We arrived at our favorite Indian restaurant the other night just as a woman and her son walked in, without a reservation, and asked for a table for 11. The two owners started moving tables and chairs around and setting places. The family group gradually straggled in -- men, women, young children and babes-in-arms -- and we discerned that it was a birthday party for the grandfather.
The "birthday boy" had clearly picked the restaurant even though the rest of the family knew nothing about Indian food. In his loud voice, he went through the menu and told everyone what they would and wouldn't like.
"You don't want the biryani," he declared. "It's a bunch of morsels of different stuff." (At the time, I was eating an absolutely scrumptious lamb biryani.)
He besieged the poor waiter with questions about what color the sauces were and what accompaniments came with each entrée. He pointed to the chicken tandoori on the menu and asked the waiter to explain how it was cooked. The waiter thought he was ordering it and started writing it on his pad.
It didn't help that the grandfather was intermittently taking phone calls and standing up and walking around the restaurant.
The waiter tried to set about taking people's orders in some organized fashion, but one guest said she'd already eaten and would share what others had ordered; another hadn't made up her mind and asked the waiter to come back to her later.
The two older woman at the end of the table were reading the menu with disapproval. "I'm not ordering anything Indian, that's for sure!" said one (I couldn't believe my ears). She ended up ordering chicken fingers. With rice. Without any sauce.
Before they finished ordering, with the waiter just standing there, the man started opening his birthday presents. One was a collection of religious essays.
I wish we could have stayed to witness this clan eating their dinner, but we had a concert to attend.
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