The Punjabi Pappadum

by Robert Newton

  Theo lifted the microphone to his mouth and let loose with a mind-blowing howl. His voice was gravelly, like he was gargling stones.

  “Wow,” said Veejay. “This guy can sing. I bet he did a bit of choir work as a boy.”

  “Yeah, well, I can’t see any women going for their undies,” said Dexter.

  Theo continued to belt out some tunes, adding in some fancy footwork here and there. At one point, he approached the microphone stand and pushed it over. As it was about to hit the floor, he planted his foot on its base and flicked it back up into his hand.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” said Dexter. “It’s brilliant.”

  The meals arrived, all garnished with an Australian flag.

  “Who’s in charge of food?” asked Travis.

  “Me,” said Dexter, raising a golden French fry in the air.

  “Put a tick next to presentation then.”

  “I’m not using the tick system,” replied Dexter. “I’ve decided to go for the wok system instead.”

  “The wok system?” asked Travis.

  “Yeah, it’s a rating system — one wok being poor and five woks being exceptional.”

  “Whack down five woks then.”

  The boys attacked their meals as Theo Ryan sang the blues. Under the lights his gold chains glistened with sweat.

  “Now for flavour,” munched Dexter. “How’s the Jumbuck Stew, Veejay?”

  “Could do with some curry powder. Two woks.”

  “And Travis, are you enjoying the Longwood Beef Burger?”

  “Five woks.”

  “You can’t give everything five woks, Travis,” said Veejay.

  “Have you ever tasted my mum’s cooking?” asked Travis.

  “We’ve never been invited.”

  “Exactly. Let’s just say that I’m easily pleased.”

  Despite Wendy’s insistence, the boys decided to skip dessert. They quickly finished their reports and settled the bill. Blues turned into rock and roll as the boys waddled their bursting stomachs out the bright red doors. Darkness was a relief after the lights inside. Outside, leaning casually against a wall, was Burger Man, the top half of his outfit rolled down around his waist.

  “Do a couple of backflips before we go, will you, Daryl?” asked Dexter.

  Burger Man grunted then spat on the footpath next to them.

  “Rack off losers, I’m on me smoko.”

  “You’ve just lost yourself a wok, fella.”

  SHAHI PANEER .......... $9.95

  Fresh homemade cottage cheese cooked in a tomato and butter sauce enriched with fenugreek, onions and pepper.

  Second row, left, was Dexter’s usual position, next to Travis. He looked to his right, down the row of smiling faces, mouths opening and closing in perfect unison. The Regional Boys Choir were famous for their smiles.

  Ever since Mr Carmody had taken over the reigns at Regional Boys, he’d insisted on happy smiling faces. He was red hot, especially around Christmas time.

  “Dexter Macallister,” roared Mr Carmody, “where’s your happy face?”

  “It’s at home, sir,” replied Dexter.

  “Well, what’s it doing there, son?”

  “I lent it to my brother, sir. He’s got a job interview this afternoon.”

  A titter ran through the choir, interrupting the second verse of “Deck the Halls”.

  Suddenly Mr Carmody rapped his baton on the metal stand in front of him. Silence.

  “Don’t do it, Dexter,” whispered Travis.

  But it was too late. Into the light stepped Mr Carmody, pumped up like a bully in a kids’ playground. Slowly he crept forward, eyeing off Dexter, a crazy smirk on his face.

  “No, no,” he said. “Bring it on Macallister. You seem to be a regular little jokester these days.”

  “Sorry sir, just having a bit of fun.”

  “Fun!” screamed Mr Carmody. “If you want to have fun I suggest you head down to the amusement parlour, Mr Macallister. We’re here to work, son, and if you don’t like it, there are a dozen boys on standby waiting to take your place.”

  It always came down to threats with Mr Carmody. He finished you off by making you feel small then twisted the knife with a crack about being expendable.

  “Right, back to it,” he bellowed. “Let’s focus, people. It’s Christmas time which means what, Mr Johnston?”

  “It means that we are here to bring happiness to others less fortunate than ourselves, sir.”

  “And how do we do that, Mr Singh?”

  “Through song, sir.”

  “And, Mr Gribble?”

  “Happy smiling faces, sir.”

