Tales From The Food District (12°58'40.33"N, 77°38'27.35"E)

Publisher’s Note:

This entry is not a part of Dr. Chinnappa’s notes. During the writing of this diary, he held a month-long short-story writing contest for the general public. The topic given was “real-life accounts of personal experiences in the Food District of East Bengaluru (‘Indiranagar’, N-202x).” Many winning entries were chosen and turned into a series that is included, in full, in the reader’s edition of ‘Before The World Ends: Bengaluru – India’s Problem Child.’ However, the publisher has chosen to include a few selected stories at certain points within this diary so as to provide a variety in writing style and presentation – “through a resident’s eyes.”

The following short story did not win the contest. All entries were submitted anonymously.

Title: ‘What Would You Like To Order Today?’

My cousin has always been a pain to eat as restaurants with. They are one of those people that never, and I mean never, makes up their mind about what they want to eat. You know, like-

“I’m fine with anything! Why don’t you pick something?”

“You’ve been here before; what’s good?”

“Surprise me.”

And then they would grumble about the choices I made, or the recommendations given by the wait staff. 

Urgh. Well, today, I had a plan. I told my cousin that we were going to go to a new restaurant, and that it was going to be a mystery. They were a bit hesitant (“Well, could you at least tell me what kind of food we’ll be eating?”) but agreed. An autopod whisked us to the Food District, and I stopped it at a place I knew would stump them once and for all; Mind Foods. As they got out and stared at the sign outside, they were not pleased. “You know I don’t believe in this nonsense. Let’s go somewhere else.”

I did not budge. “Nope, this is where we’re eating! I don’t need to order something you won’t like anyway, you can continue never ordering as always, and technically, you will literally be eating what you want to eat.” The two of us walked in with my cousin grumbling under their breath. We were assigned a table, and as soon as we sat down, the wait staff walked up to us with a big smile and affixed a brain probe to each of our heads.

“Welcome to Mind Foods! We have a special-”

My cousin sullenly interrupted, “Sorry, but we’re not married. We are family.” I looked down quickly and stared at the floor. The wait-person gave me a humorous and knowing look. “I’m sorry, but I was actually going to mention that we have a special Southeast Asian menu for the month, so if you would like to try it...” I looked up, having controlled myself. “I think we will stick to the regular menu for today – thank you so much!” The wait-person beamed, left us both with a thick menu, and walked off. I glowered at my cousin.

“We are family, you said... really brought a tear to my eye.”

“Shut up.” We settled down for our ten-minute thinking period.

I should explain how Mind Foods works, shouldn’t I? Well, it specialises in what people call ‘telepathic gastronomy’, a new style of dining that has become quite popular all over the world. How it works is: they connect a probe to your head, try to read things like your mood, basic thoughts and your general emotions, and craft a meal based on it. The logic behind it is quite simple; if a chef can read your mind, they will know almost exactly what you’d like to eat and how you’d like to eat it, right? Obviously, most people think it’s stupid and that it doesn’t work – it’s not possible to read one’s mind like that, and even if what ends up being served is more or less what you want to eat, it’s probably a coincidence. Everyone wants to eat tasty food at a restaurant. Big deal. However, there are others who, in a world that is often cruel and relentlessly tiring, enjoy a gimmick now and then. I’m one of them. My cousin is not. And even if I don’t teach them a lesson, I’m having a lovely time.

I think of Indo-Chinese food. It’s my favourite kind of comfort food. I also do not mind that it’s about as Chinese in essence as the planet Neptune, but that’s fine. Extra spicy, of course. My parents did not raise a particularly sophisticated and delicate palate. They take the probe away after some time. My cousin is sitting there in a huff. I don’t bother starting a conversation. After a twenty-minute wait (which is good; that means they aren’t just reheating food made earlier), our meals arrive.

I have a bowl of soup, a big ol’ bowl of fried rice, and some chicken in an aromatic gravy. Just what I wanted. I’m impressed. My cousin is looking at their meal, a bit nonplussed. Before I tuck in, I take a look at it. It’s a very simple meal of rice and rasam and a poriyal with some potato chips and a kootu and some pickle – almost exactly what we would eat at home. That’s odd.

“That looks-”

“Excuse me! Excuse me?” They summon the wait staff, who walks over with a smile. “Excuse me, do you believe in simply cheating your customers?” The wait-person, calm as ever, says, “Is there something wrong with your meal?” I pipe up, “Not mine! This is exactly what I imagined... thank you!” My cousin gawks at me.

“No, it’s not. Can you stop lying? You’ve made your point. I will order my own meals from now on. But stop.”

“I’m not lying! I wanted some familiar Indo-Chinese, and that is what I’ve got.” The wait-person smiles at me and waits to speak. My cousin might as well have steam coming out of their ears. “But I thought of-”

The wait-person looks my cousin firmly in the eye. “You wanted to have some sort of steak but burned to a crisp and over-salted. You wanted limp fries and a shake with too much sugar. You clearly seem to be in a bad space, and it seems like you wanted something to complain about. We, on the other hand, pride ourselves on serving our diners good food, and just because our method works does not mean that we would willingly sabotage ourselves. So, since you look like you are from Bengaluru or from neighbouring TN, we have made you something you probably eat at home and would be comfortable with. Enjoy your meal!”

My cousin is completely gobsmacked. Their brain does not know what signals to send. After a short pause, they start eating quietly. I ask, “How the food?”

“Good.”

I am shocked that the fifteen minutes of uncontrollable, primal, frenzied laughter that came out of me did not kill me outright, or cause a noise complaint to be submitted to the nearest police station. Ah, what a meal. I’m going to go again soon.