Kishore Singh: Penne serenade

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Italian is becoming the new Chinese in India, and it has nothing to do with Sonia Gandhi and everything to do with Indians preferring tagliatelle and parma ham to sweet and sour (which most adequately describes relations between India and China but says little about the cuisine).

If sweet and sour is an Americanisation on par with chopsuey, Italian food has not been far behind in being turned into a largely pizza experience, which is the equivalent of saying the samosa is Indian food at its best.

And certainly, pasta is staple in many Indian homes, even though it's been more Indianised than chilli chicken, to the extent that when our cook runs out of vermicelli at home, she does an upma variation with pasta that is among her more successful experiments.

I would wager anything that youngsters think corn-macaroni is as Indian as palak-paneer, only it needs a generous dousing of tabasco. And spring rolls are hardly Chinese in any case, just rolled up parathas with cabbage and prawns as stuffing, a variant of the keema-paratha. And who's to blame them when McDonald's is happy to pack an aloo-tikki in a bun, and Domino's chicken tikka toppings are more popular than its meatzzas?

But beyond pizza and pasta as we know it, the Sicilian mafia is sneaking in surreptitiously to corrupt all Indians who now demand cherry tomatoes instead of the hearty farm-grown variety, and won't settle for Amul when there's mozzarella or ricotta to be had. Roti, when there's risotto? Paneer, when there's penne?

Which was precisely the thought in my mind when I sat down for the most leisurely meal I've had this year at what used to be Delhi's finest European restaurant, and is now fighting for its space in a market crowded with other Italian alternates "" Diva, La Piazza, Olive, Flavors "" and their Mediterranean cousins that, but for a humus here or a lasagne there, could be Italian too.

"No," I said to my hostess at Brix, "I will not have wine, it's only lunchtime, and there's a half-day of work still to do." "Beer?" she coaxed.

I declined all liquid blandishments, but was easier led down the path of temptation when it come to the antipasti and primi and secondi piatis (that's starters, and first and second course), with nary a sight of verdure (veggies, in case you didn't know), thank you.

My salmon carpaccio was brilliant, but it was only a teaser for the meal to follow. "Pasta?" asked my hostess? "Yes," I agreed. "Are you fine with seafood?" she wanted to know. "Uh-huh," I nodded my head. "Then you should have the red snapper," she suggested.

"That would be nice," I agreed. "Or the sea bass?" "Perhaps both," I said. "Or would you rather have the tiger prawns?" she continued. "That would be delightful too," I agreed.

In the end, the restaurant manager arranged for a generous platter which seemed to consist of a good deal of pretty much everything to be found in the seas, but just so I knew they also did good pizzas, I was easily persuaded to have a chunk of the thin-crust that had been intended for my hostess.

For the record, though, I eschewed dessert for a cappuccino "" only to regret it when I woke some time in the middle of the night wondering what the tiramisu might have been like.

And for all the work I shelved till the next day, I might as well have had the wine too. So, the next time I'm caught napping at my desk, you'll know its the fusilli to blame. Which, again, I'm still to try out, and should go a long way to prove that I'm less greedy than some might have imagined.