  “That’s right. And what did I say about smiling, Mr Ingham?”

  “A smile is infectious, sir, just like the chicken pox.”

  “Correct.”

  MALAI KOFTA .......... $11.00

  Cottage cheese and potato dumplings in a creamy sauce with nuts.

  At a dimly lit table towards the rear of the Pappadum sat a solitary diner, at work on a plate of Malai Kofta. It was spooky to see the Pappadum so empty. Normally it would have been full by six o’clock, with a gang of hopefuls mingling around the front counter like vultures, ready to pounce when a group vacated a table. There’d be the buzz of conversation and laughter drowning out a graceful sitar. Other sounds too, like ceiling fans whirring and the chink of cutlery. Extra staff would be called in to cope with the madness. And in the background Mr and Mrs Singh would be hard at it, frantic, but always smiling. Veejay’s mum and dad had beautiful smiles. They were infectious, like … well, like the chicken pox. Then there was the smell. When you opened the door to the Pappadum it was like a slap in the face. Wonderful exotic spices leapt from red-hot pans and hung thick in the air. They were smells that stayed in your clothes and in your hair — a reminder of good food and friends.

  But now the Pappadum looked sad. The only table set was the one at the back. The others were undressed, white laminate and cheap looking. Not so long ago it didn’t seem to matter what the furniture was like. People would have sat on the floor. It was the food they came for.

  Now people rolled past in cars. Sometimes they stopped to look in, faces pressed up against the glass. Mostly they turned away with a thumbs down or a shake of the head. Back in the car you could see their faces, thinking, deciding.

  “Burger Barn?”

  “Mmmmm. Let’s go.”

  Dexter recalled the night his mum’s amateur theatre group opened with Anthony and Cleopatra. They were sitting in the Pappadum, post production, his mum on her fourth champagne celebrating her gritty performance as a petrified mummy. While the lid was lifted on a tomb she had to lie completely still and dead pan. It was a nonspeaking part, but boy she’d nailed it.

  “It’s like a sad old movie star,” she’d said looking around. “One minute you’re knocking ’em dead, getting rave reviews and the next you’re deserted, washed up. That’s when they bring in a younger model. A fresh-faced harlot. I could have played Cleopatra, you know. That Carmel Sheridan … she was hardly convincing, was she?”

  Dexter’s dad shot him a quick wink.

  “No dear.”

  “And the cleavage? Did you cop an eyeful of that?”

  “I hadn’t noticed, sweetheart.”

  “Well, it’s hardly professional, is it?”

  Sitting there now with Travis, Dexter realised that his mum wasn’t far off the mark. The Pappadum had been deserted — abandoned for a younger, glitzier Burger Barn. But what hurt Mr and Mrs Singh the most were the odd letters that had found their way into the local paper — letters from supposed customers slamming the Pappadum and calling it a “slop house”. The food critic at the Tribune was strangely offhand when Mr Singh made enquiries as to the source of the letters. It was dodgy all right and it all pointed to one place — the fresh-faced harlot down the road. The tricky part was proving it.

  A sour-faced Veejay returned to the table looking ten times worse than whe
n India missed the World Cup cricket finals.

  “Page two,” he spat, dropping the latest issue of the Longwood Tribune onto the table.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Dexter, reading through the article. “Four separate cases of food poisoning? Here? … Admitted to hospital? … No way.”

  Veejay’s eyes did a few circles of the empty dining area then shot off in the direction of the back part of the restaurant.

  “I don’t know how much more of this I can handle,” he explained sadly. “Dad’s having kittens out there.”

  Silently, Travis grabbed Veejay’s attention and swung his head towards the door.

  “How about we get out of here for a while. We’ll go to my place for a change and see if we can get Mum to cook up something gourmet.”

  Out of the kitchen stepped Theo Ryan in an apron saying “KISS THE COOK”.

  “How are those party pies, boys?” he asked.

  “Excellent, thanks Theo.”

  “Be honest now. I’ve a pretty thick skin, you know.”

  “No, they’re really good,” said Veejay, perking up. “Especially the curry ones.”

  “I like the chicken,” said Dexter.

