We haven’t had anybody home to tea in a long time, at least socially — it’s not something anyone makes time for any more, right? It’s another matter that visitors who stop by during the day because they have business with my wife, do not find us wanting when it comes to hospitality. There is always cake “strictly for guests — don’t even look at it!”, and cookies “not for home, you can eat the soggy ones from the bin”, and lots of other stuff because “it looks good on a tray”, and when the cook is in the mood, something hot and fresh from the oven. And enough consideration for chance drop-ins: Might they like a soupy broth on a winter’s day? Should there be mince pies on standby, perhaps a nice chocolate pudding in the fridge?
So when you throw the largest tea bash, as the president does every Republic Day, with a couple of thousand guests at last count, and diplomats, expats, ministers, judges and, of course, people like us to be fed and watered, planning the menu could prove to be more complicated than bringing down or swearing in governments. Should there, you can imagine the president briefing the cook, be bhelpuri mixed fresh, pav-bhaaji hot off the griddle, perhaps kheer, or kulfi even? Or, as they do at high teas at five-star hotels, might it not be a splendid feast instead, complete with — no, not tea or coffee, that’s so literal — a flute of champagne, a tulip of a fine wine?
“Plain cucumber sandwiches, definitely,” recommends my wife, who may not be on the presidential menu committee, but has definite views on what you can, or cannot, serve at a tea. Having grown up in Kolkata when it was still Calcutta, where teas were something the bhadralok took seriously, her inclinations lie in the direction of tarts and quiches and jammy pies, cutlets and croquets and other things nice.
Having refrained from co-opting my wife on to the tasting table, Rashtrapati Bhawan probably took the easy way out and left it to some kitchen committee to cater to those wanting a presidential tuck-in. I could understand my wife’s disappointment. The previous year, there had been near-riots every time the pakoras ran out, for pakoras, no matter how hoi-polloi, are good tea stuff. But here we were amidst the tulips braving the chill at the Mughal Gardens, and what should we find but that humblest of snacks, the samosa, looking oddly out of place amidst all the grandeur of guests dressed up and decked out, many with medals and pips and piping that had the pageantry of theatre than a mere tea party. It might be the most well-known Indian snack all the way from the crowded lanes of Chandni Chowk to the high streets of Southall, but it isn’t what you expect to break daintily in the company of ambassadors and heads of state. There was dhokla to accompany it, something we’re informed the president is partial to, and some strangely coloured pastries that, understandably, did little to attract discerning diners.
But strangest of all — and one must wonder what the Korean premier, who was chief guest, made of it — were chilli paneer and chilli chicken, an ode to Sino-Indian fusion food, something you might expect at a big fat Indian wedding sangeet to accompany your adulterated scotch. But at tea with the president? “It’s a case of kimchi,” explained my wife, and seeing me look perplexed, explained, “all mixed up and seasoned like the Indian democracy.” “I’d really like to set the menu,” she sighed, tucking away her plate of uneaten tea behind a shrub for some gardener to find later, “do you think if I call the president for tea, she might come home?”
