A short walk away, strangely with several Indian restaurants along the same shortcut route, I found a new Indian restaurant. Short (that’s a lot of shorts) cafeteria-style tables, a little bit of boho-chic amidst classic modernism in the decor, another single diner seemingly enjoying being there, great reviews in the window: why not give it a try?
It started well. Yes, I could sit for as long as I liked; it was open all day. And, yes, anywhere I liked; they didn’t expect to be that busy at that time of day. Poppadoms (I can never resist) and a beer arrived immediately. It’s looking good, I thought, as I opened the Independent magazine at the best bit … Mark Hix’s food column, my handbag safely tucked away from the door and out of view.
Huh! My heart leapt. My breathing stopped. Out of nowhere, plonk. A heavy menu was shove-pushed onto my paper; no introduction, no warning, no subtlety. I looked up; a girl (she was surely only a teenager) stared harshly at me but said nothing. I shook my head in astonishment. “You shocked me,” I said. “Sahry,” she said in an American drawl. Surely she could have put it slightly ahead of me with a gentle “Here’s the menu”? Did no one tell her unobtrusive service is the way to go?
The owner/manager (her boss, whatever his title) took my order. Polite, willing, a smile, an explanation. That’s more like it. I read. Suddenly, a yard away, the teenager started singing – and dancing. Uninhibitedly. A strange, unrecognisable noise; nothing to do with the restaurant, just an attempt to grab attention. What made her think listening to her – when live music was not part of the deal – was my idea of Indian-food heaven? I’m sure I looked bewildered but it had no effect. Thankfully, her exhibitionism was short-lived.
My lunch arrived. If that implies a degree of subtlety, you’re wrong. The show-off pushed it under my nose, her hands hovering above the magazine, and waited for me to move it out of the way. I looked at her quizzically, stunned into silence by her brazenness. She didn’t catch the twist in my eye or my astonished expression. “You’re lunch,” she said.
It was utterly delicious. Faultless. Richly spiced and warming; an unctuous delight. All of it, gone. (That’s the worst bit of the meal – when there is no more to be eaten.) The owner/manager re-appeared. How was the food? Excellent, thank you. I wish I’d known about you before. We’ve been open six days, he said.
I’m not one for puds, though a mango kulfi can slip down nicely – but not today. Another beer would do it. And then perhaps another (I still had hours to kill till the theatre and didn’t need to merge with shoppers in Piccadilly Circus). I read.
Swoosh. Plonk. She’d done it again! With barely a third of the beer drunk, here was the bill. Pushed in front me between my eyes and the pages of the magazine. What! It was instinctive, rushed out, the result of yet another shock. But I’m still drinking (and may carry on doing so, I thought). Has no one thought of training this wild child? I looked at her grimly, pointedly moved the bill off the magazine and on to the opposite end of the table, and carried on sitting, sipping and sojourning. The owner/manager re-emerged. May I stay for a bit longer, I asked. Of course, he beamed. We do not close. And, in any case, more customers had come in and were just starting to order.
That’s for you, I said pointedly, handing him the tip as I left. I turned towards the door … and the gyrating and squawking started again. Who gave this odd girl the confidence to think that diners would want to experience her need to be the centre of attention? I resolved to ring to suggest a spot of staff training (but didn’t).
