Rated: Good
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Aug 25, 2008
Your Indian baby...
So there I was... saving a lot of money for the last four years to indulge this one time at some exotic restaurant at the Taj. The moment finally arrived last Sunday; a quick, yet anxious look at my bank statement; some back-of-the-envelope calculation and there I go – with the lady of course!
The destination wasn’t supposed to be the one reviewed here. These friends, who had to start saving much before I did (lack of prudence, you see – they just don’t understand the Sensex), were all praises for this thing called Pure. The menu there made for some good reading; there was ravioli, some lasagna (little to choose for the saatvik veggie) and more, but the eyes… oh the eyes… they would only settle RHS and one can only keep thinking of ways to get the hell out, go back home, then to office on Monday, then to the boss... begging for a 50% pay hike this summer. Maybe then, I could opt for that three-course stuff. Vista – the coffee shop seemed more like a gathering for elite Sindhis (sorry for being racist) reminiscing the 'good' old days of 1947. Not in the mood for any Chinese glory… just like our fellow countrymen at the Beijing Olympics, we parked ourselves at Masala Bay.
Dimly lit by Indian standards, this promises you a great experience of fine dining. Everybody and everything – the usher, the maître d'hôtel, the skilful chefs (as seen through the display glass), cutlery, the award-winning menu-card etc… it seemed so very perfect; although I thought the table cloth could have been wider. Anyways, from the unusually large selection for a star restaurant – we settled for stuff that was never ordered (by us atleast, and many more) i.e. Arbi Tukda (colacassia) and Mushroom Galauti. While the quintessential glass of Budweiser made its presence, the lady wished for a Breezer. Denied, rather politely by the staff (Ma’m, there’s some problem with the stock of Bacardis, sorry) and then a venomous call – Alice in Wonderland – something that seemed to be a cranberry delight and looked so very sissy.. She loved every sip.
A tiny portion of traditional Bombay chaat and some fried poppadoms with yummy sweet chutney – all complimentary, made their way on the table too. So while the talks continued on what could be an apt selection for main course, the starters arrived with aplomb. Goodness gracious me… sure nobody orders for the colacassia here – that’s like a 3-course meal in itself.. the tukdas (pieces) were tasty like hell and perhaps better than what my in-laws throw at me everytime I visit their holy abode… but the numbers here… phew… now that was a challenge that fine-dines around the world never throw at you. With their pretentious quantities, you never know what arrives and how much. Accompaniments included some pickles and raw onion-rings… Not that we struggled, but I strongly lament the time we wasted debating over alternatives for Subz-Biryani or Bhindi Amchoori or Malai Paneer Bhurji. Anyways, I was brought up being told to never leave any food on the plate, unless my sister had doled out weird stuff that she claimed to be ‘gastronomical delights’. And then there was the bling thing too! I checked if they could grab us some sandwiches or pizzas from the other restaurants; politely declined! The menu did promise more exciting stuff, but I think I could only bite into soft bread then...
Thus ended the journey. And before I sign-off, the real review – Alice in Wonderland was good and neatly served, the beer glass could have looked better, the Arbi tukdas were really out-of-the-world and so were the Mushroom Galautis, although the chef could have cared to make ‘em crispy enough for the fork to not let loose. A couple of paans at the exit and some savings (thanks to the generous portion of Arbi), the wallet wasn’t hurt – just bruised – bandage cost: 1900 bucks. Headed off to the Atrium for the world’s worst sandwich... ever; now that’s another story!