Sanjeev’s phone
GPS tells us that our restaurant is off to the left on a side road, but looking
around, I am starting to get suspicious.
The restaurant we are searching for is a pizza joint, quite terribly
named Big Slice – a place we’ve been
meaning to visit (since the day we got married) as a thanks to a friend of a
friend who, having never met us, agreed to be a witness at our marriage. Six months ago I remember the guy swearing
that their wood fire pizza is made with authentic mozzarella cheese. At the time it was quite impressive since
pizza and its cheese in India tend to be awful.
The only pizza I trust in the country is Dominos, which quite amazingly, is able to remain true to
America’s “under 30 minutes guarantee” even in a shit-hole driving city like
Bangalore.
Our Tuesday
night out was a celebration for us having been married for 6 months. I was quite excited for a nice dinner instead
of our usual eat-outs at restaurants with questionable sanitary methods. Last week at the mall, we stood at the
counter of one of our frequented Indian restaurants in the food court and laughed
as we watched a cook quite thoroughly contaminate Sanjeev’s dosa with his bare
hands. But tonight, tonight was going to
be different. I was picturing the scene
of a high scale Bangalore restaurant – a low lit and nicely decorated place, no
mosquitoes, and a relaxed ambiance.
Maybe I would order a glass of wine.
It was all to be a very romantic anniversary evening. Tonight we were going to pay more than $3.00
for a meal, yes indeed.
In our borrowed
car, we wrestled our way through the thick evening traffic down a side road
that contained far too many speed bumps and potholes. I was shuffling through the roughly 2,000
songs in my IPod connected to the car’s stereo system, searching for a song I’m
not sick of. Tonight it’s damp and
chilly after having poured in the early afternoon and drizzled all
evening. The monsoons should have
receded by now, but apparently, like everything else in India, they will move
on from Karnataka when they are damned good and ready. The side road that wound through a haphazardly
developed colony has led us to some main road I’ve never seen before. It’s buzzing with people finishing their days
and returning home. Every empty space is
filled with stores large and small. Outside
the brightly lit department stores and despite the cool wet night, all the
small scale business people are out hoping to earn some money from the evening
crowd. Farmers sit out with their
produce under their makeshift tents with blue tarps held up by wooden poles, or
stand out in the open with a large wooden cart displaying the last of their
fresh foods. Flower wallas stand in their tiny metal stalls, varieties of flowers
displayed in metal cans. A pirated movie
merchant squats low on a plastic stool, his ripped off DVDs conveniently packed
in plastic sleeves complete with movie label print-outs, and piled up on a tiny
fold-up table. Chatt stall guys stand in the muddied edges of the road, handing
out little paper bowls full of pani puri
to customers who are willing to risk getting ill. It’s the kind of area that lacks Bangalore’s
cosmopolitan side and most definitely is not an area where you’d find an
upscale restaurant. Put simply, the food
options in this area are likely to give you a serious case of food poisoning,
parasites or both. (Granted, this area
is a thousand times better than the area we visited yesterday, where I counted far
more white hats than I care to admit to.)
We turn down the
road the GPS woman tells us to take, slowly driving down it, we peer out the
driver’s side window looking for our destination. I spot the unlit awning sporting the name of
the place, and see that it is attached to a restaurant the size of a
matchbox. Brightly lit with florescent
lights, its walls are white and quite grungy.
We drive past and I see that there are cheap wooden tables with plastic
chairs, and no door. The absence of a
door means a lot in India. Many
restaurants here operate with an open entrance, effectively exposing their
restaurant and food to the dirty, dusty, and polluted atmosphere outside. The absence of a door is in essence a red
flag which alerts me that sanitation is also most definitely absent. It’s the kind of spot where a dingy South Indian
restaurant would set up shop to sell poorly made food to the local workers who
can’t afford better. At this point, I am
ready to abort the entire dinner, even Sanjeev appears to be shocked that the
restaurant is not at all what we imagined.
But earlier in the day, Sanjeev had told our friend we were finally
making that visit, and we came all this way, so we have to try it.
