was fall, it was raining that day, and it was raining heavily. But to my utter surprise, I found myself standing in the rain on the street outside the métro station and absorbing the genteel, delicate drops falling on my upturned face. The air felt fresh and clean, the roads were glistening like the lips of a beautiful woman drinking wine and the sheer profusion of colourful rainwear lifted my spirits no end. Of course, my spectacles misted up and I caught the death of a cold after that and was laid up for almost a week with fever and the shivers. But the realisation dawned on me that Junetenth was no more a problem!

The academic season in this developed and beautiful country starts in September, when the weather is fit for spoils and strategems of love, good wine and long walks (as Shakespeare would have said if he had lived in Paris as a student.)

I now look upon rain as a partner in fun and an affirmation that life is not just a four-letter word!

Hate, Love, Rain

I hated rain. 

During my growth years, the onset of the “monsoon season” in India equalled the start of the academic year. Those were dark, grey days, literally and otherwise. I did not like school. Not one bit. The education dished out was not meant for me. The soul was burdened with the weight of woe and the school bag. Umbrellas were a luxury and the raincoats were designed for Cindrella's dwarves rather than a chunky, fast growing lad. My school took “mass education” literally – 5,000 brats hummering away made it difficult to stand out in class and recognised as a budding genius. Unless you sat on the first bench and kept raising your hand all the time. All in all the combination of rain and a curriculum designed to turn the student into a drivelling, gibbering snorter made me wonder if Nietzsche actually had a point. 

The manic tremolo of raindrops on the awning over our windows at home is a sound I will never forget. It disturbed my sleep, my meals, my studies (such as they were) and was a background VFX that I can do without today.

Moving to man’s estate I finally got the chance to experience rain as a gift from the gods and not as a dam(p) nuisance. My love affair with rain was kindled in Paris, where the autumn rain helped me effortlessly dish out maudlin musings and robust food and wine pairings. London was wet through and through but the vision of huge Union Jack umbrellas, beers and scotch eggs in a cosy tavern just north of Swiss Cottage, vast swathes of rolling green fields glistening in the rain and hot tea in a village called Little Slaughter with lightning and thunder for company as the world stood still are some of my best memories of the city and the country. And West Africa is a byword for rain of course – it probably needs a separate post!

Unlike Paris and London and to an extent Amsterdam, Mumbai in the rain is not the best of places to be out of home in. The mud, the smells, the overflowing drains and on select days the tide in the affairs of (Mumbai) man, which when taken at the flood, leads to your shoes and trousers (and more) getting damaged beyond repair! Not to mention water-borne illnesses! Do not for a moment get trapped by lurid descriptions of roasted corn / spicy snacks / hot tea outside in the rain. These are mere projections of a weak mind.

The infamous Mumbai floods of 2005 convinced me it was time to move to a place where “rain” is chimeric – heard of in song and lore perhaps but rarely seen. Dubai happened fortuitously but with my usual impeccable sense of timing I landed there on its Annual Rain Day - when I believe the camels are decked up and let loose to frolic in the drops of rain while the natives roll up the windows of their Rollses – and was stuck at the airport for 3 hours.

However in the decade and a half since I have basked in sunshine through the year, with the memories of grey monsoons during school days like an old wadi in the desert - lifeless and dry. How I now crave for a flood to fill up that wadi! (for a glimpse of dubai in the rain check out my 1st ever blog post: dubai rain

I love rain. I am at my happiest when indoors with a cup of the steaming and a good thick novel (no Bookers please) at hand, while the heavens above open up. There is something about the sound of rain, pelting down on rooftops, tippering on leaves, that makes me sigh with a sense of what could have been, of unfulfilled desires and wishes (unkind folk who suggest that the sigh is really a wheeze are wet behind the ears). The occasional lightning and thunder are value additions which uplift the soul. And sometimes scare the beejezus out of me due to volume and intensity.

At these times, I like to think that the Guv’nor is up and about with a wee dram, about to tell me one of his lawyer stories.

And I am sure he would agree with the revered sage Baxicius’ advice on how to handle rain: Better to be wet inside and dry outside.

