by Laura Briggs
“Thanks,” said Ama.
“You look great,” said Jaidev, giving her a thumbs-up. “Knock ’em dead, kid.”
“Jaidev!” Pashma scolded him.
“It’s just an expression, Mom,” he said.
Tamir’s choice of restaurant was the new Indian Palace near the business district: Ama had seen it a time or two, a modern spot close to the waterfront, with an atmosphere at once austere on the outside and overly elaborate on the inside, in her opinion.
Folk dancers, sitar music—this place was more culturally accurate than restaurants like the Tandoori Tiger, where the staff wore loud saris, and there were glittery fabrics and cushions for the seating areas. Even so, its atmosphere didn’t do much for Ama, as she discovered while seated across from Tamir, listening to a throaty folk singer covering a traditional Rajasthani tune.
The waiter brought them menus. “Welcome to the palace,” he said, saluting them with a traditional Hindi greeting. “Tonight’s specials are an infusion which melds the cuisine of Rajasthan and modern vegan cuisine in harmony.”
Hence the dhoka music and the hostesses dressed in skirts and chaniya cholis in blue and yellow Bagru prints, Ama surmised, which put her aunt Bendi’s mirrored and embroidered folk dress to shame. “They have some good Punjabi dishes here,” suggested Tamir to her, as he perused the restaurant’s signature dishes.
She wondered what he would say if instead of dinner she ordered a big dessert plate heaped with sweet and sticky balls of gulab jamun in their sugary sauce. Her lips almost twitched into a smile at this image.
“I’ll just have the dal bati,” said Ama. Her auntie’s version of this dish of lentils and wheat rolls served with ghee was her favorite from her mother’s family’s traditional cuisine.
“And for you?” The waiter looked at Tamir, who was seated across from Ama.
“I’ll have the makki ki roti,” said Tamir.
“An excellent choice,” the waiter said, bowing as he collected their menus.
“Makki ki roti?” she repeated, somewhat surprised at his choice. It was an exclusively Punjabi roti dish, and humorous clichés about Tamil Nadu proclaimed roti to be more of an indulgence among vegetarian dishes anyway.
“I haven’t tried this restaurant’s version,” he said. “Maybe you can tell me if it’s good, since it’s probably a popular dish at your restaurant.”
“Sure.” Ama didn’t really want to think about her restaurant’s menu while surrounded by the palace’s forced authentic atmosphere, though. What would Tamir say if he knew about the candied pumpkins topping Indian desserts during November? Or saw the glitzy Christmas tree in the restaurant’s foyer?
“How long has your family been in the restaurant business?” he asked.
Ama sipped her water. “As long as I can remember,” she said. “I was born here, like all of my siblings. Before he came to America, my father owned a big restaurant in Himachal Pradesh,” she added. “And before that, he helped run his father’s restaurant in Punjab. But he and my mother had the chance to come to America, so they took it. The political situation in his home city was growing worse, and there were better opportunities abroad… you’ve heard the same story dozens of times.”
Tamir nodded. Not the world’s greatest conversationalist, Ama reflected.
“What about you?” she asked.
“My father worked for an American garment exporter based in Mumbai when I was growing up,” said Tamir. “We lived in America for a while, then we moved back to Mumbai so he could manage the business’s main outlet. He was transferred to the U.S. branch of the exporter’s retail chain permanently when I was around fifteen. But I stayed behind for a couple of years, because my grandfather was the headmaster at the school where I was studying English and mathematics… and I was at the top of the class.”
He hid a smile and, for the first time, Ama thought maybe he possessed a sense of humor. Maybe he was thinking, what Indian family wouldn’t insist their son hold onto a first place ranking, even if it put an ocean between them? That was the kind of joke that their culture would chuckle over, and Ama almost did, to see if Tamir was really thinking the same thing. Just then, however, he spoke again.
“Have you ever been to India?” he asked.
