The season of goodbyes

It took Persian Durbar's  roomali rotis and chicken tikkas, Malai and Afghani, to break years of lunches at work, spent by oneself. Reading. Surfing. Undisturbed.

Two lost souls sitting in a fish bowl of apocalyptic lunches (with apologies to Pink Floyd). A shared belief that Chinese food was the answer to lack of appetite, headache, nausea, common cold, upset stomach, sore throat, bad meetings, weird meetings, happy meetings and anything else that life throws at one. A dry side dish with fried rice. Mainland China ... Kiang chicken, prawns with X O Chilly Sauce.  Wok Hei... but no noodles. Noodle Bar... a la carte. Asia 7 debarred.

Head to Oh Calcutta when you miss home ... luchi, kosha manghso, bhetki fry, shorshe chingri. Cross over JJ Flyover. Mocambo. Not Just Jazz By The Bay. Britannia. Inox Mall. Pizzeria. A quick bite in the middle of work. Try out new places. Indigo Deli. Bespoke Cafe. Seva Sadan. Waiting without a complain while photos are taken for the blog. The chicken and veggie sections of menu cards ignored. Succumbing to the temptations of prawns and pork. Desserts meant polite hesitation followed by unbridled ecstasy. Coffee shops were fine specially if they led to the Ultimate Mocha. Breakfast picked up from Candies. Ham and cheese sandwich. Chicken Kiev for later.

Patiently trying out and vetting lunch experiments with Zuchhini, Couscous and rosemary doused cold pasta. A belief that food is meant to be enjoyed, revered, treasured, discovered and not scorned.

Invites home to some great cooking from husband, mom in law and self ... garlic chicken, mutton achari, ghee bhaat and mutton shingaras which remain due.  In the company of the little one who is a Donut freak. Double Trouble from MOD and nothing else.

A season of difficult farewells in a damp climate. First to Feastguru and its Chief Foodie Kirti. And now to food partner in crime, lunch mate at work and a dear friend, the first Femme Finely Chopped Knight, Ipsita ... till we meet and eat again.

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