Travel broadens the…waist

One of my favourite dictums (dictii?) is “Travel Broadens The Mind”. Usually delivered with a lot of gravitas by an armchair traveller whose furthest travel has been to what we Indians call “native”, or “hometown”. This was perhaps valid in the early days when travel was a more leisurely and refined activity rather than the frantic, Instagrammable, group dash it is today.

In pre-Google days people not only took a long time to reach their destinations, they also took the trouble of learning about the history, ethnography, language and culture of the destination by actually reading up on the available literature of the place. So, not only did we broaden our minds, but by doing moved that much higher up the evolution scale (when was the last time you saw an ape reading up on “Thing To Do In Deadhorse, Alaska”?)

But an ancillary benefit of this kind of travel has not really got its place in the sun – the opportunity to try different cuisines, in the countries of their origin. Globalisation has made it possible to eat sushi in Saki Naka (a suburb of Mumbai, India) but does it have the same feel-good factor as going to Sushi Saito in Tokyo?

Travel for travel’s sake may have been a fad during the times of da Gama and Columbus, but today with the growth of digital media, there are “bucket lists” of things to do which usually include dining at “famous local eatery in Timbuktu” and posting photos of you holding the dead goat’s head on Instagram. Food For Likes.

Ancient cities like London, Paris, Tokyo, Beirut, Fez and Amsterdam have a whole host of famous eating spots and you cannot visit these cities without eating in at least one of these spots. The mushrooming of food blogs, restaurant review sites and cooking shows fuels an urgent desire to “travel to be seen to be eating in the right place”. As long as you are travelling to eat, I suppose it is OK.

As a resident of Dubai, the world’s most worldly city, I can access a host of international cuisines within half an hour of driving from home. Many restaurants try to recreate the ambience of the country whose cuisine is on offer. But the whole effect is ruined because the person serving you is never of the right ethnicity – surprising for a city with over 200 nationalities! I would rather enjoy Oktoberfest with a bevy of lederhosen-clad dralle Damen from Germany. Know what I mean?

I have had some very fine meals in the 29 cities that I have lived in during a rather chequered life and career (camel meat in Kano, Nigeria and so forth) I have also had some of the same meals in Dubai (camel burgers included), led on by memories of meals past. But the experience has always been spicier, more fragrant and much more insightful in the city itself. But as a microcosm of the world, Dubai serves its purpose of allowing you to sample cuisines from places you might not visit, and not just because of a virus.

So, the next time you feel hungry remember what renowned sage Baxicius said: “getting to table is also about journey, not just destination”.

Table For One - diet for economic and social wellbeing?

Like most normal, content men, I don't worry overmuch about my weight. It's there, it's not there, we don't really care. I like my food, and though I don't live to eat, my motto - "Eat whatever doesn't eat you" (or "Manducare Omnia" if in Rome)- could be looked upon by the Starving Set as latent gourmandism. I will leave it to them to fret about it.

Having lived alone for nearly 20 years, I did manage to pick up the basics of cooking. I make my own tea (thank you Lipton tea bags), my own coffee (thank you Nescafé red) and also rustle up a mean omelette. Maggi 2 minute noodles are of course par for the course, though I don't think I can recreate the combinations Victoria (my maid+cook in Nigeria, not the Queen) could come up with!

I also use the extensive produce offerings of supermarkets to concoct my own version of (con)fusion cuisine, always making sure to balance textures and flavours and avoiding idiotic combinations popularised by the likes of so called "nouvelle vague chefs", whose cooking is as vague as it can be and who should be advised to just eat, and leave cooking to those who can.

Being a solo eater, I have naturally dined in a fair amount of restaurants in various locations. From Paris to Lagos, London, Cotonou, Lomé, Accra, Kolkata, Gangtok, Hong Kong and Dubai, many have been the restaurants which have benefitted from my custom, either dine in or takeaway. The occasional Mcdo, KFC or Subway also features in this list.

Dubai, where I have pitched my tent since 14 years, has restaurants coming out of its keffiyeh, but I am not entirely sure how many openly cater to the solo eater. (unabashed plug: check out my dubai restaurant reviews on TripAdvisor:
 https://www.tripadvisor.com/Profile/xiexier).

