May 17, 2012
I am not sure if French Fries or Freedom Fries prepared in coconut oil can be called by the same names. They certainly don't taste the same. This was the first time I had them in India. At the St. Michaels Bakery at Plamoodu. St. Michaels is one of those institutions of the city that has continuously reinvented itself and survived for several decades. One of the major factors of the success, of course, being, as the American realtors repeat: location, location, location!
Set smack at the intersection of three of the busiest roads in the city, the bakery continues to be the go to place for school kids.Slightly different demographics inside this evening. Two aunties were tucking into their pizzas, with forks and spoons. The joint inside the bakery, designed in an overpowering shade of red, serves burgers and wraps as well besides coffee and ice cream.
Decided to try a fried chicken 'combo' meal. The entire staff here hails from Nepal. So the conversation reproduced here happened in English.
"We don't want the Pepsi with the meal..."
"Sir", very faintly followed by a sweet smile and vigorous shaking of the head meaning 'Not possible".
"Can we have a cappuccino instead?"
"Sir" repeat gesture and smile
"We will pay the difference"
"Sir" smile stays intact, major damping of the head oscillation.
"How much is a Pepsi?"
"Rs. 18, Sir"
"Ok, we'll take the Cappuccino and pay the Rs. 9 extra."
"Sir" widening smile reduces the eyes to mere creases. The head oscillation tilts 90 degrees around its pivot. This new dimension of head bobbing, I have come to realize, means "what more do you want?"
"A chocoblast"
St Michaels wasn't my primary destination in the area. I had gone to the bags and shoes repair shop near by. The bag that had made a gravity assisted plunge from my shoulders outside Ernakulam North railway station way back in October on the way to Munnar, had final come up from mending into Amma's attention span. She is flying to Chennai tomorrow and the bag is going with her.
I had dropped it off yesterday morning. I was promised brand new, strong leather handles by 9am today for Rs. 80. It was 6:30 pm. The bag was still had no grip on its life. "Saar, nale kalaile pothuma?" (Sir, will be it ok tomorrow morning?" I fake grave expressions of terror and displeasure on my face. The man goes about the repair immediately. "one hourile ready aayidum"
The combo meal and cappuccino shaved off half of that hour and added a couple of pounds to my belly. I waited on the leather bench at the shop while the sewing machine rattles to create the new handles. A very old man and a middle aged shirtless man work on the shop floor. The old man is fixing some lady's footwear. The shirtless man is cutting up pieces of leather. The pile of bags, coats and shoes on the floor reminds me of desi student apartments in College Station in July-August when new students are hosted together in some apartments!
Kavya Madhavan and Meera Jasmine grace the walls advocating their brands of footwear. I wonder if hefty actresses are preferred in footwear ad. There must be a subliminal message about load bearing capacity and tenacity.
Sewing is done. Deft movement of the fingers. Rapid appearance and vanishing of tools. Some twists and turns, some knocking about and we're done. He performs a primitive stress test on the handles and throws me a glance. I am satisfied. Burp!
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