Tag: food

  • Breakfast at Josie’s

    Our son Siddharth came home on Saturday with girlfriend Megan. It was a belated Mother’s Day visit. Sunday also happened to be St Patrick’s day. This morning Sid decided we’re all going out for breakfast, for a Mother’s Day treat. We drove to our local Josie’s in Chandler’s Ford. The place was heaving and people were queuing up like young club goers on a Friday night. We were told there’s approximately an hour’s wait for a table. The next one was in Romsey which was also full. Sid then decided we should go to the one in Alresford, a twenty minutes drive away. By the time we reached, it was nearly noon time and travelling empty stomach in the backseat of a car driven by an impatient 24 year old, both my wife and I were beginning to feel a bit queasy. But at last we reached, parked up and walked in to Josie’s.

    “We are not yet officially open,” the host told us, “today is a soft launch for friends and family.” The phrase soft launch was new to me. But I wanted some food and the enhancement of my vocabulary did not stop my head from spinning. With envy, I eyed the friends and family tucking into stacks of pancakes with strawberries, eggs benedict and fresh orange juice. I couldn’t bear it and so moved back towards the road looking for another place to eat, expecting the rest of the family to follow. But they were still in deep discussion with the host. I went back in just as the host was leading them to a table. Apparently Sid had told him how he had come down from Bristol to see us – his parents, how today’s breakfast was a Mother’s Day treat and how we had driven twenty minutes to get here and so on. I don’t know where he got his tact and powers of persuasion from. Not from me! I take No for an answer much too readily.

    To just say the breakfast was delicious would be to undermine the other qualities that make a meal enjoyable. The atmosphere, the service and the general bonhomie were beyond excellent. We were repeatedly offered more hot drinks and made to feel at home. Just as we were congratulating each other on our lucky day to have gained access to an exclusive event, a lady came to our table and introduced herself.

    “Good morning, I am Josie,” she said.

    I wasn’t sure I had heard her right. A silent question raged through my mind. You mean you are THE Josie? The four of us looked at one another and instantly recognised that we were all asking the same silent question. The lady, dressed in green in honour of St Patrick’s day, certainly didn’t act the boss. She was jovial, friendly and one with her staff, serving food and chatting to customers.

    What she said next to us not only confirmed her proprietorship but also made our day.

    “Everything is on the house today. Please ask if you need anything.” Thank you Josie, for your generosity. You just got yourself four loyal customers. Thank you Siddharth, your Mother’s Day gift was very much appreciated by your mother (and father), thank you Sujata for being the primary reason for our adventure, thank you Megan for the affection you bestow on our son. And thank you St Patrick for blessing us with so much joy on your special day.

  • Pico de gallo

    They say half knowledge is dangerous. I say, not if it leads to a story. Last week I was in Campo de Gibraltar, a county of the province of Andalusia, Spain. I was there because my industry cannot accept I am retired, and neither can I. So, I take up occasional assignments and never miss an opportunity if it involves going to Spain. I have this misplaced self concept about being a semi fluent Spanish speaker! Nothing is further from the truth. But it is the self image – what you convince yourself about yourself – that matters. Secretly, I believe I could give Gabriel Garcia Márquez a run for his money, if only my grammar and vocabulary are improved.

    The Mexican restaurant where I had dinner one evening had a menu of some 50 dishes. Of these just two were suitable for vegetarians. A measly looking green leaf against each indicated they were meat-free. Appalling, this discrimination against vegetarians! But on the bright side, I had just two options to choose from and I went for the burrito.

    My order arrived just as I finished my beer. It was tasty but unlike a South Indian thali which has a multitude of mini dishes that one’s palate is constantly surprised with each bite, the burrito tastes the same beginning to middle to end. Bored with the monotony, I decided to brush up my Spanish.

    The description of the burrito in the menu began – ‘Con salteado de verduras y champiñones’ which I mentally translated to ‘With salted vegetables and mushrooms’. Wait. That can’t be right. Salted vegetables sounds so boring. My translation app quickly confirmed my suspicion – ‘salteado’ means sautéed and not salted. Confidence slightly shaken, I struggled along reading all of the ten items that made up the dish. I recognised some words like Guacamole and maiz while others had to be looked up. Then I stumbled on ‘pico de gallo’ which to my horror translates to ‘beak of rooster’! I was aghast. The green leaf on the menu was there in error or the Spaniards don’t understand the concept of vegetarianism. I felt like a pious Brahmin who was tricked into eating beef.

    Summoning the waitress, I protested in pidgin Spanish,

    “Me vegetarian. This burrito – it got chicken. No good, señorita.”

    What next – chicken feathers? I wanted to ask but didn’t know the word for feather.

    “I am so sorry sir,” she said, her face a deep crimson, “I will change it straight away.”

    She cast furtive glances at my dinner, scanning for the uninvited chicken. Then she picked up the plate and went into the kitchen at the other end of the restaurant.

    A couple of minutes later, she emerged – not with a replacement burrito but with my half eaten one. Looking neither embarrassed nor apologetic, her face said she had the answer. I guessed the chef was somehow involved in solving the conundrum. Pointing at my burrito, she asked gently but firmly,

    “Could you please show me the chicken?”

    Instead of rooting through the dish, I pointed to ‘pico de gallo’ in the description, tapping it with my forefinger for emphasis. The smile that lit up her face was that of a mother pardoning an errant child. What she then rattled off was beyond me but I got the gist – ‘pico de gallo’ is just the name of a Mexican salad containing tomatoes, jalapeno and other harmless vegetables. It has nothing to do with the body parts of a rooster.

    I finished the rest of the humble pie, sorry, burrito, and left the waitress a generous tip in compensation. The self confidence in my Spanish has taken a minor beating. Nothing that cannot be fixed with another trip to Spain. The cinema of my life continues.