Kader Inexhaustible (Day 4)

Most of the first option polished off today, the choice fell on the pongal, big full yellow tray sitting out front on the shelf, freshly made by the looks. So why was the Gurkha-not chuckling like that, sharing with his friend the seemingly inconsequential circumstance, certainly for a waiter you would have thought? Pongal.... They must have the same in the high country back home, peasant food. And here was this tall White fancy man ordering. Whadyaknow?!... Easy as pie cutting through from the main drag no false steps second time round. The Jackal was the landmark tower — minus the “c”and wrong second vowel. (Punjabi?) Noted again on the Chow Kit Street earlier, like everywhere else in the 1st/2nd World, hospital staff was 3rd, underlings especially prominent. Handsome railway and municipal uniforms had been worn proudly by the newly risen class in Yugoslavia back in the day. White with green piping this case. A first in any of these Indian places seeing a platter of tatters like we served them back home, rolled in butter (ghee) they may have been and perhaps pepper; parsley was it too not so finely shredded on the side and a sambal or chutney in a dish. Mari poori or puri. The lad held the plate beside the little boy he was petting eating with dad, well-to-do couple a class above the usual clientele at Kader. Gold trader was the first guess, the wife and mother sent home to India to see her father taken ill. (How else to explain a working day the delightful cherub out of her clutches?...) Odd the way the old ancient opposite eats everyday with spoon and fork, dressed like that and all the signs. No wonder the lad forgets to provide and she must ask especially. Fourth if not fifth gen; the day before it had been the same. Lad giving the name of the dish was gifted one of the postcards bought yesterday at the Islamic Museum. Flicking the pages of the journal for recording he had caught the flash of colour within and asked to leaf back. A couple from the Islamic Gardens series, one Syria and the other Iran. Nice. Close study given. The enthusiast was offered his choice. Then, again like the old Yugoslavs—certainly old Montenegrins—the lad twice politely declined the gift. No, he wouldn’t. No, he wouldn’t. Ghost of an embarrassed, blushing smile. Pressed a third time.... OK, thanks then. Accepted. One knew how that went. Continuing, going so far with the offer, meant the gesture was genuine; the person extending the generosity was in earnest. Only then could one proceed to receive the offering.

NB. Turned out mari poori was rather more elaborate, little roti cups filled with the tatters and a couple of chutneys on the side, sweet and spicy. Kader was a restaurant after all.