Evolution

Darwin talked about evolution and all, but I figure he got only half the story.
Men may, I accept, have evolved from apes, and the accusation has rightly been leveled about some not bothering to evolve, but I do maintain that this theory applies to men alone.
Women, they probably landed here a couple of millennia back from some far flung galaxy. They’re not the same, people, I’m telling you.
And I’ll prove it too.
Most of us, at least once in our lives (to appear intellectual and all… probably to impress that special someone) have sat in front of the telly and pretended to be interested in Nat Geo or Discovery. And if in that space of time, you’ve caught a documentary on the apes of Africa, you’ll see what I mean.
Those are the guys who’re supposed to be Windows 95, right? With we being Windows XP and all? That’s how it is supposed to have progressed (if I’ve got the right word here), no?
Haan, so now watch that program carefully. The group of monkeys wakes up in the morning, kills time by staring at each other, scratching their butts, monkeying around, until they get around to the business of the day. Gathering food. They’ll play pranks on each other, forage for food, jump on trees, scamper across the terrain, and generally raise Cain. Every now and then, Nat Geo sheds it inhibitions to show some male finally gathering the courage to go up to a female, and they go a-humping all over the scene.
Small note to guys: And in that sense, you see what I mean about whether we’ve really progressed? No first date, no coffee, no expensive meals in fancy restaurants that cost fifty million bombs. Quite literally wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am stuff, this.
Now comes the crucial part. Having done with the business of the day, which includes tending to the young, eating some grub, getting it off with some chick, they settle down for a wonderful deep slumber. All of them, in unison. No one to dispute the issue.
Now here comes the crux of my argument. Guys, see, guys do all of the above. They’ll get up, scratch their butts, forage for food, play pranks, monkey around, and come afternoon time, they’ll fall asleep.
Ladies and gentlemen, and the emphasis is on gentlemen here, have you ever known the fairer sex to sleep when you want to sleep?
No siree!
Just when you’ve finished grub on a lazy Sunday afternoon, drawn the curtains, put on some music, switched on the fan and drawn the quilt, they’ll come up with the kind of sentence that would have struck fear in the most hardened of men.
“Oh hooooney”, she’ll croon, all lemon and honey voiced, “Did you notice? There’s this woooonderful sale on at [substitute that shop in town which happens to be fartherest from where you are, along with it being crowded, expensive, pretentious… and it probably doesn’t serve beer]. Don’t you think we should be going?”
You see, guys?
I’m telling you, that’s how it panned out.
We guys were apes all along, muddling along happily. And the only reason we don’t quite look like apes now is because women have been insisting we scrub ourselves with soaps and shampoos and other ghastly instruments of torture for the last two thousand years.
I’m telling you, life suddenly becomes a lot clearer in light of this advanced theory of evolution.
Men are apes, women are aliens. Sort of like Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus, but far more correct.
More on this later. It’s ten in the morning on Sunday (note Sunday), and I have to go for breakfast to some place nearby.
“Why”, do I hear you ask?
You must be a very sarcastic alien.

Tapri Time

Have you ever had Chinese food?
No, no... not that Chinese food. I mean the real thing... the tapri Chinese.
See, there's Chinese food like the way it's made in China. But they don't really know how to go about it. It's light, it's not very spicy, and horror of horrors, they don't know what American Chopsuey is. Neither do the Americans; we Indians killed two birds with one culinary stone, as it were, but we'll leave that for another day.
Real Chinese food, the way the Good Lord meant it to be, can be had on most Indian roads. So long as you are in a fairly major city in India, hop onto a bike, and drive along. Within a couple of kilometres you shall see a red, run down thela gaadi (you don't know what a thela gaadi is? Hmm. Come to India sometime. You're already in India? Hmmm. He he.), manned by a large enthusiastic guy who'll be screaming orders at small enthusiastic guys. That, people, is where Chinese food is served.
The process of making the food is more or less the same, no matter what dish you order.
Heat large wok, throw in water, clean with broom (yes, broom), heat it again, throw in oil, vegetables, spices, stir fry, add water as required if soup, add other requisite ingredients otherwise, add red coloring agent if Schezwan, more soya if Manchurian, neither if Hakka. Serve hot.
All who turned up noses may now click the cross at upper right corner of screen, thank you very much.
It doesn't matter if you're a working professional new to the city, or have been a native to the city for any number of years. It doesn't matter if you're there with a group of friends or to dine alone. It doesn't matter if you land up for a bowl of soup only, or are there to wolf down a three course meal. It'll fit all budgets, and fill all kinds of tummies with unpretentious, honest to God, spicy, scintillating stuff.
All of us have our own personal favorites, do we not, fellow taprians?
Be it the Spring Rolls, or the Hot and Sour Chicken, or the Chicken 65 (and yeah, what on EARTH does that mean? Does anybody know?), or the Triple Schezwan, or the Manchurian gravy. H2O in the mouth and all, no?
India's come to assimilate all kinds of cultures, cuisines and religions within herself, but tapri Chinese must count as one of her bigger victories.
I don't know if the following tale is apocryphal or otherwise, but it is what prompted this blog.
A friend's uncle, while on a business visit to China, had a couple too many in the evening. And then walked into the restaurant attached to the hotel.
Disdainfully waving away the menu card that was politely proffered to him, he asked the waiter to get him a plate of American Chopsuey.
The waiter, clearly at a loss, asked our man to repeat the order, which he did, rather testily.
After a hurried confrontation with the head honcho, the waiter returns to tell Uncle that "Umm, er, sorry sir, we don't serve that dish."
Deep, meaningful silence. Thoughtful rubbing of moustache. Thoughtful contemplation of bemused waiter.
The coup de grace, delivered Indian ishtyle:
"Isn't this a Chinese restaurant?"
Globalization can have it's lighter moments, no?

