A Love Nest and a Bad Meal

Last week in London, I decided to try an Indian restaurant for dinner in Bateman Street. As I pushed the front door open a small Indian man in his early-sixties eyed me suspiciously and then strode towards me wearing a stony expression and an unconvincing toupee. He silently ushered me to a table and, as I sat down, my smile was insufficient to crack his icy shell. He handed me a menu.

   “Drink?” he asked. I ordered a small bottle of beer and when he brought it over he half-filled the glass so that the other half was froth, up to the brim. I smiled and thanked him and then perused the menu while he stood to attention at the side of the table. I hastily ordered the rogan josh and steamed rice. He went off to place the order. 

   When he returned I asked him where the toilet was. Wordlessly, he pointed at the ceiling, then at a tucked away door which couldn’t be seen from the tables. At the top of the stairs there were two doors. One was marked with a male and a female pictogram. The other had a frosted glass panel, but the frosting only covered the middle rectangle, leaving a decorative border of plain glass, a couple of inches wide, which ran around the edge. Through this I could glimpse an office room with venetian blinds which were closed to the early evening light. There was an office desk, a computer, some office chairs, a small filing cabinet – and several mattresses on the floor; upon one of which, I now saw, writhed a young Indian man and woman, having sex. Realising with sudden shock that I was an inadvertent peeping tom I hastily went into the other door and went about my business. When I emerged I kept resolutely face forward as I headed for the stairs, and I didn’t even venture a side-glance as I passed the glass door. 

 

  As I sat back at my table a young American couple came in. We were now the only three customers. I watched, fascinated, as the bewigged proprietor followed the same ungracious routine as he had with me, earlier. They asked the details of a particular dish on the menu and he curtly replied. The young woman needed clarification and continued the line of questioning, whereupon the proprietor gave an exasperated sigh and said, “That is what I just told you. Did you not hear what I said?” He strode away and the woman glanced across at me. I gave her a sympathetic eye-roll at his rudeness and she smiled back. 

  A leather-clad young Indian man entered, carrying his motorbike helmet. The proprietor strode towards him, waving his hands as if shooing a fly. He barked something in Hindi and the man, who I now ascertained to be a take-away deliveryman, bowed his head and left. The proprietor followed him out onto the street where I could see him berating the younger man. Then he returned and went out into the kitchen, only to return moments later with a plastic bag full of food containers – the delivery which the young man had come to collect. He stepped out into the street and handed it over. The young man sloped off to his motorbike. 

    My meal arrived on a silver dish, which was set on a slim metal hotplate straight from the oven, to keep it warm. It was a fairly unappetising affair and the chunks of lamb were gristly and chewy. But I was hungry and so I bent to the task and soldiered on.  

   The young deliveryman now returned, but this time he pressed his face up to the front window and tapped the glass continually with his finger until the proprietor noticed. He then paced around on the street until the proprietor went out with another bag of food and handed it over.     

  As I finished my rubber lamb I called for the bill and at that same moment the young lovers from upstairs swept through the restaurant, hand in hand, towards the front door. They were now dressed in smart evening wear: the girl was beautifully made up, her jet black, glossy hair was arranged in a single long plait; he was wearing a silvery grey suit and black shoes with silver buckles. Both had a rosy, post-coital glow about them. The proprietor brought the bill on a silver dish and wordlessly put it on my table and walked away. Next to the docket was an after-dinner mint which felt very warm as I opened the packet. It must have been sitting next to something hot in the kitchen because it was completely liquified and it poured over my fingers and onto the table cloth.

  I dropped the exact money – no tip - on the tray and stepped out into the balmy evening air. The deliveryman had returned and he stared into the restaurant, tap-tap-tapping his finger on the plate glass window.