It all began with a harmless, 9-am-in-the-morning-when-all-fucking-trains-are-full MD class.
And ended with?
Let me fill you in with all the gravy. Like white? You wouldn’t if you were in our place.
Rewind back to 2nd September.
Beep on my cell phone. Bow-bow’s message. “V’l hve lunch 2morow at vile after vaity wat say rply”. The least he could’ve done was spell correctly. Anyway, I wat-said-replied in the affirmative. I knew it was to be a messy day. No, I’m not talking about My hair day. 😛
Let me tell you, class on a holiday morning is like lighting up a terribly boring cracker under someone’s ass just to inform them that it’s Diwali. You’d yawn to death. So there we were, sitting quietly in Vaity’s class, making interracial porno songs for Mandala’s future porn career. (Miracle of the day no. 1 – Left home at 8.45, reached Irla at 9.05) Finally, after 3 hours of drawing highly un-understandably mechanical drawings, we trooped out of the class and into fresh air (or air smelling of urine, that being the toilet).
Ultra-macho guys wanted to do a round of hookah to prove how macho they were. Non-macho guys, me included, just wanted a good meal and some nice “Pani free”. Girls just wanted a place to crack girlie-jokes™ which no one else understood and never really laughed at. Try explaining this to them. No one exactly decided upon a particular place, and we just rushed to grab the best(?) places in the cars. Car No. 1 was hell-bent on going to Happy Singh’s to a nice Punjaban meal, but Car No. 2 was full of the hookah-people. Another piece of information. Hookah-people are those guys(or sometimes girls) who want to smoke some weirdly flavoured (and addictive) gas and boast that they smoked something. Nothing in it really. Just a way to show their testosterone. That is why the wanted to go to the Sky Lounge. On the recommendation of a certain someone who definitely does not wish to be named here, for fear of being publicly slagged.
The map below explains the foolishness of the direction-giver in getting to our final destination.
So, we assumed that as everyone was mentioning Fun Republic in correlation to Sky Lounge, Fun Republic was where we were supposed to go. All gung-ho about getting some good old food into our stomachs, we parked and looked around for Sky Lounge, but in vain. When we left the parking lot, it was onto a side-road. The road being parallel to the one on which SL was, we drove on and on to some God-forsaken place with mice running around in our intestines (translation: Pet mein chuhe daudna, if Mavi is reading this). No one seemed to know where Fun Republic was, let alone SL. Finally, when we found the damn board that announced the place, the 6 of us in the car shouted for joy.
3 floors, and we were begging them to serve only to see that prices were actually SKY-high. Whoever heard of Rs 300 for a bowl of chicken? Anyway, we decided to order 3 dishes in order to satisfy the 9 of us. 2 of them were the same, and the 3rd one was supposed to be different.
After the order had been given and the stomachs quietened for a bit with some vinegar-ed onions, we waited for the food. And waited. And waited. And waited. And waited.
And guess what we did after that? No, we didn’t stick our forks into the waiter or the manager who kept hovering around. We waited even more. All this while the vegetarian guys were happily enjoying their starters. We cursed and swore in equal measure. But yet the food wouldn’t arrive. And just when our stomachs had given up home and were packing their hibernation bags and going off to a month long sleep for lack of food, the food arrived. And guess what colour it was.
Just try and guess. That colour which is meant to indicate peace. No, not red as in piece. White.
Every Goddamn thing there was white. The Murgh Masallam and the other dish, the rotis, all white. White. Argh, fucking white. And the dishes were so similar that they were the same. Confusing statement huh?
They Were the same. They tasted the same, they looked the same. It was like the chef, sorry cook (it would be an insult calling him a chef) had made the same dish, added more salt in one of them, and decided the other one needed some pepper, and served both of them as different things. After all the wait. this? It was like eating boiled eggs mashed with cornflour with some salt and chicken pieces. It was really that terrible. No kidding.
After we’d swallowed the terrible fare, we tried to analyze which dish we found to be the best. And it “boiled” down to the rotis. Believe me, rotis! And we thought the meal couldn’t get worse.
After the bill had been paid by the party-givers (thanks to Saumil and Gaurav for being so sporting), we trooped out of the place, taking a blood-oath(kidding :P) to never come to the place again. And we warn you too. Bad food, worse service, terrible pricing. Want to risk it? Be my guest. Not literally.