The man eaters of Bengaluru

Grrrr...No, that wasn't the fierce growl of a vicious, savage beast intent on it's prey, but rather, my poor stomach, protesting against the dictates laid down by my dictator-dietician. After two weeks of living on horse food (bloody soggy oats...its enough to make anyone want to crawl right back under the covers and pretend to be dead when faced with a bowl full of tasteless, sticky, nausea inducing brown-grey lumps early in the morning) varied by such vegetables as I could steal from the smaller herbivorous animals. My stomach was now demanding some food. Food fit for humans, being on top of the food chain (for no reason nature intended) as we are.

Now, a fierce battle between my conscience and my sorely tried gustatory senses ensued. It was a thrilling fight, full of surprise attacks, guerilla tactics, richly coloured many million pixel mental images of startling clarity and mental replayings of the doomsday voices of my doctor and my dietician, propheseying an early dive to the funeral pyre if my cholesterol didn't drop. I watched with bated breath as the two sides gave their all. Mercifully, my taste buds emerged victorious, aided by soothing promises of extra workouts and the truly gruesome thought of oats.

Satisfied with the outcome of the fight, i tottered off happily towards the nearest haunt of grease and spices, where those craving artery clogging substances swimming in oil and white steaming rice dripping with ghee headed...the nearby Andhra restaurant. I grabbed a thin friend and walked in, enticed by the promising aromas of natu kodi biriyani and green coloured mint flavoured kodi pulusu wafting out of the kitchen. The oily bustling headwaiter bustled up, preceded by his admirable pot belly, Veerappan mustauche gleaming with oil. On catching sight of two young girls, he immediately assumed his fatherly smile and ushered us to a seat. It never ceased to amaze me, his vast repertoire of smiles, grimaces, smirks, nose-twitchings and ear-wagglings.

He could, by a slight smirk and twitch of his nose, convey the deepest loathing for your tame choice of curd rice. When he sighted large, overflowing extended families chock full of third cousins six times removed and aunts of those cousins all out for their sunday lunch, his ears would waggle at supersonic speeds and his two protruding incisors and his gold molar would shine and glint in all their yellowing glory. Young couples got a knowing smile, a wink and a corner booth while querulous old grannies got the table closest to the A.C. Families with bawling infants were placed closest to the bathroom door and farthest from anyone with normal hearing. He was an institution in his own right, our oily, bustling headwaiter.

He bustled up to us, his fatherly smile intact and asked for our orders. He managed to interpret my drool as an order for chicken biriyani with the works. My friend, after much deliberation, decided on the vegetarian meal. When he heard that, his smile became grandmotherly and he started clucking about my friend's inability to finish the whole thing. She insisted she could, he said she couldn't. She argued that she knew better. In frustration, he said in his commanding and decisive voice "Madam, women eaters cannot finish our meals. It is made only for the man eaters of Bengaluru."

Really. Nuff said.