Here, There & Elsewhere. Mystic feast

When it’s time for us to go to Chennai, we buy an airline ticket for Rocky and dress him up in a baseball cap and miniature kurta-pyjama set. At the airport he’s better behaved than all the actual children. On board the aircraft the hostess wants to know where we got “our son” his cute striped tail. Bins gives her a broad smile, saying, “He was born that way!” The hostess giggles and gives us an extra packet of peanuts.

Bins leaves for Pondicherry right away while Rocky and I stay with Gee, the senior of my two sisters. The house has a bigger garden than my home in Delhi, with huge rain trees arching over it from the properties on either side. “Don’t frighten the squirrels!” I warn Rocky, “and don’t go into the neighbour’s gardens!” “Why not?” he wants to know. “They have security guards,” I tell him. “What’s a security guard?” he asks. “Someone who thinks raccoons belong in the zoo,” I tell him.

To celebrate our arrival in Chennai, Gee takes us to her current favourite restaurant. It’s called Avartana, in the Grand Chola Hotel. “Now, Rocky,” she says to him, “this is a really fancy place. Are you sure you can manage?” But he’s too busy staring at the gleaming floors and tall ceilings to answer. At the restaurant, the maître d’ doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Will sir prefer to sit on a high chair,” is all he asks, “or on a cushion?” “Cushion, please,” says Rocky, grandly.

“The name ‘Avartana’ means rhythm, mysticism and magic,” says our chef. “Using the alphabet of South Indian food, we’ve invented a new vocabulary of tastes and flavours.” There are at least 13 courses ahead of us, he tells us, “each one small enough to keep you wanting more!” “Eeek!” I say. “Too much, surely?” Rocky’s eyes gleam. “I’m a raccoon,” he reminds all of us. “I don’t know the meaning of ‘too much’!”

It begins with a tiny puff, like solid clouds, atop a bamboo skewer. “Tastes of smoke and dreams,” says Rocky. “Sir has a discerning palate,” smiles the chef. “But I want more!” whispers Rocky to me. “It was gone before my mouth knew it was there!” “That’s the problem with gourmet food,” I sigh. “It fills the mind with impossible longings.”

A fairy feast of jewel-like presentations ensues. Shrimp wrapped in dumplings of transparent silk. Dainty goblets of “infused rasam”. Mini-idlis made of steamed moonbeams. “These are crazy-amazing,” says Rocky, eating three at once. The chef announces each course with a showman’s flourish. “Chicken medallions stewed in coconut milk,” he might say, or “tender asparagus spears with a hint of cumin.” On and on the courses flow, ending with a beautiful golden candy-egg in a nest of spun sugar.

“Oooh!” moans Rocky, “I can’t, I can’t ...” then pops the egg into his mouth, whole. “That really was too yummy,” he says with a little burp, before falling asleep on his cushion.

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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