“Veg or non-veg?”
Obee stood on the edge of Nahargarh Fort, watching the sun drop behind Jaipur.
Dani shrugged.
“Both”
Obee hesitated, took a drag from his cigarette, and glanced at his friend, Salil, in the fading light. The tip flared red then faded.
“Meat is okay?”
We nodded.
The two conferred briefly in Hindi before settling on a place.
“MM Kahn. Near the City Palace.”
~
We recognized it first by the racks of roasted chicken roasting out front, swallowed by smoke and fire, then by the banner hanging overhead—gold letters on a maroon background. A restaurant promoter dressed in white linen saw us walking nearby and called us to him.
I saw at once what our friends had meant with his disclaimer. There were no doors or windows. The front wall opened directly to the street, and the kitchen spilled onto the sidewalk—charcoal fires, open cauldrons, meat turning over exposed flame.
We walked between the heat and the work, and our host seated us at a communal table near the front.
“Chicken?”
He said it without giving us time to process.
“Chicken.”
This time, a statement.
We nodded.
“Come.”
He waved for me to follow, while Dani stayed behind.
I hesitated.
“Is this a good idea?”
Dani motioned for me to go.
He led me back to show me his chickens roasting over a steel-drum grill, filling the restaurant with their delicious smoke. Other birds simmered in cauldrons of boiling sauce. I held my head over them and breathed in their spicy taste.
Nearby, a boy who might have been the owner’s son created balls of roti, which he flattened with his hands before coating them with butter and chives, and frying them in grease. I pointed at the sauce and the roti, which he delivered to our table as I retook my seat.
While we waited, the owner brought us bottles of water. Another moved a dish of hot peppers from the neighboring table for us to munch on, but flies buzzed around, and unwashed fingers had picked through them. We didn’t eat the peppers, but we ate everything that followed.
Then our food arrived, served in a stainless-steel bowl without presentation—chicken covered with an orange gravy. As I watched, the chicken fell apart under its weight, spilling drippings across the table.
It smelled smoky, rich, and delicious. We had no utensils, so I used the flatbread, and began to eat.
The food was incredible.
My eyes moved from the peppers, to the kid tending the open fire, and to the smoke pouring onto the street.
Then I took another bite of my chicken.