On our day off, we stopped and had lunch at a great Afgani restaurant in Bangalore called the Samarkand. Either Afgani cuisine is very similar to Indian cuisine, or they have a mostly Indian menu. In any case, I remember eating there on my previous trip, and the food was terrific. (They serve the best naan I’ve had. Ever.)
We each ordered, and I ordered the Chicken Tikka Masala. When the food came, the server elegantly slid up beside me and began to serve the food onto my plate as the always do in India, and politely spoke, “Your Butter Chicken, sir.”
“I’m sorry, I ordered the Chicken Tikka.”
“This is the Chicken Tikka, sir.”
Now, I do always take a few days to re-accustom myself to exactly which dish is which, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt and let him continue.
Then they began serving my colleague, who had ordered the Chicken Kabab.
“Your Chicken Tikka, madam.”
Overhearing, I jumped in, “But you said this was the Chicken Tikka; she ordered the Kabab.”
“Yes, this is the Chicken Kabab, and you have the Chicken Tikka.”
I began to suspect that we were being held to very flexible and creative rules around what constituted each of our meals, but let the matter go since we were both satisfied with how appealing each of our meals looked, regardless of what we actually ordered. We enjoyed our meals and left the restaurant.
This afternoon – back at the hotel – I ordered a Vodka Martini. About 20 minutes later, my server appeared carrying a Manhattan on his tray. Being a semi-professional drinker, I know my alcohol and this was definitively not a Martini.
“Your Manhattan, sir.”
“I’m sorry, I ordered a Vodka Martini.”
“Yes, sir. Vodka Martini. This is a Vodka Martini,” replied the server.
“No, it’s not.” I showed him the menu and pointed at what I had ordered, the 007 Vodka Martini.
“Yes, Vodka Martini. Vodka.”
When traveling in foreign countries, sometimes you have to pick your battles. Besides, his logic that the drink contained vodka was armor clad.
As a matter of fact, I am quite enjoying my Manhattan.
I’m back in India on business, but only for a short while this time around. One of my colleagues who accompanied us had not been to India before, so we had fun showing her around and watching her explore the city. It was fun listening to her get excited about traffic and cows and cows in traffic.
We had a big meeting on Thursday with a client and then took Friday off to see some sites. First, we went to Bannerghatta National Park. We arrived early, so we passed the time wandering through the local zoo.
Then we boarded a bus to take into the wildlife preserve in the hopes of spotting elephants, tigers, lions, or cheetahs. The bus was a rickety old thing that looked like it would topple at the slightest hint of a curve or bump, but that didn’t stop our driver from careening around a bumpy and rutted road that had all the passengers hoping for a quick death. On more than one occasion it occurred to me that should the bus roll over, it was not in a condition to protect us from the elephants, tigers, lions, or cheetahs which we were so hopefully to see.
We did manage to survive and we did manage to see lions and tigers, including some white tigers which were, not surprisingly, white. Tigers look surprisingly cuddly, but my recommendations to my colleagues to go pet one went unheeded.
The next day we jumped in the car and headed out to the Dodda Aalada Mara, or Big Banyan Tree. This is the fourth-largest tree in India, and covers over three acres. The tree is inhabited by wild monkeys who are alarmingly comfortable with human presence and are perfectly willing to let you get close enough to take photos of them. There were babies who were trying to escape their mothers, youngsters picking fights with elders and everything else that would demonstrate we did, in fact, evolve from these smelly, furry little honkers.
Bart-a-bok. Bear-de-doo. Bearje. Boorgurgeboo. One who went by many names passed away today.
About 14 and a half years ago, my parents were out of town and my grandma was in the market for a new puppy. My sister and I jumped in the car with Oma and headed up north from our cabin in Brainerd, MN to a farm which had left an add in the paper saying they had six puppies up for adoption. One thing led to another, and not only did Oma adopt a dog, but so did I. I was 17 and my parents were not consulted. Nor were they pleased when they came home from their trip a few days later and found a new puppy in the house.
My parents were upset with me (and I can’t imagine what they had to say to Oma who let me leave that place with a dog) but they let me keep her because she was such a good dog. She was easy to train and sharp as a tack. Everyone she met fell in love with her. Here are a few of my favorite memories of her.
She was still a puppy when winter hit; at the time I was Nordic ski racing very seriously, so I typically spent 2 or 3 hours per day on skis during the week, and 8-10 hours per day on the weekends. Obviously, that was too long to keep a puppy in-doors, so I often took her skiing with me. Being a skier meant that I took the condition of the groomed trails very seriously, and I didn’t want her running on the tracks. Within the first afternoon skiing with her, she learned to run alongside me in the ungroomed snow, avoiding the trails. I’ll never forget gliding along with her running at my side.
When she was younger, she was very protective of our family and ferociously barked and growled at anyone who came to the door. By the time my graduation party came along, she was still too jumpy to allow her into the party, so I had to lock her in my room upstairs. At first, she was barking and whining constantly but eventually, she quieted down. A few hours into the party, she was so quiet we decided to let her out and see how she did. She was so relieved to be allowed into the party that she behaved herself perfectly and didn’t make a peep. Ever since, she was perfectly socialized, charming the pants off anyone who came to our house.
When I went to college, my parents took over as Bear’s primary caretakers. My dad is a professor and did a six-month exchange program with a University in France. As Michelle and I couldn’t watch her in our apartment, my parents brought her to my Aunt’s house near Amsterdam to stay while they were away. My aunt had a dog as well, Boomie, and the two tolerated each other but did not particularly care for one another. Poor Boomie was not the sharpest knife in the drawer, so Bear ended up taking advantage of him, often framing him for her crimes. Her finest hour was when she ate an entire roast off my Aunt’s countertop. The roast was resting under tin foil, and after Bear finished her stolen feast, she carried the sullied tin foil over to Boomie’s basket and laid it there to be found.
Some years later, Michelle and I got our own puppy (Mack) and had to move into an apartment that allowed dogs. Obviously, at this point we were able to watch Bearje for my parents when they were gone. As a young dogg, Mack was wound tighter than a drum. He absolutely would not ever, under any circumstances, sit still for even a moment (like he’s doing right now, by the way). One weekend, we watched Bearje and she just sat at our feet and was the most mellow and sweetest dogg ever. Michelle and I realized how much company having a dogg could really be like; how nice it was to have a mellow dogg to hang out with.
They call this feeling I have “heartbreak” and it is amazing that my heart really does hurt.
Either Afgani cuisine is very similar to Indian cuisine, or they have a mostly Indian menu. In any case, I remember eating there on my previous trip, and the food was terrific. (They serve the best naan I’ve had. Ever.)
so we had fun showing her around and watching her explore the city. It was fun listening to her get excited about traffic and cows and cows in traffic.
in the market for a new puppy. My sister and I jumped in the car with Oma and headed up north from our cabin in Brainerd, MN to a farm which had left an add in the paper saying they had six puppies up for adoption. One thing led to another, and not only did Oma adopt a dog, but so did I. I was 17 and my parents were not consulted. Nor were they pleased when they came home from their trip a few days later and found a new puppy in the house.
