Weekday Musings: Fine Dining with Mr. and Mrs. Chopra

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Lolla Kutty has so nicely echoed the sentiments of many of us, when we are ripped off by fancy restaurants and their bite-sized portions of food.

Inspired by Lolla Kutty’s brilliant take on “fine dining”, and your comments, here’s how Mr. and Mrs. Chopra experienced their own brush with culinary refinement.

“Rajeev, are you sure this is a restaurant?”

Mrs. Chopra looked around, wondering if they had walked into a museum or a spa. The white walls, the whispering waiters, and the faint smell of lavender gave nothing away.

“Yes, my dear,” said Mr. Chopra, looking confident. “It’s Le Papillon._ They say it’s a culinary experience, not just food.”

 As they sat down, she froze. In front of her was an army of cutlery, six forks, four spoons, and two knives, all arranged like a puzzle.

“Rajeev,” she whispered, “are we performing surgery or eating?”

He smiled indulgently. “Each has a purpose, darling. You see, fine dining is about _culture, precision, and refinement of taste.”_ 

“I see. And which one is for dal?”

 The menu arrived, printed in elegant italics, without a single word she could pronounce.

“What’s Foie Gras en Croute de... whatever this is?” she asked.

Mr. Chopra squinted. “Something French. Probably light and delicate.”

“Light and delicate? I’m hungry, not poetic.”

 The waiter glided in, all smiles. “May I recommend our signature — Carpaccio of beetroot with microgreens and a hint of truffle air?”

 “Air?” Mrs. Chopra blinked. “Did he just say air?”

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Chopra murmured. “It’s very contemporary.”

“Contemporary? I just want something that fills the stomach, not the air around it.”

When the food arrived, her jaw nearly dropped. In the middle of a vast white plate sat a lonely red circle, surrounded by artistic drizzles of sauce.

“This is it?” she whispered.

“Presentation, darling,” he said. “It’s all about balance, flavour, and aesthetic minimalism.”

“I see the minimalism. The rest is invisible.”

 After two such “courses,” the waiter reappeared with his well-rehearsed smile. “How is everything?”

She was about to express her feelings candidly, but her husband answered first. “Exquisite. Subtle interplay of textures. The truffle air was transcendent.”

“Transcendent?” she hissed under her breath. “So is hunger.” The waiter bowed in gratitude, and she quietly sipped her water.

 A third and fourth course followed, each tinier than the last. Between bites, Mr. Chopra spoke of “delicate textures” and “subtle pairings,” his tone carrying the satisfaction of a man who had arrived culturally. His wife smiled faintly and asked for more bread.

 The final act was the bill, a figure that could easily sponsor a weekend vacation. Mrs. Chopra stared at it, speechless.

“Worth it,” Mr. Chopra said, with quiet satisfaction.

She sighed. “For that price, I could have fed the entire colony and still had room for dessert.”

 On the drive home, he lectured gently on the value of taste, refinement, and cultural exposure. As they passed a roadside dhaba fragrant with frying onions, she looked out of the window and whispered,

“Next time, we’ll go to Chopra’s Dhaba, real food, no air.” 



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