It was when she was on the phone that I heard that my wife was going to be cooking an entire meal — which was welcome news since it had been several years since she had spent any length of time in the kitchen. But eavesdropping further on her conversation, I gathered that it was not at home where she intended to brush up her forgotten culinary skills, but at the Indian Women’s Press Corps, which is just a fancy name for the capital’s women-only press club that doesn’t even serve beer and is the most boring place after the Nehru Planetarium.
“Perhaps you should first practice cooking at home,” I said to her once she had hung up, concerned as much about any potential embarrassment that might be caused to her as also the wellbeing of the club’s members who, it seemed, were ready to experiment somewhat recklessly with their palate. Presumably, being journalists, they were used to worse.
But my wife was busy with a list of things that would be required — boneless chicken, garlic, onions, whole red chillies, grated cucumber and juliennes of tomato for the khawsee she intended to serve. “I can” — I could see it was too late for her to withdraw now — “help you with the recipe,” I said, but she waved me away like a pesky fly. “It is my recipe, and my food that the people are coming to eat,” she said, “so if you don’t mind too much, will you mind your own business?”
I did mind my business till somebody in the office asked when the last time was that my wife had cooked a meal at home especially for me, and of course I couldn’t remember. “It is very sad,” said my colleague, “that you should not have a meal cooked by your wife but she should be cooking for strangers at a club.”
Put like that, it did seem unfair, but I was bent upon eating what my wife was cooking, so I decided I would be at the lunch anyhow. This, however, was not easy, since the women’s press corps only entertained male journalists by invitation. “Perhaps you can invite me to lunch?” I suggested to my wife, but she declined on account that since she was not a member herself, merely the chef d’jour, she could not ask me for a meal, but even had she been permitted to invite guests, she said, she’d prefer having her friends to her husband.
“Maybe I can ask you and some others from the office out for lunch,” I begged a colleague who is a member of the women’s press corps, “provided you first invite me to the club.” “It is such a pity,” laughed my colleague, “that you should have to pay for your own wife’s cooking.” Which was a cruel thing to say, but since I had no choice, I pretended to laugh along too, and so she said she would make a booking for a table even though she did not seem overly enthused about anything cooked by my wife.
Even as matters seemed finally settled, someone from the club sent out a notice that since the number of diners who could be accommodated for lunch was limited, preference would be given to members, and guests would not have priority even though they had been invited by the members to begin with. “So,” pointed out my colleague, “even though I have a booking, it is possible that while I can eat there, you may not. “Therefore,” she continued kindly, “you may want to carry a sandwich from home, so if you are not allowed to eat at the club, you can eat the sandwich while you wait in the car for us to finish your wife’s lunch.”
