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