Dinner at the Boss’s

We worked till 8:45 tonight, and around then we got food from Karachi. An executive guy – I forget his name, these Indian names are usually hard for me to remember – said, “Do they make steel in Pittsburgh?” Yes. “And your stomach must be made of steel too.” This is because I eat everything put in front of me. Indians are always worried I can’t handle the spice and fiber – but no bowel problems yet. I got the steel stomach, yo.

Anyway, I was thinking to myself that I would go home and skip dinner. As usual, Vinod rode to Juhu with me and my boss, and my boss took us for a Formula-1 race car ride through the slow crush of traffic, but Mritunjay came with us too. I saw two cows pulling a rickety cart in rush hour traffic on Linking Road, which is the hottest shopping street in Bandra – Bandra being probably Mumbai’s hottest shopping district. (Rach, I’ll be going back there to buy you something) My coworkers all do a lot of discussion in Hindi, so I miss out on a lot of what they say. I heard them talk earlier in the day about going out to dinner, so I figured that’s where we were going. I don’t ask a lot of questions. I eat whatever is put in front of me, and I just drive where I am driven – except I’ve been giving the rick wallahs directions to my guesthouse. Near my boss’s apartment building, he announced we were going to dinner at his house, and I would meet his wife, daughter, mother-in-law and nephew.

In the car my boss asked, “Do you take wine?” Yes, I love wine. “At what temperature is it served?” I said it depends on what kind of wine it is. “Red wine.” I said red should be served at room temperature or a little under, but some reds could be served slightly chilled – I sound like a snob, but good wine at the right temperature is great wine. I guess Vinod, the only one who drinks, said red wine should be served chilled. No one said this, but I could tell my boss and Mritunjay were teasing him in Hindi.

My boss lives just down the block from Vinod, in an apartment similarly stained with age. It had marble floors, and air conditioning only in the bedroom. There was plastic over the dining table and a towel over the tv. There were few decorations – just a rendering of Ganesh on the wall in a frame, some brass fountain-looking tall piece on a table, and mostly barren walls. My boss said this isn’t his home. His home is in Delhi – probably where his parents still live. His wife is a lawyer for Western Union, and she had been in the U.S. earlier in the month. Her English was good and hardly accented. She was very nice, and easier to talk to than other Indian women I’ve met so far. She seems like good times.

My boss presented me a bottle of red wine. It was a sparsely labeled French wine, didn’t even say the appellation. The apartment was hot – no air conditioning – and I thought, great, I’m going to have to choke down wine that has turned to vinegar in this heat. My boss doesn’t drink wine, knows nothing about it. Neither did Mritunjay. Vinod knew little. Watching the confusion trying to open the bottle was funny. They didn’t know that a corkscrew was needed. These Indians just aren’t drinkers. A bizarre and rusty corkscrew was found, and using it was a challenge, but I did it after Mritunjay couldn’t figure it out. The wine was warm, but it was good. Thank god. I could’ve drunk more than I did, but I didn’t want to embarrass myself. Vinod drank half a glass, I had two big helpings.

As usual, everyone kept insisting I eat more and more, and people kept putting food on my plate. Indians enjoy making sure there guests have overeaten. Yo, we just ate Karachi, I’m stuffed, man. Dinner was nice. Lots of vegetables and beens and some tandoori chicken. I drank the wine from a water glass, and my boss filled it up to the top – oh great, ugly show in the works, I thought. We got to laughing over dinner conversation. I talked a lot. Indians have a way of letting conversation die when they speak in English.

Then we ran over a motorcyler.
With a woman holding a baby on the back. This was leaving in Vinod’s car. This motorcycler was driving the wrong way down a highway. Vinod was nosing his car out – actually, this is Mumbai, it was more like bluntly forcing – and this young motorcycle guy was driving close to the cars parked on the street. Nobody could see him – nor would anyone expect to see him, as he was driving the wrong way – until he hit the hood of our car. He fell onto the ground, but the lady landed on her feet, still holding the kid. The motorcycler wasn’t mad at Vinod. I mean, he was driving the wrong way down a highway. The lady and baby were ok.

Vinod, Mritunjay, and I went to the Lokhandwala street market and ate some pan. I had some yesterday and didn’t like it. It tastes like having a mouthful of breath strips, and the consistency is that of mud with some small sticks mixed in. And you have to chew and chew and chew before the mash is rid from your mouth. The one I had yesterday actually had silver wrapped around it. The one I ate tonight from a sidewalk stall had no silver. It was just wrapped in a huge green leaf. I still don’t like these pans very much, but I’m not trying to be difficult. And I stood on the filthy street, eating from a filthy stall, sweating at 11 at night, while all the middle-class kids of Lokhandwala strolled past, stray dogs hobbled around, and beggar ladies picked through trash in the gutter.

I’m so glad that motorcycle lady and her baby were ok.

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