Thanks, but no thanks

When it comes to breakfast, nothing can beat Indian hotel buffets, so I wonder why I’m feeling blue. The hotel where I am writing this has as lavish a spread as any —but too much food can be off-putting too, which is why I prefer to order a la carte. Usually, a glass of orange juice and eggs is just fine, though I do extend myself over weekends. At the time of writing this, I’ve skimmed past the spreads of baked beans, sausages, scrambled eggs, bacon; the north Indian puris and bhajis; the south Indian (always tempting) vadas, idlis and fresh dosas off a live counter; pancakes and waffles if you’re up to it; there’s south-east Asian congee which I’ve never been partial too; fruits, flavoured yogurts, doughnuts and all kinds of temptations from the bakery I find easy to resist, and cheeses that I sometimes succumb to. Cold meats left out for hours — ugh! How can anyone even think of it? 

This morning, it isn’t crowded in the spillover restaurant where those who didn’t find a seat in the coffee shop have been adjusted, so I decide to be a little adventurous. Having spooned some sprouts and dahi, I ask the chef at the eggs counter for a masala omelette, lavish with chillies, served over a paratha “With toast?” he asks. “No, with a paratha,” I say. “A stuffed paratha with aloo?” he asks. “A plain paratha,” I coax him, “served with the egg on top of it.” When all is confirmed, I retire to the corner table assigned to me. I have work to do.

Fifteen minutes later, I am served a paratha, plain, no trimmings, no accompaniments. “Your paratha, Sir,” says the waiter solicitously. “I asked for an omelette with it,” I remind him, “placed over the paratha.” The paratha is removed and replaced, a few minutes later, by an omelette. No accompaniments; no paratha. “I’d like a paratha with it,” I explain. “A stuffed paratha, Sir?” “No, a plain one, served instead of toast.” A few minutes later, all is sorted out. The paratha and the omelette finally make it together to my table. Only, by now, they’re stone cold. I tell myself the sprouts will hold me till lunchtime.

But I do like coffee at breakfast. Helpfully, the waiter had taken the order for my preferred choice of cappuccino. “Yes, Sir, a cappuccino.” “A strong cappuccino,” I suggest, “even a very strong cappuccino.” I am assured of its arrival. Only it doesn’t. “My coffee,” I remind a passing waiter — not mine — and we go through the same sequence again. I wait. No coffee. “Would you like anything else, Sir?” my waiter is back to clear my uneaten plate.” “I’m waiting for my cappuccino,” I say. “Very well, Sir,” he says. 

Over the shenanigans of the paratha and omelette, I’m drawing a little notice to myself, but the cup of coffee remains elusive. I decide to walk across to the hostess to ask for her help. “Coffee, Sir,” she says, “I’ll send somebody across.” Finally, perhaps a half hour and a half-dozen reminders later, I have what I asked for — a strong cappuccino. I’m tempted to ask for a second round, but dare I risk it? I take the coward’s way out. Tomorrow is another breakfast day.