Autumn brings with it the quiet joys of melancholy; it gives us that cherished opportunity to be with our friends, sitting in a semi-circle under an early evening sky. So, when I got an invitation from Le Meridien to taste their fondue delicacies, I decided to make use of it as much to taste fondue food — which, admittedly, I had not had much of — as to spend time with a friend who is generous with his smiles yet understated, even a shade mysterious.
For a change, Aslam required little nudging or prodding on my part; he happily accompanied me when I told me of the venue: The One at Le Meridien. And so it was rewind time sitting across a table with a little fire; not quite a bonfire of the winters but inestimably interesting. It was a modest flame which helped heat a little pot of oil, refined and transparent. On our platter were colours — sections of capsicum and more capsicum, broccoli and baby corn. Then there was a segment of chicken, diced and well proportioned. We were supposed to spear one piece of chicken, add capsicum or whatever took our fancy and dunk it in the pot on a flame deliberately left gentle to enable the chicken to cook evenly from inside and outside. It was an interesting, slow, really slow way of preparing one’s food at the table.
As little simmering sounds emanated from the chicken pieces, Aslam and I sipped our watermelon juice. And talked of the days we were in school, and our home science teachers tried valiantly, patiently, fruitlessly and hopelessly to teach us to cook. The loss, at that time, seemed entirely theirs. Today, the tables have turned; and we wish we had learnt more than we did. Meanwhile, the chicken pieces stayed pink, heating so slowly. We waited for them to turn deep red and take them off the little forks before they embraced brown age. Meanwhile, my friend wistfully recalled the days of bunking classes and preparing omelettes at home. I had no such skills, and confined myself to a few teenage pranks on my maths teacher, an amiable man whose only fault in life was to teach me algebra.
Finally, our chicken pieces were heated just right; we took them off the little improvised stove, added a couple of homemade sauces, sprinkled freshly ground pepper and lo, we were on our way! It tasted heavenly, the meat being so soft as to dissolve in the mouth; its taste mild yet veering well away from blandness. I helped myself to some more, tried a couple of helpings of mushroom too and pronounced my verdict: chicken layered with red capsicum won hands down over chicken with broccoli, and mushroom came a close third.
We were not done yet. There was more to fondues; we were told to keep a little space for Belgian chocolate fondue even as we lined our stomach with chicken biryani. Now, biryani was not my idea of a fondue dinner, but a little concession on the part of the hosts, who thought the novelty might be a shade too challenging.
I took a few spoons of biryani with raita — not much, just a little — and waited for the fondue dessert. It was worth waiting for: in came little crumbs of crusty bread, pieces of grapes and blackberries as part of a buttery chocolate fondue.
The best of the lot were the marshmallows. We dipped them into chocolate; had one, then another. Then another. Some went well with the chocolate, others needed no such accompaniment. One by one, like the king’s men, all were gone.
Gone too was the wistfulness of our conversation, replaced as it was with smiles, generous and happy.
The school days are long over. Thank God. Fondue evenings are here. Thank God some more.
(The fondue promotion continues till September 30).
