Cafe Good Luck. A truly Puneri breakfast.

At the confluence of Fergusson College Road, Karve Road and Bhandarkar Road lies an Iranian Cafe that almost defines Pune.
Established in 1935, as almost all of it's crockery will remind you, it stands as a proud symbol of the eccentricity that is Pune.
The ravages of time have played merry hell with the ethos of Good Luck as well, sadly enough. Today, having bowed down to the idiots who will insist on ruining a good thing when they see it, it serves sabudana khichadi and dosas and uttappas. But it still retains in itself the true blue essence of an Iranian Cafe. And till it does so, Pune will flock to it, come rain or shine.

Cafe Good Luck, ladies and gentlemen, is my favourite restaurant on the planet. And it will be for life.
I will talk of Good Luck when I talk of breakfasts in Pune. I will talk of Good Luck when I talk of dinner in Pune. I will talk of Good Luck when I talk of snacks in Pune. And I will talk of Good Luck when I talk about Pune, because Good Luck is an indelible part of my city.

But a post dedicated to the spirit of Good Luck I will write on the morrow. Today, I write about the breakfast at Good Luck. And what a breakfast it is.

Like all good Iranian cafes, this one opens at around six thirty in the morning. The entrance to the luncheon area is closed, and the chairs are hoisted upside down on the tables. The other entrance, though, is kept wide open and it is through this entrance that people stream in to partake of their morning meal.

On the right is the galla - the counter - behind which poses a kindly old gent with rather large spectacles which reside a little above a gallantly old beard. He'll peer at you over the upper rim of the spectacles as you walk in, and direct you with a kindly smile towards an empty table.

In front of him lies a small ice-cream counter, over which you can look out onto the traffic. In the old days, there would be a small wick over it, guarded by a small glass cup; at the side of which would be long slender pieces of paper. Smokers could light up using these, and I have, as a child, lit many of these papers... to watch them curl up slowly in smoke.
Over this counter and to the left is a rather large, rather old clock - still running, and further left lies a freshly garlanded picture of Kasam Sheth - the man!, make no mistake.

You'll walk towards the table that you were directed to, past a small glass display of pastries and cream rolls on your left, and a small shelf with a toaster, many loaves of bread, and two small bowls of butter and jam. On your table will be a glass top, under which will lie two menus, one for either side of the table. If you were me (and at Good Luck, that's no bad thing to be) you'd choose the Cheese Masala Omelet, with buttered toast.

While you wait for the victuals to arrive, have a look around. Old, chipped mirrors are on either side of the long cavernous room, with old gilt edged wood above and below it. At the far end of the room, and a little above the mirror lies a large scale replica of the menu. On the side that looks out onto the street, the mirrors are interspersed with windows that stretch for a good three feet. Nowadays, the cacophony of the traffic surrounds you even at eight in the morning.

Regular patrons sit at the ramshackle tables with papers spread out in front of them, steaming cups of tea at their side. Smokers will light up and puff contentedly, perusing the local news, sipping their chai, and talking to their neighbours in unhurried fashion. And at that early hour, the room is suffused with the gentle sunlight of a hazy Pune morning. Pune.

And then the breakfast will arrive. A steel plate with a wonderfully roughly made omelet, with the seductive aroma of cheese. Toast with enough butter to clog up all your arteries twice over and a bottle of ketchup.
Bon appetit.

Having dealt with the first dish, you consider your options for the second. Novices would go for the bun omelet, but that's being repetitive. Traitors to the cause would go for one of the South Indian dishes on the menu, and shucks to you if you're one of those. A man who knows what he is doing will call for Baked Beans on Toast - and this reminds me, one must do a post on Deccan Queen as well, no?

And it is after this second coming of the breakfast that Good Luck enters a league of it's own. As you sit back in your chair, moving around a contemplative piece of toast that has gotten enmeshed in your molars, you spot the red shirted waiter coming towards you. A slight smile on his visage is met with an answering grin on yours.

And a short while later, on your table will lie a steaming cup of chai (rumour has it, the unique taste is because of a couple of egg shells boiled along with the water) and a plate containing that most Iranian of culinary preparations. A light, fluffy freshly made bun, cut in half, and lathered... smothered, really... with butter.

Bun Maska, ladies and gentlemen. Reverential breath on cue, please.

Repast done, with maybe a second cup of tea to round off things, one gets up to do that which earns one his daily bread.
But in all of Pune, and as far as I'm concerned, in all of the world, there is no better bread to be had.

Rock on, old friend, rock on.