Coming up next: Mal Tup and all that...

Beer!

Discerning readers might have observed, if they happen to be unusually observant, that I like beer. I mean, it’s not as if I’m addicted or anything, and no one who knows me will claim I have a beer belly, but I do like the occasional glass of ale, thank you very much.
Advanced and dedicated sociological research, usually carried out in the late evenings, has shown that the pleasure to be obtained from downing glass after glass of beer is considerably heightened if the right accompaniments are around.
These include but are not necessarily limited to absence of irritating female company (Irritating Female: “Oh Rahul! MUST you burp after drinking that beer? And why do you drink so much beer anyways?!”
Irritated Male: “Sorry”
Irritated Male to Himself: “Yes, you crazy itch with a capital B, I MUST burp after drinking beer, because that’s what beer’s all about. And I drink so much beer because it keeps me from murdering you right away. And if I drink enough, oh joy, maybe I will.”
You know what I mean?)
, extremely loud music
(Long haired guy with an equally long beard, pierced eyebrows, nose, tongue, lips and God alone knows what else yelling the choicest abuses in Afrikaans while Clones 1 through 5 do the same thing while banging on fantastically loud instruments. Honestly, that’s what I think most metal rock is.)
, and warm beer
(And if the Brits like it thataway, they’re missing out on something. There’s nothing in the world that is quite as beautiful as a cold, perfectly chilled bottle of beer that has little droplets of water running down the side. And then you pop it open, and the froth gently hisses it’s way out. And then you pour it into a frosted mug, watching that firm foam forming at the top, and those pretty little bubbles rising up to the… hang on, be right back)
Haan, so to revert to the topic at hand… not that it matters much now, but I’m of the opinion that blogs should have a point.
And the point here being, beer is drunk best when it is wonderfully chilled, with buddies for company, listening to the kind of music that is guitary, gruff and great. Classic rock, if I must spell it out.
And where does one find all of this under one roof?
It’s located on Brigade Road, and ladies and gentlemen, it’s every bit as good as they said it would be.
Pecos happens to be the new love in my life.
They have three floors given over to the sole and express purpose of serving beer.
What genius, no?
There’s comfortable seating, there’s friendly waiters who grin in perfect empathy when you ask for your tenth pitcher of beer, there’s the most fantastic beef chilly that can be had as an accompaniment, and they give you a free packet of popcorn with every pitcher.
What genius, no?
And behind the bar, on the ground floor, resides a wonderfully complete collection of the kind of music that beer demands. They have classic bands from the ages, and they actually have jazz! They have Kiran, who must be the friendliest bartender in all of Bangalore, and from what I’ve seen so far, that takes some doing.
What genius, no?
Oh, and the posters! They have an entire collection, and to get the picture in it’s entirety, you must troop over to the place. But there’s one that must find mention here. It goes “Cheers to the guys from whom Michael should learn to rock”
Amen.
I’ve spent the last two weekends in a happy haze out there, and people, you know where to find me this time around too.
I know it’s reading like Pecos paid me to do this, but you’re getting it all wrong.
I’d do it for free as well.
Currently not listening to: MLTR