It was our anniversary a few days back. Quiet meals at low-key restaurants. That was the norm. This time it was a bit different. We are currently living separately in two different time zones, and I was home for a few days. Enough reason I thought. Let’s go all out for the anniversary.
As I always fancied myself as a bit of an intrepid explorer who in another day and age probably was a swashbuckling sailor with a strong sense of wanderlust and a lot of scurvy, I decided that the celebration should happen in the open seas. As luck would have it, the ship synonymous with maritime adventures, the legendary Queen Elizabeth 2, is now currently docked in Port Rashid. As a plan, it was ridiculously simple. Kidnap a millionaire. Use the ransom money to hire the QE2 and take her out for a spin. My co-traveler and I would be dressed in our nautical best. Jack and Rose. Minus the icebergs. It’s the Middle East after all. But we all know what they say about the best-laid plans. In seafaring language, it walked the plank. In short, it sank. All thanks to a technical hitch. The propeller of the QE2, for some unfathomable reason, had been taken out of the ship and kept on the jetty next to the ship so that vacuous selfies can be taken next to it. If I had called them a week ahead, they might have been able to put it back. But as I called a day before, it wasn’t just possible. Thankfully, I hadn’t yet kidnapped any millionaire. It's hard to keep them occupied.
There was a Plan B. Had to be. The vagaries of fate and all that. Look what happened to that Trump fellow. It was fate that made him adopt a platform such as Twitter and showcase his command over English to all and sundry. If he had another plan up his sleeve, he could have become an author and written books such as ‘Covfefe, Smocking & Hamberder: A Komedy Of Erorrs’. You need a plan B. And I had one. It was also related to the high seas. But a tad bit less adventurous.
I called up a restaurant specializing in seafood. Apparently the fish served is so good that when fishermen go out in the seas, schools of fish wave out to them holding placards – ‘Ready to be grilled, roasted, or batter fried. But only for XXX restaurant.’ It was that kind of restaurant. Good reviews. Great prices. There was nothing fishy about it. Till we got there. The first hint of trouble was when the waitress looked very confused at our choice of soup. There shouldn’t have been any confusion. The menu had a photo of Seafood Chowder and we pointed out to it. She smiled and took the order, only to return a few minutes later, saying that they don’t have it. It's like going to McDonalds. And being told 'Sorry' we're out of fries...would you like to have a salad instead?' Anyway, these things happen. So we ordered some other dishes and took in the surroundings. The restaurant obviously belonged to a singer. The acoustics were really good. The softest of whispers at the furthest table could be heard at the other end. Not that anyone was whispering. There was a group of diners who believed in exercising their vocal chords. ‘SHOULD WE ORDER THE GRILLED SEA BREAM? WHY IS PAT SO LATE? DON’T CALL HIM. HE’S GETTING A ROOT CANAL. I THINK I”LL GO FOR THE STIR FRY CALAMARI. PAT HAS A CRUSH ON THE DENTIST. HE DOESN’T NEED A ROOT CANAL.’ It took all my will not to stomp down to the kitchen, help myself to a pair of sharp knives and stomp out yelling - 'Who's in the mood for some fleshy sashimi?' Thanks to my formative years spent in a Himalayan monastery where for recreation we had to count the hair on our personal Yaks every day during lunch hour, I have vast reserves of patience. A bit of trivia. The phrase Yakety-Yak is actually Tibetan in origin and refers to the aforementioned practice.
Our dishes arrived. The bisque was delicious. And that was the last time; I could have mentioned something complimentary about the food. The squid was so rubbery that it could have given a rubber plantation a run for its money. The prawns, usually, a safe bet when it comes to taste, looked like they got into an almighty wrestling match with some other crustaceans on their way to our table. They tasted like what sweaty wrestlers would taste like. By this time, another group had cornered the other side of the restaurant. Four adults. Three sullen-faced kids. ‘NO MORE FIGHTING. LOOK THEY HAVE FRIES TOO. BUT WE WANT ICE CREAM.’
We settled our bill and stepped out. Sometimes it’s good to acknowledge defeat.
Finally the better half, as her wont, made a suggestion that made sense. Some tea at a quiet place might aid the recovery process of the jangling nerves. And that’s what we did. Headed to a café where the lunch crowd had long vanished leaving behind some much needed stillness. We soaked in the sense of quietude for the better part of an hour, gently nursing our cups of tea. Our anniversary ‘celebration’ was finally back on track. The quiet ones are always the best.