Hey
The Center of Attention
I don't know how many of my friends will agree, but I'm a pretty shy person. I don't like to be the center of attention. Especially when I'm eating.
For lunch today I ordered what South Indians call the 'meal'. It very well may have another name, or at least a more descriptive name, like the 'everyday meal', but the bill said 'meal' so that's what I shall call it.
You might be wondering how I ordered food without really knowing the name. When the waiter came to take my order, I just pointed at the stack of giant, verdant banana leaves slung over his arm. He laid one on the table and within moments, it became my tablecloth-cum-plate, with 9 or so small silver bowls filled with food and sauces, several dollops of condiments, a scoop of red rice, and dish of white rice.
While in North India, I'd read an article in the newspaper about South Indian cuisine and knew that I was to eat this 'meal' with my fingers. I just wasn't sure how to go about it.
Not to worry -- there were plenty of waiters in the place eager to show me. I got the feeling they were happy that I was trying their traditional fare for lunch... and maybe they were a bit eager to see just what I'd do with it, too. They pointed to each dish and explained what it was (not that I understood) and then signalled that I should dump the white rice onto the leaf, mix in the contents from the silver bowls (I recognized Daal), mash it about with my fingers, and then scoop it into my mouth.
How glorious it is to eat with your fingers IN PUBLIC without committing a disgraceful faux pas. If I'd known about this custom in childhood, I most certainly would have spent the years between 4 and 12 begging my parents to move to India so I could eat with my fingers. The only thing is, it's just a little difficult to eat rice with your fingers. The Indians have a technique where they kind of form a ball with it and gracefully toss it into their mouths. Myself, I wasn't so elegant and ended up mashing the rice onto my face, with many bits stuck to my cheek or falling from my hand and others being 'inhaled', causing me to cough.
All of this was done for an audience -- I could feel at least 3 waiters hovering behind me to instruct or watch the white chick eat the 'meal'. Several made sure to point out the desert with a big smile. Everyone likes desert. Everyone also knows that women don't like to be watched while eating, but my discomfort went beyond that. However, it was nice to feel "loved" in this land of flimflammers (at least where the 'tourist' is concerned).
Yesterday, on an excursion to the odd Governement Museum, Benjamin and I came the closest we'll ever come to celebrity. There were lots of school kids at the museum, of many ages and different shools. Seems that day was THE day for field trips throughout the city of Chennai. We were resting on a bench and were surrounded by a horde of children who wanted to shake our hands, ask our names, and say, "Hello!"
At one point, there was a crowd that must have been three deep. Most of them were little girls, with braids or long black hair, and strings of small white Lillys decorating their locks (many women and girls wear the lillys in their hair -- today a woman at the train station gave me hers when I commented on how nice they smelled).
We couldn't move anywhere in the museum without our entourage of 'fans' -- the kids risking retribution from their teacher for breaking away from the group just to touch us and continue our converstation that consisted of one word that we could both understand: "hello".
I wrote before that India is full of moments that continuously swing one's feelings on a pendulum from hate to love, and from love to hate. So now we know both sides of India's emotional dichotomy.
For lunch today I ordered what South Indians call the 'meal'. It very well may have another name, or at least a more descriptive name, like the 'everyday meal', but the bill said 'meal' so that's what I shall call it.
You might be wondering how I ordered food without really knowing the name. When the waiter came to take my order, I just pointed at the stack of giant, verdant banana leaves slung over his arm. He laid one on the table and within moments, it became my tablecloth-cum-plate, with 9 or so small silver bowls filled with food and sauces, several dollops of condiments, a scoop of red rice, and dish of white rice.
While in North India, I'd read an article in the newspaper about South Indian cuisine and knew that I was to eat this 'meal' with my fingers. I just wasn't sure how to go about it.
Not to worry -- there were plenty of waiters in the place eager to show me. I got the feeling they were happy that I was trying their traditional fare for lunch... and maybe they were a bit eager to see just what I'd do with it, too. They pointed to each dish and explained what it was (not that I understood) and then signalled that I should dump the white rice onto the leaf, mix in the contents from the silver bowls (I recognized Daal), mash it about with my fingers, and then scoop it into my mouth.
How glorious it is to eat with your fingers IN PUBLIC without committing a disgraceful faux pas. If I'd known about this custom in childhood, I most certainly would have spent the years between 4 and 12 begging my parents to move to India so I could eat with my fingers. The only thing is, it's just a little difficult to eat rice with your fingers. The Indians have a technique where they kind of form a ball with it and gracefully toss it into their mouths. Myself, I wasn't so elegant and ended up mashing the rice onto my face, with many bits stuck to my cheek or falling from my hand and others being 'inhaled', causing me to cough.
All of this was done for an audience -- I could feel at least 3 waiters hovering behind me to instruct or watch the white chick eat the 'meal'. Several made sure to point out the desert with a big smile. Everyone likes desert. Everyone also knows that women don't like to be watched while eating, but my discomfort went beyond that. However, it was nice to feel "loved" in this land of flimflammers (at least where the 'tourist' is concerned).
Yesterday, on an excursion to the odd Governement Museum, Benjamin and I came the closest we'll ever come to celebrity. There were lots of school kids at the museum, of many ages and different shools. Seems that day was THE day for field trips throughout the city of Chennai. We were resting on a bench and were surrounded by a horde of children who wanted to shake our hands, ask our names, and say, "Hello!"
At one point, there was a crowd that must have been three deep. Most of them were little girls, with braids or long black hair, and strings of small white Lillys decorating their locks (many women and girls wear the lillys in their hair -- today a woman at the train station gave me hers when I commented on how nice they smelled).
We couldn't move anywhere in the museum without our entourage of 'fans' -- the kids risking retribution from their teacher for breaking away from the group just to touch us and continue our converstation that consisted of one word that we could both understand: "hello".
I wrote before that India is full of moments that continuously swing one's feelings on a pendulum from hate to love, and from love to hate. So now we know both sides of India's emotional dichotomy.
posted by Cheryn at 2:06 PM
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