A Matter of Taste

Bangalore must be one of the prettiest cities in India. People say Chandigarh is not to be sneezed at, but I haven't been there yet, so I'll reserve judgment. Plus, of course, pretty is not on my top ten list of appropriate adjectives when you're talking about a city full of hale and hearty Punju's.

But Bangalore, as I was saying, is very pretty indeed. It's interspersed with gardens every now and then, it is full of little lanes and streets that are relatively empty – at least in the afternoons – and the weather is pleasantly balmy for most of the year. The people are, for the most part, easy going and friendly; save for the rickshaw drivers, but then, you can say that for every city in India, now can't you?

There's a wide variety of restaurants all over the city, serving various kinds of cuisines, ranging from the plebeian to the exotic, and from the cheap to the you're-kidding-me-you-sick-freak! But it is a wonderful city, without a doubt.

And one of the principal reasons it is so very nice is the fact that there's a pub at practically every corner. Especially around MG Road. One cannot help but bump into a pub every five minutes. And having bumped into one, it is merely an act of civility to drop in and spend a pleasant hour or so.

People have passed their weekends by doing nothing other than bumping into one pub after the other for years together. It has become an integral part of the culture around here, so prevalent is the practice, and so numerous the pubs.

Among all these noteworthy watering holes, though, is one that I'm rather predisposed towards. It lies on Rest House Road, which comes on your right if you start walking down Brigade Road from the MG Road side. The second right, in fact. It is a little non-descript kind of place, at least from the outside. In fact, it is very easy to miss it if you haven't got your eyes wide open.

Pecos, of course. The regulars on the blog would have known this from practically the beginning of this essay, for Kulkarni can't help but drool about Pecos if he talks about Bangalore. The two are practically symbiotic, especially for the undersigned.

Forgive me while I wax lyrical about the place a little more. Small, dark and dingy it may be, but I'll wager that there isn't a friendlier place in all of Namma Bengalooru. Not if you searched for it. As I have mentioned many times before, the people are friendly, the waiters are pally, the music is nothing short of perfect and the food is out of this world.

But best of all, of course, is the beer. There are people in the world who would claim that it is watered down, and there are people in this world who will compare it to substances that we shall refrain from mentioning. But their arguments are not worth horse-piss, let me assure you. For the beer in Pecos is perfect. It may be a little mild, I grant you that, but it is good wholesome beer. It can be sipped ruminatively, it can be consumed by the barrel, and it can be downed in a go.

I have done all of that, and much more, for many a weekend in the recent past. Before marriage, in fact, it was more or less a given that Kulkarni and biraadars would be raising holy hell in their corner on the ground floor at Pecos. Pitcher after pitcher would be consumed in the riotous course of a Saturday afternoon. Happy times.

To the point however, for one must not dawdle for too long. People who know me well will admit to this readily. I'm not a man given to boasting. Modest Kulkarni, some of my best friends call me. And deservedly so, I might add. Anyways, as I was saying – I'm not inclined to blow my own trumpet, but even so, I must state this – there is nobody among my friends who can chug a mug of beer faster than I. None, bar none.

Plenty have tried, of course, the poor sods. And there is one who chugged an entire pitcher – a feat I myself have failed in. That is a tale by itself though, and remind me about it one day, for I must narrate it in full. For now, it is enough to say that he puked it all out immediately – and they still talk about that puke in those parts. With a mixture of awe and dismay.

Still, as I was saying. Nobody who can chug better than I. Plenty of Saturday evenings have seen me there in Pecos, mug in hand and strutting away, asking all and sundry to try and beat me at my game. And after I have chugged enough, I reach home. How and when are vague details that I do not bother with too much, but that is beside the point. As is the inevitable hangover. The point is, I like beer, and I like it chugged. The faster, the better.

Not for me the fine wines poured lovingly out of dark, long-necked bottles, into fine, long, stemmed glasses. I can't hold the glass in the palm of my hands, so as to warm the wine just a little (this releases the aromas, apparently). I can't sniff the fruity bouquet, and I can't sniff delicately and appreciatively. Not for me the first gentle sip, and the roll around the tongue. I can't imagine myself, eyes closed in ecstasy, savouring the tannin and the other myriad flavours. I couldn't tell you about the acidity of the wine in a million years. All I know is, the red is a little bitter, the white is not bad. And that the port wine in Goa is really, really cheap.

My idea of drinking is to hold the mug firmly, clink with opponent's mug, and chug. I win, everybody claps, I sway and sit back on seat heavily. Not the connoisseur, I.

The point?

My tastes in cricket are diametrically opposite.