The host ushered us inside with extravagantly mysterious gestures, as if we were entering a gypsy caravan to have our fortunes revealed by some wrinkled sage, rather than being seated for an early evening meal at an Indian restaurant we'd been told was "good."
Above the table hung a picture of a prancing, ruby-eyed elephant dressed in the sort of sequined body armor that Cher usually wears to the Oscars.
"I always get the same thing." I said, "Vegetable samosa, lamb saag, garlic nan bread, mango juice and a kingfisher beer."
Two somber waiters hovered silently over us like grim mourners anticipating throwing their handful of earth into a grave. One slid a saucer of chutney between my companion and I; the other followed suit with a plate of papadums.
I know next to nothing about the conventions of Indian cuisine. In fact, I always worry that my order is comparable to someone entering an American restaurant in New Delhi and demanding a plate oysters covered in ketchup, two boiled eggs in mint sauce, and a glass of chocolate milk with a stick of celery in it.
After deciphering our food requests the waiters scurried back to the steamy kitchen, an environment they apparently found more congenial, since they suddenly burst into life there, laughing and shouting and singing amongst themselves. When they returned to the dining room, however, tight-lipped and slump-shouldered, you could have been forgiven for thinking that the Taj Mahal had just collapsed.
At the end of dinner, when standing to leave, I hit my head against a clay tandoor suspended from the ceiling.
