My father was a foodie. He liked to have an occasional meal in the restaurant. When I was about 12 years old, my father decided to take the entire family out for dinner. We all children, were excited as this was the first time we were going there. My mother was very happy too. My brother, Joseph who was studying medicine to become a doctor at a Delhi College near Daryaganj, suggested that we should try ‘Moti-Mahal’. He had heard about that famous restaurant as it was located close to his College. Apparently, it was frequented by a few richer hostlers who wanted to skip the tasteless meals being served at the College hostel.
While we were on our way, our father told us about the historical significance of Moti-Mahal where the delicious ‘butter chicken’ was originally born. Apparently, the recipe was ‘invented’ for the very first time by the cooks at Moti Mahal. Also, our first Prime Minister, Jawahar Lal Nehru used to frequent Moti Mahal around the time when India just got its freedom. Armed with such nuggets of wisdom, we looked forward to our first meal at Moti Mahal.
When we reached Moti-Mahal, we were all surprised at the grand ambience. It was full of all kinds of diners. On one side was a male singer on a small stage singing and playing the harmonium. He was accompanied by another musician playing the tabla. A few cash notes were strewn in front of them. A bearer welcomed us and directed my father to a place where two tables were hastily joined together to seat all eight of us. My father ordered tandoori chicken, butter chicken and naan. There was no concept of ‘starters’ then.
While we were waiting for our meal, my mother was keenly watching two gentlemen at the adjacent table having their dinner consisting of only butter chicken and naan. While they were eating, my mother spoke to my father in Tamil, about the food items these gentlemen had ordered and how they were happily enjoying their sumptuous meal as if they had not eaten for days. She also saw one of them take a slice of lemon from the salad and squeeze it to prepare some nimbu-pani (lemonade). Once again, my mother mentioned how the lemonade complemented their meal at no additional cost. All this while, my mother was talking in Tamil loud enough so that all eight of us could hear. She was fully confident that her native language would maintain a high degree of secrecy from the diners sitting on the adjacent table.
After their meal was over, the two gentlemen got up. While one of them just nodded his head, the other one wished my parents well and said in Tamil that the food in this restaurant was indeed very tasty. My mother was embarrassed as the two had been hearing and understanding her unflattering commentary all along.