“Me? No,” said Ama. “I’ve been to Mexico once.” It was a trip during her senior year, for which Ama had saved her meager tips from the restaurant—her father thought spending money on frivolous travel was wasteful, but Ama had loved the idea of lying poolside at a beachfront resort, with warm sand, broad-brimmed sombreros, and the colorful festivities of a Hispanic holiday that rivaled even the boldest Indian wedding celebration.
“Mexico?” Tamir repeated. A little frown wrinkled his forehead. That look of puzzlement irked Ama ever so slightly, as if he was wondering why anyone would want to go south of the border.
“It was the most fun I’ve ever had,” she said. “I brought back a big hat, a sequined purse, and some beautiful fabric that I made into a skirt. I even put little mirror sequins along its hem—it kind of reminded me of my aunt Bendi’s best blouse when I was done with it,” she admitted.
“Is that your aunt’s real name?” His brow furrowed a little more.
“A joke,” said Ama. “It was my brother’s nickname for her when he was a kid. She’s a little… assertive… my aunt. She has a habit of bending circumstances to go her way, whether it involves a family issue or a new addition to our restaurant’s menu.” Now would be a good time to change the subject, Ama reflected. “You grew up in India, though,” she said. “You must have some great stories. There are probably some really beautiful places in Mumbai.”
“There are,” said Tamir. “But I liked my grandfather’s house in Tamil Nadu better. I’ve been to Rajasthan, though. That’s your mother’s family’s home, isn’t it?”
“You know that?” Ama wondered if that was why they were in a restaurant clearly hosting an evening dedicated to that state’s culture—and if it had been the culture of Bengal instead, if they would be eating at the Punjabi Express across town.
“It said so on your profile,” said Tamir, his brow creasing anew.
It did? It occurred to Ama to wonder what else her father had shared, inadvertently or on purpose. “What was it like?” she asked. “Did you see Jaipur or Jodhpur?” The former was the ‘pink city’ and the latter was the ‘blue,’ named for the colored stone and the paint that characterized their buildings, respectively.
“I saw Jodhpur,” he said. “From the fort.”
“So was it beautiful?” persisted Ama.
He shrugged. “It looked like the pictures,” he said.
So was it beautiful or what? Ama was slightly annoyed. Tamir smoothed his dinner napkin, and now was busy cleaning his eyeglasses’ lenses. Without them, his face looked different—less superior and oh-so ‘I.T.,’ as Jaidev would put it. When they were back in place, he offered Ama a glance and another bland smile.
Their waiter reappeared. “A sample of tonight’s featured fusion dishes, with the chef’s compliments.” He placed two plates between them, one with litti chokha, the other with a spiced curry, he explained.
“Spiced with what?” asked Tamir.
“Our chef’s secret spice,” answered the waiter, before disappearing again.
Rats. Appetizers. Ama had been hoping the main courses might hurry themselves along. This evening would come to a merciful end if dinner was quick, especially since she and Tamir were running low on things to say to each other.
They tasted the first dish, then the second. “Can you tell what the secret is?” asked Tamir.
Ama let the flavor roll over her tongue. “It tastes a little like Hungarian paprika,” she said. “Or maybe a mild Mexican chipotle.” She took a second bite, but still wasn’t sure. “It must be a cultural fusion outside of Indian spices.”
“So much for authentic cuisine.” Tamir returned to the first appetizer. “Last time I was here, the menu was a little more tr
aditional, but maybe they changed chefs since then. My boss said it had the most authentic Punjabi menu in the city. That’s why I chose it over Punjabi Express. I thought maybe it would be a good idea to try a less casual place.”
You couldn’t find a place less casual than the aforementioned restaurant, whose dancers and sitar soundtrack made the Tandoori Tiger seem positively sophisticated—and the Express’s menu was twice as greasy and more like Indian fast food. Had he been planning to take her there because of that, Ama wondered? After having seen a glimpse of her own family’s less than formal restaurant?
“Can I say something frank?” she said. Tamir looked up from his plate.
“Of course,” he said, sounding surprised.
“I’m just surprised that you called me for a date,” she said. “Actually, that you picked me from your list of matches in the first place. I mean, after you saw that my profile kind of exaggerated some of my background and qualities, especially.” For instance, that a successful business couldn’t cover for her family’s lack of social status compared to his own, she wanted to add.
