...so all my wishes will come true.
Tonight is Diwali night, as I sit perched on the terrace of the Goldfinch Hotel Bangalore. Around me are fireworks shooting all through the night sky, punctuated bursts of warmth and vivacity. It is chilly, but no matter...an aperitif will fix that for now...
One beautiful drink of mint, vodka tonic, brown sugar and lemon later, I am basking in the view with no self-consciousness at being single. True, none of my friends could join, and my boyfriend is back in the U.S., but alone with God and my own sense of enjoyment is good.
The dinner is not a la carte--it is full-on kababs and buffet, so I prepare to be buffeted. The attentive wait staff, as I, being the early American, am their first customer, remove a board in the middle of my table and set in a hot coal grill to warm my kebabs (that is literal, not figurative!) On comes the meat, and hordes of it, which I have no objection to, having eaten like a rabbit during the preceding day's meals. I eat shrimp, tandoori chicken, mutton, then the veg kabobs of grilled mushrooms, then mustard cauliflower and spicy potato patties, all dipped in a cooling green cilantro sauce.
An Indian trio joins the table behind me, and as they sit the wait staff begin piping in that nasally famous Indian female vocal music; this time, they are singing "Ring Around the Rosies" in nasal tones while the fireworks poof and the conversation burbles around me. Suddenly...Whoof--BOOM!!--a firecracker explodes in a huge epiphany right over our heads! My table is right by the terrace edge, so I instinctively recoil and back my chair up into the table of the trio behind me, smiling and exclaiming. This is only the start--a whole barrage of flaming crackers burst at random intervals right over our heads, just feet from where we are sitting!--I keep scraping my chair back and back, till finally I have backed myself into a ficus tree, napkin in lap and fork in hand with the remains of my tandoori chicken still globuled to it. It is awesome, in the truest sense of the word--you know those huge starburst firecrackers that cover the entire night sky? Well, imagine that over, above and around you, praying that no stray pieces singe your hair or re-light your kababs! The wait staff, who stand watching, gesture me to pull back to my table and eat my meat. I give the universal head shake sign of "Ungh-ugh!" and am backed by the Indian lady next to me, who exclaims that it is not safe. I ask to sit at a table further back so that the rest of my meal might be a little less sensational.
Following, a classic Frenchman in button down, slacks and curling grey hair enters, heralding his requests on behalf of his wife and young son, who cannot handle "spaisy food." His wife and son enter inconsequentially, which he more than makes up for in pompous faux nonchalance. With an all-encompassing gathering of his hands he manages to snare the attention of five wait staff, procure white wine and kabobs, while his child properly ooh's and aaah's at the fireworks (which have since retreated to a safe distance).
I begin to feel happily relaxed after my first drink and the satiety of meat, which I only eat a few times a week in the school cafeteria, having no impetus or time to cook raw flesh for just myself amidst school planning in the evenings. I mosy forward to sample the buffet, surprised by the dizzy sensation of a bit of libations. I remember, tuck your stomach and move from your core--this helps me gain my sea legs again. I disdain the traditional glut of good but saucy Indian curries, rice and salad dishes in favor of a crispy onion-flavored cracker shaped like a funnel, which is oh, so delicious. I properly give myself some breathing room, then make for the desserts.
The Indians like their colors bright and their desserts decorative. The dessert table is too, too cute, with fresh fruit, then mini caramel custard squares topped with kiwi slices, followed by chocolate mousse with white chocolate freestyle decorations, and finally a whole ice cream bar with chocolate, vanilla and butterscotch ice cream. The manager himself, a dapper man with a large cheek mole, sidles over and asks me if I want butterscotch bits topping my ice cream; he proceeds to ladle them on himself, following up with a generous dose of chocolate chips, which I assure him I like. Tucking in my stomach to re-steady my legs, I nonchalantly balance my dessert tray and two scoops of ice cream back to my table like I do this every evening.
I have been craving a good champagne or white wine, though only the wine is by the glass, so I order a chilled dessert wine with a flowery bouquet. It is not too sweet, slightly crisp and acidic, though it could be closer to room temperature. Then, everything slows down... in the distance the fireworks continue their graceful bursts in turn, with the occasional close-up explosion lit by the couple down the street. A bit of something like semi-sweet potato followed by butterscotch, a sip of wine, repeat...let the colors imprint themselves inside my head. Crackle like the sizzle on a hot grill, strings of poppers fill the air with smoke...I delicately cover my nose like a proper Indian woman. Contrary to my guarded custom, I smile indulgently at the all-male wait staff (is that intentional hiring practice?), and assure them that the dinner has been lovely...
A live trio has taken up residence in the kabab studio's interior, with keyboard, hand drums and vocals. The sound system is awfully sweet, as the singer is sitting slightly hunched over and still able to carry a melismatic tune while smiling at me as I await my final bill...
Back in the comforting sameness of my room the staccato sound of poppers continues to tattoo the air with unceasing punctuality. I smile, comforted by good food, libations and the knowledge that, if I'd wished it, tonight I could have gained the whole world...
