September 19th/20th, 2010
Or : How Far Would You Go For a Free Lunch.
Plan B consisted chiefly just of finding a caterer and an alternative patch of beach to host the dinner gig at, but you have to understand we grew up coddled with Officers' Mess ka Khana. We like our chicken curried sweet and our spices mild and though every once in a while we might let go of our concerns for our tums and partake of the odd fiery red kokani sungtachi chatni, we steer clear of a goemkar style balchao like a cat avoids water. So if it was going to be Goan food at the wedding, we needed proof. Preferably of the pudding kind.
In a normal world, a caterer would've arranged the tasting at his kitchen or an office or some such inconsequential place. But normal is a subjective term. Our caterer, the effusive Mr Pinto, suggested we attend a silver wedding anniversary he was catering for that evening.
Repeated affirmations from yours truly that the location of Club Harmonia (Harmonica? Harmony? Harmonium?), where the wedding was to take place, had been noticed and duly noted the last time we’d passed it by on our now commonplace trips to Margao were met with skepticism by the flesh and blood. Perhaps the fact that I called it a different name each time I spoke of it didn't inspire a great deal of trust.
So there we were, standing outside Club H, half an hour before time, wearing the most ridiculous clothes one could ever expect to pass off at a wedding. Phonecalls to the caterer proved useless and I proposed we walk around to while time away. But in a neighbourhood where everyone except for our late night wedding revelers seemed to be tucked safely in bed at the stroke of nine thirty, this was easier said than done. I’m not sure if it was owing to it being the second of October or to the wedding party being related to the Goan Mafia, but there were black clad security guards as far as the eye could see. It took us a whole of ten minutes of skulking down the dank alleyways surrounding Club H to convince us that for all we knew, Mr P, our caterer, might just be conducive to us making our grand entrance in the middle of the wedding speech.
So in we sallied, to what fate held in store for us. Or, if I were to stick to the truth, in sallied papa, while mum and I decided to wait in the wings and let him recce the place and find us the elusive mister Pinto.
He returned in about ten minutes and we did the whole sallying bit again, buoyant this time, knowing that we must now have been invited in.
So we reach the empty dance floor, where two mildly suspicious singers peer at our salwar kameez clad, flip-flop shod selves from behind their microphones. Turns out papa hadn’t found the caterer at all. He had just thought we were probably getting bored standing outdoors.
The mortification! If ever I've wished for the earth to have opened up and swallowed me whole, the time spent huddled in the middle of the dance floor while the wedding party waded in is a sure qualifier.
That was when we finally saw the waiters! We leapt almost in unison and pounced upon the first man with a tray headed in our direction. I don’t think we could actually have said ‘Take us to your leader’, but for the world of me, that’s what I remember saying to him word for word.
And thus, we made our mangled way to the man who is to cater the food for our wedding.
Or : How Far Would You Go For a Free Lunch.
Plan B consisted chiefly just of finding a caterer and an alternative patch of beach to host the dinner gig at, but you have to understand we grew up coddled with Officers' Mess ka Khana. We like our chicken curried sweet and our spices mild and though every once in a while we might let go of our concerns for our tums and partake of the odd fiery red kokani sungtachi chatni, we steer clear of a goemkar style balchao like a cat avoids water. So if it was going to be Goan food at the wedding, we needed proof. Preferably of the pudding kind.
In a normal world, a caterer would've arranged the tasting at his kitchen or an office or some such inconsequential place. But normal is a subjective term. Our caterer, the effusive Mr Pinto, suggested we attend a silver wedding anniversary he was catering for that evening.
Repeated affirmations from yours truly that the location of Club Harmonia (Harmonica? Harmony? Harmonium?), where the wedding was to take place, had been noticed and duly noted the last time we’d passed it by on our now commonplace trips to Margao were met with skepticism by the flesh and blood. Perhaps the fact that I called it a different name each time I spoke of it didn't inspire a great deal of trust.
So there we were, standing outside Club H, half an hour before time, wearing the most ridiculous clothes one could ever expect to pass off at a wedding. Phonecalls to the caterer proved useless and I proposed we walk around to while time away. But in a neighbourhood where everyone except for our late night wedding revelers seemed to be tucked safely in bed at the stroke of nine thirty, this was easier said than done. I’m not sure if it was owing to it being the second of October or to the wedding party being related to the Goan Mafia, but there were black clad security guards as far as the eye could see. It took us a whole of ten minutes of skulking down the dank alleyways surrounding Club H to convince us that for all we knew, Mr P, our caterer, might just be conducive to us making our grand entrance in the middle of the wedding speech.
So in we sallied, to what fate held in store for us. Or, if I were to stick to the truth, in sallied papa, while mum and I decided to wait in the wings and let him recce the place and find us the elusive mister Pinto.
He returned in about ten minutes and we did the whole sallying bit again, buoyant this time, knowing that we must now have been invited in.
So we reach the empty dance floor, where two mildly suspicious singers peer at our salwar kameez clad, flip-flop shod selves from behind their microphones. Turns out papa hadn’t found the caterer at all. He had just thought we were probably getting bored standing outdoors.
The mortification! If ever I've wished for the earth to have opened up and swallowed me whole, the time spent huddled in the middle of the dance floor while the wedding party waded in is a sure qualifier.
That was when we finally saw the waiters! We leapt almost in unison and pounced upon the first man with a tray headed in our direction. I don’t think we could actually have said ‘Take us to your leader’, but for the world of me, that’s what I remember saying to him word for word.
And thus, we made our mangled way to the man who is to cater the food for our wedding.
