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Saint Hunger visits the starved like a typhoon wiping out all traces of well-meant, well-begun but essentially weak resolutions. And so it happened today. A meek gent, who had hitherto sworn with a vengeance not to have a morsel of ‘sinful food’, called me at my extension this noon and suggested we go out to lunch, in the meekest of voices that was almost a whisper.
Now I didn’t have a heart to say no. I’ve always given in to meekness, besides, I was starving myself! But honest to God I wished I had brought my lunch along or at least had an early lunch. That would have given me energy enough to protest, in the gent’s own fashion, tooth and nail, albeit with more conviction than he had ever managed. And unlike the gent, I wouldn’t have then given in and agreed to have “one measly dry paratha” or suck on a soup spoon while the others around me fed themselves silly.
Back to the meek voice that also carried a steely undertone implying “You dog! Don’t you even dare…”. You can fill in the blanks with the choicest invectives. Well I didn’t ‘dare’ as the voice implied. So we, five in all, drove to a Chettinadu place that the gent gallantly chose where he graciously ordered Muringakka Soup for me. That’s drumstick soup for the uninitiated – a measly doggy bowl of an abominable concoction with a piece of drumstick, a hint of tomato and tons of pepper. Ranjit had one sip and went into a fit of coughing that had us seriously concerned.
Imagine! That soup, if it can be called that, was meant for me! I mean the whole of it. Providential interruption came in the form of an eager prod from Saint Hunger, around the table. That’s when Ranjit had a fit. Then came the chicken masala, egg masala and parathas, all equally bad. We tucked into it anyway, and a sad burp each later, we left swearing never to follow the gent’s gastronomic suggestions ever again. The last time I saw Ranjit, which was an hour ago, he was seen clutching his stomach. I’m yet to know what happened to Suneesh and Ajay.
So much for the revenge of the starved!
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Showing posts with label lunch hour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lunch hour. Show all posts
On The Wings Of A Poppadom!
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Lunch hour is so much fun. And it’s specially so because I can enjoy the sheer agony of dear friend of mine. (Slurp!) The poor dieter is now paying his comeuppance for all the vile plotting he’d indulged in, in the not too distant past.
Back then, he used to drag the rest of us friends and colleagues, fretting and fuming, often sacrificing our lunch boxes, to greasy joints that served the most sinful biriyanis and parattas and burgers with piles of cheese and dollops of mayonnaise even!
In the process our gent gained weight where he shouldn’t, along with the rest of us. The belles were no longer giving him a second look or so one should assume because then he went about dragging his angel of a wife over to a gym where he paid 34,000 to get his flab off!
And did he? We thought he did about a month ago. I even complemented him by calling him Slim Jim. But true to my impulsive self, I’d said things too soon. The Slim Jim persona that our dieter friend had taken on to deceive his poor wife and maybe the gym instructor too was a well-planned farce. He fell ill! No…that’s not it. How do you say it? Words fail me now. It must be the magnitude of the deception. It went like this.
He took himself willingly to a Chinese flea restaurant, ordered himself a spread and promptly came home ill. Here I actually feel for him. The gent was indeed ill. So ill that his concerned brother had to remind him gently that the upper body orifice empties into the washbowl and the lower into the potty! Endless trips over the next two days between the washbowl and the potty left our gent a few kilos less. And one fine day he came to office looking all trim, fit and glowing too!
He ate only carrots for a week. And just when a Hollywood production house that had got wind of a potential replacement for the tired Buggs Bunny, were doing a background search, our dieter was spotted by one of the production house’s spies digging into a juicy double decker burger! And another the next day!
Guilt gnawed at our dieter again and he went into a rehabilitation diet. But again I suspect it’s all a farce because the waistline is pushing the shores! Now I didn’t say that. The gent himself did. So he furiously plays table tennis with a paddle he over paid for. And when he falls for our vile persuasion and accompanies us for lunch he sips soup or nibbles on poppadom!
Hoo! (That was a verbal cartwheel!) Isn’t someone’s waistline phobia blissful lunchtime amusement? That reminds me, it’s about lunchtime. About time I played the Lucifer again! Bless me! But then I’ve been trained by the Devil himself! Pin It Now!
Back then, he used to drag the rest of us friends and colleagues, fretting and fuming, often sacrificing our lunch boxes, to greasy joints that served the most sinful biriyanis and parattas and burgers with piles of cheese and dollops of mayonnaise even!
In the process our gent gained weight where he shouldn’t, along with the rest of us. The belles were no longer giving him a second look or so one should assume because then he went about dragging his angel of a wife over to a gym where he paid 34,000 to get his flab off!
And did he? We thought he did about a month ago. I even complemented him by calling him Slim Jim. But true to my impulsive self, I’d said things too soon. The Slim Jim persona that our dieter friend had taken on to deceive his poor wife and maybe the gym instructor too was a well-planned farce. He fell ill! No…that’s not it. How do you say it? Words fail me now. It must be the magnitude of the deception. It went like this.
He took himself willingly to a Chinese flea restaurant, ordered himself a spread and promptly came home ill. Here I actually feel for him. The gent was indeed ill. So ill that his concerned brother had to remind him gently that the upper body orifice empties into the washbowl and the lower into the potty! Endless trips over the next two days between the washbowl and the potty left our gent a few kilos less. And one fine day he came to office looking all trim, fit and glowing too!
He ate only carrots for a week. And just when a Hollywood production house that had got wind of a potential replacement for the tired Buggs Bunny, were doing a background search, our dieter was spotted by one of the production house’s spies digging into a juicy double decker burger! And another the next day!
Guilt gnawed at our dieter again and he went into a rehabilitation diet. But again I suspect it’s all a farce because the waistline is pushing the shores! Now I didn’t say that. The gent himself did. So he furiously plays table tennis with a paddle he over paid for. And when he falls for our vile persuasion and accompanies us for lunch he sips soup or nibbles on poppadom!
Hoo! (That was a verbal cartwheel!) Isn’t someone’s waistline phobia blissful lunchtime amusement? That reminds me, it’s about lunchtime. About time I played the Lucifer again! Bless me! But then I’ve been trained by the Devil himself! Pin It Now!
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