Her father’s profile and not hers, that is. She didn’t want a profile, or a match, or to be eating this dry curry dish in a restaurant that was way more expensive than her family’s. Especially not with a guy who seemed so horribly wrong for her in so many ways—ones that had nothing whatsoever to do with class or cultural distinctions, either.
“I thought you sounded interesting,” he said. “My roommate in college was Punjabi.”
“Your roommate.” She stated this flatly. This reason for finding her interesting seemed rather stupid to her. Maybe his friend had been one of those ‘life of the party Punjabis’ as Jaidev called them, and he had imagined she, too, was a talkative, fun-loving type who loved the night life. This theory was now replacing the possible mistake of him somehow assuming she was the daughter of a wealthy Punjabi businessman instead.
“He wasn’t from Punjab. He was from New Jersey.” Tamir moved aside his appetizer as the waiter arrived with their main dishes.
“Were you really good friends?” asked Ama. She wondered vaguely what Tamir did with his friends. If he didn’t pursue outdoor sports anymore, what was his hobby? “Is he one of the people you hang out with?”
“I haven’t seen him in two or three years, actually,” said Tamir.
“I see.” Ama picked at her lentils. “So what do you do for fun?” she asked.
“I see movies sometimes. There’s an Indian theater near the cultural center. Do you like Rajinikanth?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had it,” said Ama, confused.
“No, he’s an actor,” said Tamir. “His movies are some of my mother’s favorites, although she generally prefers art house films over Bollywood. But I love Telugu films myself. Their stunts are hilarious.” He dug his fingers into the rice on his plate—eating in the traditional right-hand fashion instead of using the fork beside his plate. Whereas Ama’s fork was restlessly rearranging her food into perfect little piles. The lentils needed chicken stock, she decided.
“I don’t watch many Indian films,” she admitted. “Just a few on TV late at night. My mom and my auntie love the old classic ones, so sometimes I watch along with them. But I don’t know very much about the differences between them, or the top Bollywood actors and actresses.”
“Really?” he said.
“Unless you count Bride and Prejudice,” said Ama. “I loved that one.”
“What movies do you usually like?” She noticed Tamir wasn’t that interested in his food, either. Maybe this restaurant’s cuisine wasn’t his thing.
“I like a lot of Hollywood romantic comedies,” she said. “My favorites are the cheesiest. Old Disney romantic movies, black-and-white love stories… and the modern ones, those are the best. I’ve watched Return to Me more times than I can name. Me Before You, Dying Young—I pretty much keep a box of Kleenex beside the sofa when I watch.”
“I’ve never seen any of those,” said Tamir. “Don’t they die at the end of those last two? The heroes?” he clarified. “I think my roommate used to watch the last one with his girlfriend.”
“How about The Way We Were?” asked Ama. “Or You’ve Got Mail?” How could anybody not have seen a modern romance movie? Did no art house movies ever feature love stories?
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” he said. “You’re sure you’ve never seen a Rajinikanth movie, though? They show them on some of the late-night movie channels, I think.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Ama shrugged. “My auntie might.” She tried to picture Tamir’s mom enjoying the same kind of comedies her family did—ones about marrying off a dozen daughters to their true loves and suitable matches. Probably she watched them after spending an afternoon in a theater viewing some intellectual drama, like the French film industry’s equivalent of My Dinner with Andre. Without subtitles.
He gave up on his plate of food. “Tell me about your baking,” he said. “Your family said you run a baked goods by mail business part-time?”
“Not so much anymore. I’m a partner in a business, where I bake for weddings,” said Ama.
“You make cookies for weddings?”
“Cookies?”
“That’s what your father said you baked. Cookies,” said Tamir. “I thought maybe it was a new wedding trend or something. He said it was sort of a hobby for you.”
Trust her father to only think of the novelty birthday goodies she provided via her online shop Sweetheart Treats. “I guess I do bake wedding cookies sometimes,” she amended. “But wedding cakes as well. And I wouldn’t call it a hobby. It’s my job. My real job, even though I still work at the restaurant, obviously.”
