Long overdue from the Jottings series, which can only be a surefire giveaway of how absolutely totally and completely exciting my life has been in the past few months that I haven’t gone ANYWHERE worth doing a jottings on. Save, a movie theatre, and that I’ve done earlier. Let me mop my tears delicately with a napkin. Ah no, I need a bath towel for that, you say. Err, well. The other day, a lunch buffet was attended. I am, unfortunately, no longer the queen of buffets. My buffet attendance has fallen to few and far between. My life now comprises hurried lunches eaten at the desk while keying in articles with a single hand, and mopping up spillage onto the hapless keyboard. How the mighty have fallen.
Ergo. The buffet. Which as buffets go, was pretty extensive. For a place that got various skewered meats to the table, the amount of folk who actually were pottering around the buffet counter, lifting lids and peering into wafts of steam were suprisingly many.
Auntyji, please toss a coin and decide whether or not you want to take the rice/naan/kulcha/paratha/veg pulao. Dithering over what option to pile your plate with while I’m two centimeters away from reaching to the serving spoon can be hazardous to your health.
Bachcha party without adult supervision scurrying around, including the spawn of my own womb, I might just trip over you and inundate you with showers of gravy and rice. I think ropes and straitjackets are in order, and I mean that in the nicest way, given I include my own child in the category.
Lady with handspan waist and a smidgeon of food on your plate, food I need to peer at closely in order to determine whether the pristinity of the plate has been besmirched at all, kindly do not smirk into my plate while I adjust various cannot be ignored items on the periphery of the main items on the menu. In an Ice Age, I will survive.
Erm. I was standing here. About to reach for the serving spoon. You have broken the line. Do you not know what happens to people who break the line, they get sent to a hell of eternal waiting in line. And no, you don’t look like Mr Bachchan in a coolie uniform to give me that line about the line beginning where you stand, cease and desist cutting in.
Err, yes, its me again. Nice to keep bumping into you at the counter. But no, I’m not here to strike up polite conversation, even if it is the pehle aap, pehle aap Lucknawi tehzeeb version. Just serve yourself and get the hell out of the way.
It is a miracle how so many of us manage to navigate ourselves and our laden plates through the treacherous pathways of what constitute modern day restaurants where they have funny multiple step levels up and down which serve no purpose effectively but have you say, watch your step, when another person lurches forward with a shocked glazed expression and the contents of laden plate swerving dangerously.
And yes, I am taking a break between helpings. It helps settle the food. Allows me to get more in. I will probably need help to be hauled back to my feet, but what the hell, you only live once.