Sandstorm In A Teacup

I can handle food, me. Or at least, I had always believed I could. When I was a student, we used to believe in the replenishing values of a week-old chow mein. We believed that yesterday’s onion bhajis were good for your eyesight and that a good curry should last you an entire week. My old housemate Jason used to worship a two-year old piece of cheese. I think. And nothing untoward ever happened to us. You see, old food was good food, and we were built to eat anything and everything.

So it was, with my recovering stomach, that we entered Ashoka, a five-star hotel with a modernist restaurant, on our last night in India. Logic says that you shouldn’t over-eat on the night before you are flying back to the UK, and especially after you have had the Delhi Belly for the last two weeks. But to hell with logic – I like Indian food and I wouldn’t be able to eat “proper” Indian until the next time I land on Indian soil, so it was back to the student days and back to eating whatever was put in front of me.

Equally, it is rude to refuse food, isn’t it? This is something that I had been trying to come to terms with in India – the amount of food on offer is immense. Perhaps the reason English people are so bloody huge is that they never refuse food.

“Cream pie, fat English person?”

“Mmmm, go on then, bring it on”.

“How’s about another with a topping of minced beef?”

“Errr, would be rude to say no!”

In England, we’re tempted into buying food all the time – with fast food outlets on literally every corner literally screaming out at us to eat more chips. Even on TV, Marks & Spencer are trying to convince you to indulge yourself in something that comes with more adjectives than e-numbers: “Lovingly hand-crafted cream pies, filled with delicious, hand-squeezed Cornish dairy cream and topped with luscious, dark, bitter, Italian chocolate.” It’s food porn, it’s in your face, and it’s making Britain fat. Because we can’t refuse food, especially when it comes with adjectives – and compound ones at that.

So here I was in Ashoka with Shanaz’s father and his genial friend who were being the perfect Indian hosts by insisting that I eat, and eat well.

Perhaps one of the things that turns normal people into the kind of people who insist “there are two types of people – those who’ve been to India and those who haven’t” is Indian hospitality (which will be the subject of a later post). If you accept food, then it’s because you’re hungry and the host cannot see you go hungry. So, you will be offered more. And if you’re English, you’ll eat more. It’s a vicious circle, you see.

And the food was very rich – deserving of a five-star hotel, I suppose. I was mopping up the sauce with rotis and naans as if I would never eat Indian food again.

I must have looked like I enjoyed it, as Shanaz’s father’s friend (let’s just call him Uncle for the sake of efficiency) called over the waiter and insisted the chef come out, as we have a “visitor from abroad”.

“No, no, no, it’s fine”, I think I muttered, but Uncle – ever the host – wanted the chef to come out and receive my congratulations. I’ve only once ever congratulated a chef, and that was Marcus Wareing in the privacy of his own kitchen. But never in front of a table and a restaurant full of people present for the Africa-India Forum taking place at the hotel that day. The chef was directed my way, as I was the guest, and the best I could muster was:

“Erm, your food’s very good, thanks.”

Inspirational, I'm sure you'll all agree. Should we comment on the delicate melange of flavours and spices? Should we congratulate the chef on his well-chosen ensemble of masalas? Nope, your food's very good, thanks. Christ, I can be so English sometimes.

An uncomfortable conversation ensued and it turned out that the chef was a Manchester United fan. We agreed to disagree on the football, and he went on his merry way back to the kitchen where he was obviously much more comfortable. I, however, wanted the earth to open up and eat me.

And so we departed, full of the joys of India hospitality and heavy food. In 9 hours, we would be back on a plane. In 12 hours, I would be back on the loo.