“Baking sounds nice,” said Tamir.
“Thanks. It is.” Ama abandoned her lentils. They were definitely too dry. The restaurant was clearly having an off night.
“So what are Indian wedding cookies like?” asked Tamir. “Is it like a Punjabi dessert?”
“They’re not really Indian wedding cookies. They’re for any kind of wedding. They’re just desserts. And I baked a five-tier wedding cake for the last client. It was just an average wedding cake like anybody might choose, only it was my own design.”
“Oh,” said Tamir. “That’s nice.” He smiled as he repeated this polite observation.
The folk music was suddenly louder—the dhoka player was on the move, along with the dancers, who were now gyrating beside Ama and Tamir’s table, beginning the moves of a traditional Ghoomar dance. It was kind of like being trapped in a Bollywood musical scene, Ama imagined, as she shrank a little from the loud musical notes coming from behind her left shoulder.
Tamir leaned closer. “Maybe we could try a different restaurant next time,” he said.
Next time?
Eleven
Accented Creations’ show room was an austere, modern room with staged lighting, resembling a Guggenheim art gallery more than the typical florist’s showcase. The suspicious receptionist wasn’t present, replaced by the florist’s own assistant guiding them through possibilities for Nadia and Lyle’s wedding. Fortunately, he held no animosity toward Tessa as Blake’s supposed assistant, so the contractor’s absence wasn’t a problem today.
“This one is Margo’s particular favorite. She calls it ‘Winter Wonderland Walk,’” explained the assistant, referring to the florist in question. On display was an arrangement of slender, twisty woodland twigs decorated with a fake, sparkling crystal gel resembling ice, accompanied by fir boughs embellished with fake snow, glittery pinecone picks, and a strand of slender pearl lights for illumination.
“That’s really nice,” said Nadia. “That would look perfect. Lyle, what do you think? Lyle—” she poked her fiancé in the side, who was busy studying a weird modern painting on the show room’s wall, one which resembled a jumble of calla lilies. “What do you think? It would look good in the middle of our tables, wouldn’t it?”
“Sure, honey,” he said. “I guess so. I mea
n, I don’t know anything about this kind of stuff, so better ask Mom.”
“But I want your opinion,” said Nadia. “You know how important the decor is to me.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little plain?” said Paula. “It’s just a bunch of sticks in a vase.”
The mothers were back today—Cynthia in a little pillbox hat that belonged to Jackie O’s closet circa 1962, whereas Paula was doing her best impression of Gypsy Rose Lee’s mother in heavy rouge and a sequined dress and faux fur coat that might have looked perfect at a burlesque show. Tessa’s heart had sunk the moment they climbed out of Lyle’s car, as if it was an omen for this day’s progress.
The assistant bristled. “We prefer to think of it as a tabletop sculpture,” he said. “Margo hand selects every branch herself and has it decorated by our team of artisans.”
Tessa pictured a gang of little woodland elves decorating these branches with magic glitter in their tree house. The urge to laugh was the only thing that saved her from the feeling of impending doom, now that Cynthia was taking notice of the second possible wedding centerpiece.
“That design is entitled ‘All Dressed in White,’” said the assistant, gliding into place beside the next exhibit. “Light, delicate, and reflecting the beauty of a traditional bride.” Paperwhites and thick-stemmed white amaryllises filled the plain glass vase. It was simple with clean lines, and definitely very traditional in Tessa’s estimate.
Tessa made a note in her planning book. “I like it,” she said to Nadia. “Except I think the first one fits your theme of winter white a little better. Snow and ice are natural elements, so leaning toward nature—”
“I think frozen sticks would look terrible in the middle of the table. It’s so cheap—Lyle, honey, tell them you aren’t cheap like that,” insisted Paula, tugging at her son’s sleeve.
“Of course I’m not, Ma,” scoffed Lyle. “Nadia and her family know that. It’ll be nice, whatever you ladies pick.” He wandered on to the third choice, not noticing the flurry of concern in the assistant’s eyes at someone leaping ahead of the presentation.