  Theo Ryan was chuffed. He clapped his hands together and winked at Mrs Turnbull on the couch.

  “Ha! I told you, Kath. Just because society tells us that party pies should come in plain beef it doesn’t mean we have to swallow it. The big pies get the variety so why not the little guys. It’s not right.”

  “He’s got a point there, Mrs T,” said Veejay.

  “You’ve hooked up with an innovator, love. It’s the same in the car yard or with my music. I’m always pushing the boundaries. I’m out there. I’m m your face. I’m …”

  “Full of shit,” whispered Dexter.

  “I’ll tell you what you are, Theo,” said Mrs Turnbull, looking at the clock. “You’re late for work.”

  “Cripes!”

  Theo Ryan, the great innovator, fitted a gold bike clip to his leg and began pedalling down the driveway.

  “Look after my meringues, will you, someone,” he screamed. “They’ve got a couple of minutes left in the oven.”

  The first to speak was Dexter.

  “I don’t know what you were thinking giving him four woks the other night, Veejay.”

  Soon Mrs Turnbull appeared in the dining room.

  “Anyone for a meringue?”

  “Sure,” replied Travis. “But I’d like a serious word, Mum.”

  Theo’s meringues, believe it or not, were superb. On the table next to them sat the reports from the night at Burger Barn.

  “I’ve got a couple of ideas on where we’re going wrong at the Pappadum,” said Veejay. “Only problem is we’re going to have to move on this pronto.”

  “Why? What’s up?” asked Dexter.

  “It’s my Uncle Ravi,” said Veejay. “He’s coming out with his family for an extended holiday.”

  “Cool,” said Travis.

  “Not so cool,” said Veejay. “Uncle Ravi is a very successful businessman in India. He’s always made Dad feel like he wasn’t good enough. Anyway, Dad kind of told him …”

  “What?”

  “Well, he kind of told Uncle Ravi that the Pappadum was packed every night — full of celebrities, he said. I think he called it a gold-mine.”

  “Oops.”

  “He couldn’t bring himself to tell Uncle Ravi the truth. Now he’s going to look stupid.”

  “When do they arrive?” asked Dexter.

  “Four days,” said Veejay. “That’s why we’ve got to move. Any suggestions?”

  For two hours, ideas bounced around the table. Some were real clangers but there were a couple that made sense. With a limited budget and divided workload the boys decided it was worth a try. After all, it was the Pappadum at stake, an absolute gem, and Longwood would never be the same without it.

  CHICKEN TIKKA .......... $7.95

  A favourite with the locals! Boneless chicken pieces marinated overnight in fresh exotic herbs, spices and yoghurt and cooked in the tandoori oven.

  Dexter and Travis slipped quietly through the double doors of the Pappadum and dumped their bags behind the front desk. Except for a couple of spotlights in the kitchen area, it was eerily dark inside. Behind the glass, a well-dressed figure moved into view. Dexter grabbed Travis and ducked in behind the counter.

  “It’s Mr Singh,” he whispered. “What’s he doing here?”

  Peering out from the counter they could see Mr Singh clearly. He looked like a DJ in his glass booth. Once, when the Pappadum was pumping, customers would approach the glass and watch. He was a performer, Mr Singh, except instead of turntables there were hot plates. The kitchen was his stage. All sorts of utensils hung like props around him, arranged just so. Dishes would be sizzling and spitting, four or five on the go at once and he’d grab for something without even looking — a touch of cumin perhaps or a pinch of paprika. It was part of the Pappadum experience.

  Now Mr Singh, in his crisp white collarless shirt, looked beaten. He moved slowly, shoulders slouched, surveying his arsenal of kitchenware. Near the bench top he lifted his hands and pressed them against the glass. Pale pink they were, worn by years ofhard work. He gazed out into the empty restaurant, his face sad and vacant, trying to understand why someone had stolen his lifetime dream.

  Crashing into the restaurant came Mrs Singh with Veejay hot on her heels.

  “We won’t be long, darling,” she said. “I’ve left you some Chicken Tikka in the fridge. Just heat it up.”

  “So, what time does Uncle Ravi’s flight get in?” asked Veejay.

  “Two-thirty, I think.”

