Crime fiction: The line between culinary artistry and sinister manipulation blurs at this restaurant

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2 days ago

The amazing aroma completely enveloped him!
The moment he opened the door of the taxi and set his foot on the ground, he became aware of the fragrance pervading the air. It was unfamiliar, something he had never come across in his life. He immediately felt its enchanting allure.
He was ravenous anyway after having travelled for four or five hours without any halts, but with this tempting aroma, his hunger reached explosive proportions. Spotting a roadside restaurant just twenty yards away, he removed his sunglasses and took a proper look. He could clearly see its strange and uncommon name on the signboard. He took a deep drag on the cigarette pressed between his lips and cast a sideways glance at the taxi before moving ahead. The driver was waiting with his head outside the window. As soon as their eyes met, the man nodded in assent, and at once the taxi departed with a loud whoosh.
The restaurant in front of him proudly proclaimed: Tagore Never Ate Here!
Absolutely bloody true, he thought. I would never eat here either, except …
Sniffing appreciatively, he continued walking.
The restaurant, a handsome single-storeyed bungalow beside the highway, had a long veranda with a tin awning painted green in front. A single glance at the large French windows and the massive carved wooden door was enough to imprint the place in one's mind. There were very few attractive restaurants like this located beside the highway. Most of them functioned as halts for buses carrying passengers. The big bus service companies themselves owned some of the restaurants. Each had a large vacant area in front that served as parking space for the buses and coaches; but it was not like that in this unique restaurant. The empty space in front of it could at best accommodate ten or twelve passenger cars. No long-distance bus or coach was parked there. Where were they parked then?
He found the answer to the left of the restaurant.
There was a petrol pump about a hundred or a hundred and fifty yards from Tagore. Several buses, coaches and lorries were parked there. Looking all around, he cast his eyes once again at the restaurant. Only a white-coloured vehicle and a black-coloured microbus stood in the clearing in front.
The afternoon was crawling along. Everything seemed to be dozing here. The highway too seemed to stretch languidly. One or two buses or lorries plied along it every once in a long while.
In the vicinity of the restaurant were paddy fields, pools of water and canals. Behind it, far away, lay a rural settlement. Farmers' homesteads dotted the vast paddy land. A narrow muddy path ran towards those homesteads, with large tracts of farmland on either side. Here and there lay small and large ponds, pools and drainage channels. If you gazed into the distance, you glimpsed the eternal scene of the green plain becoming one with the sky.
Approaching the restaurant, he paused to take a final, satisfying puff before flicking away the cigarette. The massive carved door was just beside the 'No Smoking' sign, and as soon as he pushed it and entered, he was taken aback for a few moments. Rabindrasangeet, playing softly, wafted from within. He wasn't surprised. It was to be expected, especially in a restaurant with such a name.
He studied the room now. The decor and milieu were completely different, as was the arrangement of the furniture, with three or four chairs around each circular table. Five or six such tables were set up in the room. At best, this arrangement could seat only twenty or twenty-five customers, which was half the number of people that the large space could accommodate. It was as if its owner was conveying a message to everyone: I am not in the restaurant business simply to earn money. What I'm engaged in is a kind of art!
In this wintry late afternoon, there were some five or six customers at two tables who were eating with great gusto. Looking at them, it seemed they had taken a break in their long journey in order to eat. Perhaps they had heard good things about this restaurant from someone and come down to try it out.
Seeing him enter, some of the diners turned to look at him, but not for very long; they went back to focusing their attention on the delicious food laid out in front of them. Glancing around, he couldn't spot any waiters, so he sat down at a table in front. The seat was most comfortable. Restaurants did not normally have such comfortable seating. One could sit here with one's arms and legs spread out. He proceeded to do just that. His whole body felt sluggish after the long journey.
For a restaurant, the place was amazing. There were no menus on the tables. That was curious too. Nor were there any waiters or any other staff. It was a completely unconventional scenario. There was a small door to the northern side, perhaps one could go through that to another room beyond. Just beside the door was a small window. It had an opaque, blackish glass pane through which nothing was visible.
