Because the driver was playing truant again, I found myself rushing through the morning routine to get my daughter to college in time, which meant relinquishing breakfast, my favourite meal of the day. Somewhat unusually, a long meeting and a spate of visitors in the office ate into the lunch hour, and I was a little light-headed when driving back home to pick up my wife for a packed evening out. “Can you keep a sandwich ready for me?” I called ahead, but my wife said she was getting ready and didn’t want to be late; besides, she added practically, there was no bread at home. The cook had been given the evening off because no one was at home for dinner. My daughter had just finished the last of the chocolate cookies. “I could have made you some instant noodles,” my wife smiled, sidling into the car, “but I really don’t like feeding you junk food.”
The first of our appointments that evening was in distant Gurgaon where a public tete-a-tete had been arranged with the irreverent anchors (and now authors) of Highway On My Plate, and all that talk of favourite foods and restaurants turned into agonising torture as my stomach kept growling that it would settle for anything at all to eat as long as it was right then. “Don’t be silly, darling,” hissed my wife, when tea, accompanied somewhat appropriately by streetside snacks, finally came around, “you know how delicate your stomach is” – which it isn’t, but I could hardly argue in front of other people about the state of my bowels – and having herself tasted the wares, waved them away from me.
Thankfully, respite wasn’t all that far, for our next pit stop was at a luxury hotel, practically next-door, at a whisky awards function, which I knew from experience came accompanied by some excellent mini-meals. “I’ll have the sushi,” I said as soon as I entered the ballroom with its food stations. “You’ll do no such thing,” said my host of the evening, “you’ll have a Laphroaig first,” steering me towards a whisky bar. “Perhaps some Irish stew,” I clutched on to an acquaintance’s hand. “Not before you’ve attended a whisky master class,” she tut-tutted and handed me over to the promoters. “There’s even curry,” I moaned to my wife, who ticked me off, asking me to pay attention to a conversation she was having with a couple we hardly knew, commanding me to fetch them “a Talisker and an Ardmore” like an expert bartender.
I paid attention and fetched and carried and watched the food run out, but at least we were going out for our neighbours’ anniversary dinner afterwards which, glory be, was in a restaurant. There had to be food there. But we hadn’t counted on it being a dance party. There was a bar, and music, and frenzied dancing, but absolutely no sight of anything to eat. “The snacks were excellent,” said our friends, or at least those we could recognise in the gloom. “You came so late,” cribbed our neighbours – which was true – “but at least you can make up by staying later for dinner.” “I’m afraid we can’t stay at all,” giggled my wife, “I have to start work early tomorrow, so if you’ll excuse us, we’ll say goodbye now.”
At home a little later, having boiled an egg and sliced some cheese, I found myself being chastised by my wife. “With your eating habits, you’re sure to become ill,” she said, helping herself to my boiled egg, “which means I’ll have to look after you,” and putting the cheese back in the fridge, added, “Now run along and go to sleep, you’ve had much too much excitement for one day.”