  Some quick sums passed through Veejay’s head. One hour there, maybe stop for fuel, parking at the airport, time in customs, general hellos, Dad stalling etc. They had three hours, max.

  “Okay then, you’d better be off,” said Veejay, ushering them out.

  At the door his dad turned for one last look.

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” said Veejay. “Everything will be all right.”

  Hearing the car rev outside, Dexter shot his hand up above the counter and waved.

  “It’s only us. I know it’s not in the manual, but I didn’t want to scare you. We’re coming out.”

  The contents of the bags were upended onto the floor and within seconds the well-oiled machine got to work on their allocated tasks.

  “Remember, fellas, think Australiana,” said Veejay.

  Very carefully, Dexter cut some old curtains he’d bought from the Salvos into tablecloths.

  “This gum tree pattern is going to make people feel right at home,” he said happily.

  “Where do you want the stuffed kookaburra, Veejay?” asked Travis, picking up the hammer and nails.

  “On the wall near the entrance, I think.”

  “Okeedokee. And what about these old Holden hub caps?”

  “Hang them above the front desk.”

  Working to a tight schedule was easy after seeing Mr Singh’s sad face.

  Time was tight but the boys were flying. With half an hour to go, they downed tools and surveyed their handiwork.

  “Looking good,” said Dexter.

  “Yep, I think they’re going to like it,” added Travis.

  Veejay straightened a yellow sign that read “Koalas, next 4 km”, then stepped back.

  “Perfect.”

  Thirty minutes became twenty-five.

  “Travis, can you handle the new menus?” asked Veejay. “I’ll get Dexter dressed out back.”

  Only a small amount of force was required to get Dexter moving.

  “I don’t know why I always draw the short straw,” he complained. “It’s not fair.”

  With five minutes to go, Veejay shoved Dexter to the front of the restaurant.

  “Hmmm, underpants on the outside,” sneered Travis. “Nice. Very nice.”

  “You two bludgers owe me big time,” spat Dexter.

&nb
sp; The boys double-checked the new décor and waited nervously inside the front door.

  “Can’t wait to see their faces,” said Travis. “It’s going to blow them away, especially your Uncle Ravi. A man with his business background should really appreciate this.”

  They didn’t have to wait long before the Singhs’ station wagon turned into the street.

  “Ready?” asked Veejay, as it pulled up out the front.

  “Ready!” yelled Travis.

  With all their might Veejay and Travis pushed Dexter out the door and onto the footpath just as the passengers stepped onto the curb.

  This was it — SHOWTIME!

  Dexter adjusted the turban on his head and felt a bead of sweat drip down the black chalk on his face.

  “Good afternoon and welcome to the Punjabi Pappadum.”

  For a moment, no one said a word.

  “Dexter, is that you?” asked Mrs Singh.

  Remembering what his mum had told him about first impressions, Dexter bowed theatrically then cleared his throat.

  “Not exactly, Mrs Singh. I am the Curry Kid.”

  “The what?”

  “The Curry Kid, your new mascot.”

  “Are they my Y-fronts you’re wearing?” asked Mr Singh.

  “Don’t worry, Mr Singh, it’s for a good cause.”

  Dexter winced and told the pointy shoes he was wearing to go easy on his toes.

  Now concentrate, he told himself, the Pappadum’s future is in your hands.

  “Stay where you are,” he barked at his stunned audience. “I think you’re going to like this.”

  He strolled off down the footpath, stopped about twenty metres away and turned.

  “Don’t try this at home!” he roared.

  A couple of deep breaths and he was off like a rocket towards them, gathering speed quickly. Concentrate. At his mark, Dexter lifted his arms, shifted to the side and rolled his body. The first cartwheel was a pearler, perfect execution. Then something blocked his vision. It was the yellow turban unravelling itself, flapping against his face. He bit down and trapped it in his mouth, at the same time trying to maintain a straight line along the footpath. He was flying blind. The second cartwheel didn’t feel so great. His left hand hit the pavement hard, then his right followed up with hardly any contact at all. One more and you’re home, Champ, he said to himself. Halfway through the third he felt body contact and crashed in a heap on the concrete. For a few seconds he lay very still, waiting for the pain. When it didn’t come he spat out his turban and propped himself up.