He looked westwards. There were two more doors. From the signs he figured out they were washrooms for men and women. A sudden knock startled him. Behind him, a bit to his right, a youth was standing. He was a waiter. If he hadn't had the menu in his hand, he might have been mistaken for a customer.
'Here's the menu,' the youth said. 'Take a look. If you want to order, I'll come by.' He left without saying anything more.
How will this waiter know when I want to order? He thought about that. Strange! He quickly scanned the menu. Unlike other restaurants, the number of items here wasn't excessive, and he noticed that most of the names of the dishes were unfamiliar. They had probably given new names to commonly known dishes. And some items in the menu had been displayed separately as 'Mushkan's Specials'.
Mushkan's Curry.
Mushkan's Secrecy!
Mushkan's Soup of Life!
Mushkan's Hybrid Cramchop!
Mushkan's Golden Pond Drink!
Mushkan's Just Tea!
What exactly was 'Mushkan's'? Was it the name of an Arabian or Persian dish? Like the Lebanese shawarma?
He realised that this restaurant was cleverly creating a mystery, and was utterly open about it.
Mystery! That is what I have come here to unravel, he thought to himself. He took his eyes off the menu and looked around. There was no sign of the waiter. Such a large restaurant and just one waiter! And he too vanishes like a ghost, refusing to stay in sight.
He saw the door on the north side opening and the same waiter emerging. Coming to stand beside him, the young man said, 'Yes, sir … Tell me.'
'I've been on a long journey … What do you suggest I order so that I can have a hearty meal? I can't figure out anything from your menu.'
There was no smile on the waiter's face, rather he appeared somewhat unhappy hearing the customer. 'You can have rice with meat or fish curry. Would you like something special along with that?'
'By special do you mean something like Mushkan's?'
The taunt in his words annoyed the waiter. 'Yes, something like that,' he retorted.
'What exactly is this Mushkan? Is it Arabian cuisine or something Persian?'
The waiter stared at him for a few moments. 'It seems you have come here for the first time.'
'Yes.'
The youth smiled courteously. 'It's a name, sir.'
'Name of what?'
'The name of the owner of this restaurant. She's the one who has prepared our entire menu.'
'Prepared your menu meaning?'
'She's a chef … you could say an extraordinary chef!'
'Oh.' The customer nodded and pondered for a few moments. A woman running a restaurant in a border region like this? And a chef to boot? An extraordinary chef even! 'All right, so what can I have with rice?' He stopped thinking about anything else and trained his attention to the matter of food. His hunger was becoming unbearable.
'You could try Mushkan's Curry. It's a beef curry.'
'Then give me that.'
'Okay, sir.'
He was surprised to see the waiter depart without saying anything more. 'Listen!' he called out to the youth.
The waiter turned around. 'Yes?'
'It would be nice to get some dal or vegetable curry with that … Is there something like that on your menu –'
'There's dal and several kinds of bhortas, sir,' the waiter interrupted him. 'It's complimentary with the rice.'
'Oh,' the man said, raising his eyebrows. 'All right.'
'Just tell me if there's anything you'd like to have, there's no problem,' the waiter said before hurrying away in the direction of the shut door.
The man looked at the three customers sitting far away. They were certainly all going somewhere for a holiday. The people were eating with such delight that watching them, it seemed they were savouring the most delicious food in the world. They ate silently, glancing at one another every now and then to exchange admiring looks. It was indeed a sight to behold. It was as if each one were engaged in a pantomime. From their clothes and appearance they gave the impression of being well educated and wealthy, definitely not the kind to lick their fingers, but that was what they were doing right now.
Despite being so far away, the delicious aroma of the food on that table wafted to his nose—incredible and enchanting.
Excerpted with permission from Tagore Never Ate Here, Mohammad Nazim Uddin, translated from the Bengali by V Ramaswamy, HarperCollins India.