Synopsis: I was threatened. I am never going back.
Longer version: It wasn’t the Dark Rum Mojitos, though I am dead against any mixing of Old Monk with anything other than plain soda or water (I even consider the slice of lime as a guilty pleasure, a taboo I enjoy when no one’s looking). The cocktail was served in a surprisingly tall (and more surprisingly, light) glass with lots of ice, a sprig of mint, and a lime wedge, which would normally get me asking the server whether his bartender thought I was in the Bahamas, or crazy, and sending him back for a “real” drink. But I accepted it anyway, even ordered another, and recommended it highly to my 3 friends, who joined me at the wooden table next to the red public telephone booth (without the telephone) on a cool, breezy, and very crowded day at the new bar opened at Zora in Ishanya, 11 East Street Bar. I thought it was citrusy-sweet in a good way, with the whole lime juice-syrup combination stopping just short of overwhelming the Old Monk, perhaps out of respect…or fear. My friends concurred. We ended up having 8 of them (the drinks, not the friends) by the end of the night. So, I confess it wasn’t the drinks.
It wasn’t the Shammi Kabab Paav (a platter of 2 that comes with multi-coloured crispies sprinkled with chaat masala). It definitely wasn’t the Kababs because I remember biting into them and realising that they tasted surprisingly (and pleasantly) different in the first half than in the second. Maybe it had to do with the layering of the meat and the spice, maybe it had to do with the cooking, or the plating…or maybe it was just magic. Who knows? But it was not the Shammi Kababs.
Also, now that I think about it, it wasn’t the Galauti Kababs either, little dollops of meat served on small roti-like discs, which one discovers only after gobbling up the meat part and then wondering what that thing at the bottom is. Believe me, it is embarrassing to see an empty dish with just small roti-discs, thinking, “Did I miss a trick there?”, and having realised that one ate them in an improper, uncivilised way, and not as they ought to be savoured, ordering for another plate just to save your co-diners the blushes. The Kababs were, without doubt, one of the two most authentic tasting Galauti Kababs I have ever had outside Lucknow, the other being Riwayat. It seems apt that there was once a professional relationship between both the owners (Joravar and Danish).
(On a side note, smart readers would have noticed that I managed the impossible by anyone reviewing Indian food: the description of Galauti Kabab without using the words, “juicy” or “succulent”. Why, thank you! You are too kind.)
I am sure it wasn’t the Butter Chicken Fries too, something I would normally turn my nose up at. I mean, it sounded like an English pub owner and an immigrant Pakistani had a love child, and instead of taking his looks from his beautiful Pakistani mum, he inherited it from his fat, balding, beer-swilling, pale-skinned dad. And to be perfectly honest, it looked like it too! But the taste was something else. The soft tenderness of the chicken and the oozing curry-like masala ladled over the deep-fried crisp potato chips combine in taste comfortably and settle on your palate just like a Punjabi Munda in sadda London. Pub-food. Soul food. Jolly good, in my books.
So, all in all, it wasn’t the food. No, not the food. Definitely not the food.
It also wasn’t our servers, mostly Biplab (“My friends call me Doctor.” OK), sometimes the floor manager/captain Amandeep (with his obsequious waist-bending routine that almost makes you want to fold your own hands in return), and at times, even Joravar himself, calling everyone “Sir,” to everyone’s general embarrassment, and his mirth. No, it was most definitely not the service.
It wasn’t the music. The speakers blasted out a strange mix of upbeat, but somehow unintrusive music, which allowed you to listen to it when you wanted, and turn it off in your head when you didn’t. The changeovers were unnoticeable and I wondered at one time if they had it mixed by a professional DJ, since it was so…what’s the word…”now.” I thought about it, but it wasn’t the music too.
It wasn’t the crowd, the constant buzzing of young, energetic people, moving about, ordering food, chatting, taking selfies, and generally making the whole place feel like an actual, live creature in the deep seas, where we are all part of the ecology that resides in or on it, and go on with our lives, acknowledging the others’ presence, but never really interacting much unless by accident. On a Friday night at a ghost mall like Ishanya, this seemed a kind of an island of the living, an oasis in a giant desert with no other life forms. To attract this crowd in that place must take some doing. And some reputation. But it wasn’t the crowd…or the vibe.
And no, it wasn’t the Jack Daniels Chocolate Fudge I was gifted by Joravar. (Psst: They make it themselves. And while I would have said, “Go easy on the booze, mate” to any other such combination, in this case, I would admit that, “He da man”. Good on ya, Jack, or Daniels, or whoever. I love you. And I love chocolate. I love you all.). The cute bottle of alcohol-laced chocolate could have been the last straw. But it wasn’t.
It was the note at the end of the meal. Yes, that was definitely the reason I have decided never to go to 11ESB or Zora again.
I cannot bear the weight of such generosity on my frail shoulders. The Sardar with a heart the size of Punjab, that’s Joravar Sachdev for you. Also, his response when I expressed gratitude (“This isn’t my generosity. That I would display when you’re here with Natasha”) was borderline threatening enough for me to be scared of dining there again. Somehow, I think this will be more my loss than his.
