This first appeared on @thefinelychopped instagram on 19/2/25
‘Take butter and go to Perch’, said K.
We received a message yesterday saying that we would not get electricity in our lane today. No thanks to all the digging around I was sure.
No electricity meant no drilling, I thought and felt excited about the chance of a rare sound torture free day.
They decided to cut one of the neighbourhood trees today. The sound of the tree cutting machine made our apartment shake. Our lane was once known as gulmohar road because of the trees that lined its sides. Today it looks like a battlefield. More West Bank than Bandra West.
K suggested that I go to Perch, her favourite cafe to work out of, to take refuge.
Man proposes BMC deposes, as they say. They decided to cut the trees in our lane today. The sound of the tree cutting machine made our apartment shake. Our lane was once known as gulmohar road because of the trees that lined its sides. Today it looks like a battlefield. More West Bank than Bandra West. ‘Nazar lag gaya,’ as K said.
K suggested that I go to Perch, her favourite cafe to work out of, to take refuge.
But why with butter?!
Then the penny dropped. She meant ‘Butter’ by Asako Yuzuki. The book I am reading at present. Coincidentally the book is set during the time of a butter shortage in Japan!
I brushed off K’s well meaning advice initially. I’ve grown up in O-Jyoti Basu’s Kolkata (Calcuttans of a certain vintage will get this). I am used to multiple power cuts everyday day. Unannounced. This was chicken feed in comparison.
The clock struck one. The sun blazed in full glory. I kept our windows shut to keep the dust out. Rivulets of sweat began to soak my tee shirt … and off I went to Perch. Never argue with the wife!
Perch was quite full when I reached. The diffused natural sunlight shrouding it, the grey stone flooring, light brown wooden furniture with money plants on tables, all lent a soothing touch.
I got a round table for four though I was alone. The table was bigger than the tables for two by the window which K & I take when we come here. I usually prefer to sit in a corner but this gave me the space to spread out.
I ordered a mushroom soup. The dust from all the digging has clogged my soul and my throat needed some TLC.
That’s the spirit of Mumbai these days. Sorry, scourge. Everyone is down with some sort of pollution related ENT issue.
It’s the age of protein. I requested them to add chicken, even though I expected it to stringy breast pieces.
I was wrong! The chicken pieces were as juicy as a much thumbed gossip rag. The soup was hot, hearty and just what I needed. It was geared to transform my dust choked croaky voice to that of Lara Mangeshkar’s. Would ‘Shreya Ghoshal’s’ be more current?
There was a small side of toast. It was as dry as…toast. I gave up trying to eat it after a couple of attempts.
I pointed it out to the staff. ‘Multigrain, it is dry sir.’ Maybe they had been bribed by the Dieticians Association of India to make sure that I can’t have bread. The service was very warm and they plied me with cups of warm water on request.
I asked for an espresso.
‘Single or double shot?’
‘Single please.’
It turned out be a nice, robust shot of coffee. Served at the correct temperature. Hot. Not scalding. The coffee was strong, its mild acidic note ensured that it was not bitter. They know their coffee. They do label themselves as ‘coffee & wine bar.’ (I later saw that they had billed it as a double shot and to be honest, it did seem more than a single shot).
‘No banana bread,’ I asked the server when he got the coffee sans it.
‘Sure sir, I will get it.’
K dotes on these thin slices of banana cake which they usually give with coffee. She asks for extras in fact.
The server came back with two. I will wrap them in a piece of tissue and take them back for the little woman.
The power is back at home. I will post this story. And leave.
Butter remained untouched.
