Rainy rainy day. Everywhere in India I have been, when it rains the electricity goes out. It doesn't usually go out for very long (though sometimes it does), but nevertheless it goes out. This is not usually very much of an inconvenience (though sometimes it is), but I always wonder about it. I assume it has been raining in India for as long as they have had electricity -- why have the two forces not reconciled?
Anyway, my real interest is, as usual, food. Since coming to Cuttack I have been eating at least one meal per day at the Bombay Hotel, a short walk from my guest house. I think this restaurant was suggested to me mainly because it is the nearest one to have air conditioning, but I'm not sure. The restaurant itself is part of a hotel in the usual English sense (sometimes "hotel" in India just means restaurant), and I've heard that the American who was staying in my room immediately before me lives there now, although surprisingly I've never seen her (she may be gone now, or I've misunderstood the chronology). The restaurant has a regular menu card which the manager showed me once, but I think it is not really in use (or perhaps is only used for room service). The "real" menu is written on a small, backlit board on the wall:
MEAL 70
CURD 8
SWEETDISH 10
This menu has not changed since I've been here, and I can't think of any reason it would change. I always get the meal. You pay first, outside the restaurant, which seems odd to me (and sometimes confuses newcomers), and the cashier hands you a brass (or somesuch metal) token. After you've entered and found a seat you give this token to one of the workers inside who then supplies you with a round metal tray (thali) with three small metal bowls on it. Then one by one a series of waiters come to serve you. By my count there are at least six waiters, each with a different job, or combination of jobs. They are coordinated by a manager, a friendly and polite but somewhat severe older, gravel-voiced fellow who keeps a watchful eye on the food quantities on his customers plates (lest they become too low). One server brings you a metal cup of water -- I never drink this, as they must know (many places filter their water now so it may be fine, but I don't yet feel like taking the chance), yet I cannot convince them to not bring it. Another waiter comes bearing a contraption consisting of four, small metal pots, each containing a different food: a vegetable dish, a potato curry, a lentil curry, and peppers in some sort of powder (not sure yet what this is). Yet another waiter brings a pot of dal. (The two curries and the dal go in your three small bowls.) Someone else will give you a small dollop of chutney, another a spoonful of pickle (achar). One waiter places one or two small chunks of onion on your plate, along with a pepper, a piece of lemon, and a spoonful of salt. Someone else brings a couple of roti. Often, for some reason, you have to request rice, but they'll eventually bring it. The rice guy also brings papad.
If you haven't already, you may now begin to eat. Most of the food is self-explanatory. The lemon, however, is squeezed onto the pile of salt; the pepper is broken into smaller pieces and soaked in this mixture; the onion pieces are then dipped into this and eaten. One may periodically stick one's finger into the pepper power and lick this clean, although I am not yet comfortable being this intimate with my food (or rather with my finger), at least in public.
The servers will, unless you are very firm, continue to refill your plate until you explode or expire. Sometimes I think I have accidentally eaten the equivalent of three meals at one sitting, and sometimes done this twice in one day. (Actually, under this system, I really only need to eat once per day.) In my mind I refer to their "meal" as the Gutbuster Special. The food -- "pure veg," as they say -- is quite delicious. It has also not changed since I have arrived (perhaps the vegetable dish was switched once or twice). I'm curious to see whether I will eat this meal every day for six months.
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