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...