So it was a colleague’s birthday, and after work, a group of us decided to head to a nearby watering hole, sit around a table and stuff our faces. Regular stuff. Nothing fancy. Down some moonshine, partake of some cheerful parley, cut a cake… What else was there to do?
Such trips are, I’ve learnt, a lesson in patience, debate, compromise, and eventually, making the most of the given situation.
It all started with a simple question, asked nonchalantly when the group assembled in a corner of the workplace, after the inbox had been cleaned out, desk lamps turned off, and workstations shutdown: “Where are we headed?”
It was a question that had to be asked, but one that opened Pandora’s box. For those four simple words strung along in an innocuous-sounding query, set the scene for a drama that only those chaps who sport long-flowing white beards and saffron robes can survive. I think this ability has largely to do with the diet of nuts and berries found along the remote slopes of the Himalayas that they dig into with gusto at the end of a long day spent day-dreaming of better times.
Returning to the Res Gestae: the question could only be answered by surmounting certain conditions. The first one we came across, was that the august premises in question be close enough to make it there before lights out – a vital criteria, considering the normal working day extends well into the night and past the witching hour. I mean, there is no point in pulling up at the door and being met with a stiff collared night watchman telling you that you could get a bite to eat if you don’t mind moseying on to the back door and fight off hordes of cats and dogs and rats and other of god’s blessed creatures, before putting your nose into one of the many black bags left there by the hard-working staff, containing items the sous-chef’s assistant’s assistant’s deputy himself couldn’t stomach, or the sommelier decided would lead to embarrassing and trying times, if presented to the bill-paying public. A quick survey found there were no less that twelve such establishments to choose from.
And as we dithered and bickered, trying to pick a common destination, the next factor reared its ugly head: The Economy.
One thing we all agreed upon, thank the lord, was that the management shouldn’t be too greedy. To put it succinctly, it must allow the mug that visits, the satisfaction of a full stomach, well-pickled gills and still leave enough in the pocket so he isn’t forced to turn to the blessed parent to make rent for the rest of the month. And here it was, that the next problem arose: one individual did not possess the funds required for a spot chosen by another. And establishments that fell within the budgetary abilities of a majority of the gang, were alas, frowned upon by some as dens that don’t deserve to be granted the honor of ushering in the next year in a blighter’s life.
As options were tossed back and forth, one thing led to another, and we found ourselves discussing something entirely different: Décor.
While some favored the shout-all-you-want, sit-where-you-will kind of place, others preferred to put on the nosebag in locales frequented by gentry sporting somber colors, accompanied by ladies with gowns screaming allegiance to stables set up by beings considered the salt & pepper of present-day fashion, all frowning upon a strand of hair that defies the clips and insists on hanging about doing its own thing, or a spine that decides that “upright” is not the most comfortable posture after all.
As we held palaver on the utopian setting of choice, the debate meandered into a new territory: Cuisine.
The menu dictated by the proprietor had to pamper the palate and digestive system of the entire assembly… well, a majority of the populace, at least. So shouts for Chinese were drowned out by people arguing that Agi-no-moto sent their innards into spasms, while some others alleged that the worm-like appearance of the noodles made for a fortnight of nightmares that eventually sent people off the prescribed diet. These people offered an alternative in the form of Italian cuisine – and in a not-so-nice way, were told off on grounds that the only difference between Spaghetti and Noodles was the spelling. Mexican dishes were too spicy, Indian food too mundane, American victuals like Burgers & Fries were too uninspiring, the Thais used too much sugar or coconut-oil, depending on the preparation, the Japs believed in under-cooking their fare… the objections would have made a hunger artist proud.
And the dialogue would have gone on, till some wise soul decided to glance at the watch adorning his wrist and saw fit to point out that the last hour-and-a-half spent on infighting and thought-up-on-the-spur-of-the-moment arguments blocking other constructive suggestions had made the whole agenda of the evening moot, as all the places under discussion had downed shutters, and the ants were setting about cleaning up the floors with renewed energy, in the absence of human intervention.
With that crisis looming large and rendering all other argument and thought irrelevant and immaterial, and empty stomachs raising their voice in disapproval, demanding immediate attention, we settled on a place that might still serve up something that might still make the evening salvageable. That is to say, one person threw out a name at random, three others agreed to the suggestion with a “Right-o!” and the rest of the group, for want of any better suggestion, fell in line.
So we trooped off to the joint, stood around for a table to be vacated and upon the subject of our wait becoming available, and suitably wiped of the victuals it had been fed by its prior occupants, slid in. We ordered. Or rather, we asked what was available at the late hour, agreed to the paltry 3 preparations the waiter rattled off (apparently, no one else had wanted them, and the kitchen staff had decided the raw materials for these had to be exhausted, and never purchased again), and made attempts to keep the spirits alive with aimless banter and forced humor.
All in all, a birthday celebration no one, especially the star of the evening, would forget in a hurry, despite repeated sessions of hypnosis and strong doses of doctor-prescribed morphine.
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