We park in a no-parking
area that is deserted and make our way to the restaurant. I feel thankful I didn’t get really dressed
up, though the stares at my Eastern/Western outfit are evident. The guys working inside all seem shocked that
they have customers when we enter. It is
empty, and the three tables they have available are occupied only by
flies. We sit down and wait several
minutes before someone thinks to give us a menu, giving me time to observe my
surroundings. The walls are even
grubbier looking up close and the décor is objectionable. Two small square plaques with artistic
sketched images and quotes from Michael Jackson and Al Pacino are propped up in
the one big window. About ten dated, random
and totally unrelated black-and-white framed photos are hung on the wall I
face. I see Sanjeev staring at the wall
behind me with a puzzled look on his face.
I turn around to look at the wall I am seated backed up against, and I
realize it is decorated with bright red three-foot-long egg racks, complete
with about 5 dozen real eggs that have been emptied and glued to the vertical
racks. They are dusty, and look old,
gross, and just plain weird. Behind the
counter, and about ten feet away from us is the wood fire grill. It’s the only attractive thing in the place,
because it gives off a comforting smoky smell that reminds me of our wood stove
at home. Sanjeev stops a young waiter
walking by us, dressed up in typical North Eastern pop culture attire with
thick wavy hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed in days. Speaking in Hindi, he orders a margarita
pizza – just cheese, and we wait. I
distract my disappointment by using Sanju’s phone to search for Independence
Day deals on ethnic wear at one of my favorite online stores. Another server brings us plastic glasses full
of water, Sanjeev automatically sets them off to the side – neither of us will
touch unbottled water. The waiters
nervously drift from backroom to the main room; I never actually see the pizza
get put into the oven. In roughly twenty
minutes it is served to us, and surprisingly it is quite good, even superior to
other pizza I’ve had in India. The cheese
is scant, but that’s because it is in fact mozzarella, imported, and therefore
very expensive. Sanjeev wolfed down four
slices before I could finish two. It’s
no Salvatore’s of Long Island, and
the atmosphere is terrible, but the pizza is worth the trip. I finish the last of my slices and Sanjeev
calls for the bill. I am expecting it to
be outrageous, but the charge is only 180 Rupees, less that $4.00. They (not surprisingly) don’t accept cards, and
I am the only one with cash. The waiter
hesitates when I hand him over a 500 rupee note (less than $10.00) because they
don’t have change for it. We tell him it
is all I have, and he leaves the restaurant to get change from a local vendor. Upon his return we give him a tip and leave,
saying our thanks to the servers, each guy looking utterly relieved that we
liked the pizza.
Sanju says he’s not
sated so we agree that we will splurge even more and get dessert. We walk to the busy street, carelessly
stomping through the mud to avoid the steady stream of cars moving past
us. The amount of lights and bustle is
disorienting even in the dark. We see a
rather large Spencer’s food market,
and curious to seek out its contents, we decide to momentarily deviate from our
dessert plans. At the entrance, cardboard
boxes are laid out to reduce tracking in the mud. I find cranberry juice (elusive and expensive
in India), grab some fresh bread, and finally pick out that clothes iron I’ve
been waiting a year for. Sanjeev wanders
over to the tiny Daily Bread side
stall, famous across India for their high quality baked goods. He appears to
want to eat our dessert there, so we pick out small slice of cake from the
little windowed display. I pay 82 rupees
for it, and we stand at a wobbly table and eat.
It’s not delicious enough to want more of, but not tasteless enough to
stop eating. At the register, I get a
pack of a weird cotton candy kind of bubble gum and stuff the whole thing in my
mouth while we wait for the cashier to complete his fifteen-minute process to
check out our seven items.
Back out in the
chilly night air, and navigating the busy crowd, we walk to our car relaxed and
joking. As I blow big bubbles with my
tasty and way too big piece of bubble gum, I tell Sanju that I enjoyed tonight,
and I am just going to chalk it up as another interesting experience in India
where nothing is predictable. At least I
was right in my determination to spend more than our average $3.00 meal – we
spent $5.00.
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