These are all restaurants on the economy side of the scale since it was my own money - the few "luxury / fine dining" restaurants I have patronised has been as a guest of people who are oofier than I am. Besides, i am not a fan of luxury / fine dining. Much too overrated and the gimmickry draws your attention from the food (or lack thereof).

All these restaurants have provided me with good food, and I have always had a happy belly at the conclusion of the meal. I like to read while eating (nourishing both mind and belly) and there is nothing more stimulating than to be in your own company, with a good book and the anticipation of a good meal. I also love going to pubs for a pint (or 2 or 3), with a book.

There is a trend of thought that tends to shame solo eaters in restaurants, but since I have always loved my own company, that trend doesn't bother me.

I have been brought up not to waste food and finish everything on my plate. But i have always wondered at the large portions served by restaurants, usually enough for at least 2 eaters. And also at the lack of spaces for singles in many of the restaurants that have received my custom. Are they not geared up for a solo eater? Or are they not interested in singles? I am sure I can link my rather large size to the big portions served up in restaurants (doggy bags don't exist in my vocabulary). The so-called fast-food brands of course have meals for one, but when it comes to a full meal the options are relegated to single items or a smaller version of a regular meal (in which many of the dishes of the regular meal are left out).

This is an affront to the solitary eater (no apologies to Wordsworth)!

Yes the economics of margins and all that have a big role in the portion planning of restaurants, and is perhaps one of the reasons why restaurants prefer to serve up the whole octopus rather than just a tentacle or two to a solo eater. But there is a business opportunity here too. An experience designed for a solo eater could not only appeal to a very distinct and relatively with-it audience, but it could also rake in more dollar per serving, and help build good awareness in a distressingly overcrowded market.

And in the current scenario of recession, trade wars, etc. what better solace for the soul than a quick sneak out for a well-made steak and fries for one, with a tankard of fine ale and a book of stout binding!

sunday mornings were special!

ah those sunday mornings! when the laziness of being took centre stage and nothing more demanding than a languid arm raised to bring the tea cup nearer to our face could be expected.

we dont much remember sundays in our salad days - just a day off from the humdrum of school [unlike most, we did not enjoy school and are not in touch with anyone from those dark, dickensian days]. university was a week-long holiday broken by sundays spent training for the forces. we would actually get up at 5 am to go tramping and running and marching. fun times, they were!

it was during these sunday morning excesses that we stumbled upon the idea of "sunday breakfast". our group of eager lads willing to commit all for flag and country was also a very hungry group and the 10 am break led to a storming of the nearest restaurant - a simple, 5-table south indian food outlet whose owner trembled at the sight of 30 menacing looking lads thumping up and demanding victuals.

our sunday morning experiences were considerably improved when we set foot in la belle paris. although it took us a while to get used to the laughable concept of "continental breakfasts" - two croissants and coffee - we found the idea growing on us and in our wish to emulate the natives we plunged wholeheartedly into this habit. losing about 20 pounds in gross tonnage in the process.

our forays in the wilds of africa led us to discover a little-known fact - sunday mornings, being the sabbath, tend to be busy. we discovered the "sunday lunch" - heavier cousin of the breakfast - here and we put back the 20 pounds and more over a period of three years. some of those sunday lunches especially when bivouacking in the far north of nigeria remain green in our memory to this day!

back in the native we honed our skills at the sunday morning omelette - a process where finesse, urgency and imagination brought forth a plump, steaming piece of goodness if we may say so ourselves. this skill has been maintained over the years and there is nothing better than an omelette with a plateful of toast and tea, we can assure you!

we also added a layer to the sunday morning experiences while in calcutta. the "puri-aloo-cha" combo of the stall outside the faded but memorable mona lisa guest house was our go-to in those pleasant days. and of course being in calcutta, this was followed two hours later by the famous sunday-lunch-in-calcutta consisting of fish curry and rice with some vegeterian elements trying to elbow their way in. extremely burp-worthy sundays they were.

now that we are in a heathen desert, fridays are the new sunday. the habits continue. but the charm of a "sunday" tend to be diminished when one is working. because sunday is a normal working day. and therein lies the rub.