It was with a light step and an easy stomach that I skipped my way to Machaan on Saturday night. It was a birthday celebration. Of a two year old who had no idea of the amount of blessings being showered on her thanks to the sheer delight of the food on the table, and was only keen on getting into the most difficult corners from when retrieving her required skills worthy of St Bernard.
I had prepared for this. I had whetted by appetite by being on a near starvation diet for the entire day. I had worn pants with forgiving waist and extra lycra and an empire line top that flared out seductively at underbust level to let the stomach swell up with ingestion of food items without fear or shame. I had also, most importantly, not looked at my entire self in the mirror from top to bottom, before I left home, or I would have shuddered in disgust and nursed a lime juice through the evening, with sullen face, and dressed in sackcloth and ashes. Anyway. I digress. The main point of this post should be the food.
This was not a regular birthday party. This was out and out dinner. A seated dinner, a coursed meal, served by gracious waiters, who were all actually very enthusiastic about their mission in life to ensure that I emerge like the Empress of Blandings, after a feeding session at the trough. The starters commenced. I ate enough for that to qualify as an entire meal in itself. And some more. Kababs. Fish fried. Potatoes with delicious things done to them that made them substances from a culinary heaven. Paneer cooked in ovens and barbequed with green masala and incredible sauces. Chicken Lollipop, which the child was seen gnawing on from the start of the evening to the end. And some more. Which I forget. I will make a miserable food critic. I am too busy eating to pause for breath and ask interesting things like the names of the items I’m throwing down the gullet, or the ingredients that went into making them throwing down the gullet-able. Then came the main course. Infinite aromatic curries which one hastily made space on plate and in stomach for. Naans. Parathas. Biryani. Rice. And dessert. Kulfi. Jalebi with rabdi. And of course, cake. Which was the raison d’etre of the do. Do I need to say, I almost dropped into a dazed stupor at the table itself. That I needed a trolley to wheel my stomach out of the restaurant. That I actually, truly, cross my heart and swear to die needed physical assistance to get up and out of my chair. That my knees were grumbling irritably about the added weight without warning and threatened to give in their notice. And that I slept such a deep happy sleep, the likes of which I havent sleep in a long long time.
And of course. I am not taking myself anywhere near a weighing machine until I have starved myself and walked them legs off for the next entire couple of weeks.