I am fascinated by the concept of fine dining. First, of course, is the cuisine. Not food, kindly note. Describing it as food somehow diminishes the mystique surrounding these hard-to-pronounce dishes. Secondly, the huge dents these culinary works of art make in one’s retirement fund ensure that I admire them from far. They look mouthwatering for sure. But their prices also make the eyes water.
There are occasions though, really special ones, when one lands up at one of these institutions wearing a clean shirt. A quick glance at the right side of the menu almost results in a nervous breakdown. The diligent Google search before the visit had actually thrown up an old menu. The prices are way higher now. Also, it’s an a la carte menu. I tentatively ask for the set menu (with prices that are a bit more reasonable). The maitre d’ beams and divulges a very crucial bit of information - ‘Sir, the set menu is available only on weekdays. Today, Sir, is a Friday.’
With a weary smile of the vanquished, orders are placed. A thought springs to mind. Maybe there’s still a chance to escape, citing some emergency. And then I tell myself - Be a man. Live for the moment. That note to self calms jangling nerves down. And then the food arrives. I stare at it for a long time. It’s like a painting, an edible one. Oysters with fancy names. Prawns that were born in a place far away from Gulf waters. I didn’t dare think about the carbon footprint. Neat slices of tuna with Japanese antecedents. Heck! I felt like a weather-beaten world traveler simply by looking at the plate. And that, my friends, itself was the price of the admission ticket. Everything else was a bonus.