Storytime 2

Word List:

1. menu

2. speed

3. spices

4. tyres

5. excellent

6. essence

7. chicken

8. cheat

9. character

10. soup

11. vice

12. Robin

13. rendezvous

14. top

15. hegemony

16. polemic

17. antediluvian

18. simple

19. clinical

20. abhorrent

HuMan:

Glancing down at the menu, Don Corleone didn’t have much to say. The speed with which they had driven down to the establishment didn’t justify the occasion at all. Apparently, the children had scored full marks in their class tests and that was worth celebrating. They were craving a special blend of spices, poultry and gravy or more specifically Indian, something Don Corleone could thankfully afford. The tyres of his car weren’t in the most excellent condition so speeding from home to the restaurant felt like a questionable decision in hindsight, but he understood that it was the essence of administering a pretend rollercoaster through the streets of Chicago that made the journey the most ecstatic experience for the children. But were the expenses that came after ever worth it?

Don decided not to overanalyze his route any further and enjoy the moment. The tots were instructed to select one dish that would be ordered in large and shared by the four of them, and there was not a moment's hesitation as all their fingers pushed on dish number 12 that said butter chicken on the menu and that is what they ordered. Don could not help but be taken back in time, to a time when his table was overflowing with dishes catered to each member's needs. Old pops hated potatoes and so all his steaks had to be untouched by any unnecessary starchy sides. Peter the cheat, had an allergy to nuts, and so his gravies could never risk having cashews as an ingredient. Aunty Helen was a special character that was always a part of the latest trends that popped up in the neighborhood women's association. Not that she needed to fit in or anything, in fact she considered herself the trend setter. She even had a food scientist assigned to her who could come up with all sorts of dramatic allergies and attractions. Sometimes her food had to be gluten free and other times it had to be kosher (they weren’t even Jewish). As Don mulled over his memories and spaced out of the chattering among the siblings, the waiter interrupted all of this activity by putting across the table a bowl of soup. Don was taken aback and as he lay bewildered at the presence of soup on the table, the children stared at him in anxiety. He asked a simple question, "Who asked for this?". As his eldest tried to open her mouth to answer that question she couldn’t get an "Actually..." in before he immediately raised his hand like a stop sign, glared at the waiter and reiterated the question. "Who asked for this?", he asked again this time while looking at the waiter. The waiter replied in a voice so clear, that Don began to have a bit of self-doubt, that maybe it wasn’t the waiter's fault for accepting the order of a child. In those few seconds he also considered the vice that might have creeped into his child's head, after all, sometimes he feared that that was the only thing he had passed on to her. Robin, the eldest tried to speak up again, "Sorry dad..." and immediately Don snapped back from all his doubtful considerations and again held up his hand in firm stance demanding the waiter accept his convenient negligence towards the order placed. The first silence from the table was ignorable, the second wasn’t. It interrupted several rendezvous around them. A couple on a cheap date, a broke group of collegemates, an on the rise critic who was having a chat with the chef, all went silent as the second silence sliced through everyone's evenings. The next order made its way to the table, this time correct, the butter chicken with its naans. But its presence was not celebrated as expected. Don at the top of his voice yelled at the waiter demanding an explanation for his insolent and disgusting exploitative behavior. The waiter only listened as Don yelled and belittled the waiter for every imaginable violation of human decency. After what felt like hours, where the butter chicken and soup remained hot throughout the duration of those hours, Don took a deep breath, and lowered his voice. Not out of submission, but out of exhaustion. And that is when the waiter leaned in close to Don's ear and whispered "You do not have any power over us anymore" and with that, he tore down Don's memories of hegemony over this beautiful city they called home. Don's polemic switched to shock. He was silenced by his realization that he couldn’t order that the waiter be taken away and disappeared with no questions asked. The people around, including his kids would find it antediluvian to order such a thing but for Don that would’ve been a Tuesday. A simple life, that is what he had asked for, and that was what he was experiencing. As seconds passed, Don's silence took a strange turn, and everyone in the restaurant could feel it. The tone of the silence had changed. Initially the silence sounded like Don would eat the waiter alive if he could, but now. Now the silence sounded like protection. Don didn't react at all because he didn’t want to introduce his children to the abhorrent yet luxurious past, he hid within him. His clinical accuracy when it came to him being protective aired more confidence and showed more authenticity in Don Corleone's character than anything else. Enough that, once the dust settled and all the involved parties, including the innocent bystanders, were on the same page about why Don said what he said next, the waiter, for no clear reason, obeyed. Don, in the calmest most subtle yet threatening tone would say "Would you please, return this order. It will be too much for the four of us". And the waiter pulled the soup from the table with the approval of the chef. The children, riding on a high from the illusion of seeing their father win, despite them having committed the sin, took a sip of water and had a memorable and pleasant evening. And this time, in hindsight, Don didn’t regret a thing.

Goldie:

For The Chef, curating a menu was like weaving an intricate story through food. One ought never to hasten the process; speed seldom sells, he was taught. The Chef strongly believed that the perfect menu must take the diner on a culinary journey that would invoke a sense of wonder and awe. The long way round, The Chef opined, was one with a palatable medley of umami, sugar, and spices. As long as every dish within the menu was set such that it complemented its predecessor, the diner would leave not only perfectly satiated, but also incredibly inspired. Each dish on a set menu was like the tyre on the wheels of a car. How excellent one tyre was, was irrelevant. All the tyres had to be of the greatest quality and work in harmony in order to make the car useful. For The Chef, the four wheels were the soup, the appetizer, the main course, and the dessert. While one would assume that the main course was the most important part of the menu, The Chef always maintained that it was the soup. Afterall, it was the soup that held the essence of the entire menu, and set the tone for the rest of the meal. For the appetizer, The Chef prefered to serve something light and zesty, like a fresh salad perhaps, with an acidic vinaigrette, or some sort of bruschetta with an aromatic pesto. None of this was conventional, but The Chef scorned the norm. When it came to the main course, most chefs believed that protein was a must. Chicken was always the popular choice of protein as well. To The Chef, that was simply  cheating. Any one could serve a chicken breast on a plate with an assortment of accompaniments and call it a day, but the diner was not a fool, and The Chef liked to treat them as such. One could make a delectable main course even without the central portion being a source of protein. Even a singular potato spud could be the star of the main course, as long as it possessed the right character, and it was always upto the chef to give it that character. It was  imperative that the main course be full-bodied, but not too heavy, as dessert begged to be enjoyed on a stomach that wasn’t too full. Like the soup commenced the journey, the dessert brought it to a joyful end. Not providing the diner with a fitting end, a Grand Finale, was The Chef’s greatest vice. When the diner had their last morsel, they must hear the sound of violins hitting a crescendo, or robins singing a melodious tune of utter satisfaction. Only then did The Chef believe his mission truly complete. An incomplete mission was a rendezvous with shame.

Despite his abject perfectionism, The Chef trusted his team of sous chefs to meet his vision. In the kitchen, he was not always the Top Chef. Needless hegemony would not beget good results and long polemics would do nothing to improve existing efforts. Such methods, though popular, were antediluvian and largely ineffective. The Chef liked to keep it simple- work in harmony cook up the most delicious plates of food. As long as the food was not abhorrent, The Chef was happy. He trusted his subordinates to meet his vision, afterall, he only employed those who were as clinical as he was in the kitchen.