She opens the door, tuts and asks: “Can I help you?” She says it so aggressively that I know she is not really interested in my needs. I have no clue how to answer the question. Can she help me? Well, yes. I’ve been standing in front of her restaurant for 15 minutes waiting for it to open. I’ve been craving paratha rolls for a few weeks. I haven’t been back to see my family. I don’t have any frozen parathas in the freezer. I’m working from home, trying to get stuff done and all I can think about is a delicious paratha roll stuffed with paneer.
I remember an Indian street food restaurant up the road. Whenever I pass it, the shutters are down, but they advertise, in bad graffiti, Indian street eats. Something about it is saying to me, come here, eat. Bristol doesn’t have many decent Indian food spots. When I look up the opening times, I glance at the menu. It opens at midday and it sells paratha rolls. Sold, I head up the road and arrive dead on midday. The shutters are up for once. I can see inside for the first time. It looks like a standard café, but all the tables have sari material on them.
There’s something very gap year about the typography of the “Aum” symbol that adorns most surfaces. I’m almost turned off, but I read the menu in the window, debating how many paratha rolls are too many. I shift from foot to foot, mentally deciding that today would be a day to forget to put stuff into my calorie counter app. I am impatient. Hungry. Desperate for paratha rolls. Ten minutes later, and they still haven’t opened the restaurant.
I can see the owner in the window. She’s in the kitchen, washing pans. I worry that maybe those pans have been sitting out all night, dirty, and she is now shamefully washing them before opening. Very hygienic. Five minutes later and she still hasn’t noticed she has a customer. I am freezing and I am hungry so, in desperation, I call the restaurant number. I think, if she answers, I’ll ask what time they’re opening. There is no answer. I decide to go. I’ll get a sandwich at home. But then I notice she’s approaching. Finally, I think. She’s ready to open. Those paratha rolls are mine. One chicken, one paneer, one lamb. Maybe a second paneer one. Four paratha rolls. That’s not too many.
She opens the door and I step forward to go inside. “Can I help you?” she asks. I’m taken aback. Yes, I think. I want paratha rolls and warmth. I’ve been thinking about visiting this place for so long. I’ve been dreaming about kaki’s [my aunt’s] parathas recently. I have this vivid memory of watching her dip a tablespoon in a steel container of ghee and rubbing the underside all over the surface of a paratha before serving it to me. I didn’t need to eat it with anything else. I want to tell this woman all this. Yes – yes you can help me. Help me eat my way back home. You can definitely help me. You can help me feel like all those things I took for granted as a child, as a teenager, as an adult, are available to me here so far away from home.
Yes, I think, you can definitely help me. You can change the menu so it doesn’t say masala chai tea. Chai means tea. Chai tea means tea tea. You can definitely help me be warm and fed. But mainly you can help me with three different kinds of paratha roll. Because I need them in my stomach right now. “Yes,” I say, “I want some food.” “But we’re not open,” she replies. She is very confused. “It says you open at midday,” I say, pointing to the sign above my head. She steps out of the restaurant and stares up at her sign. I’m really confused now. Does she even work here?
“No,” she says. “We’re not open until much later.” “Oh,” I say. On cue, my stomach rumbles angrily. “OK, well, what time do you?” “Look,” she says, stepping back into the restaurant. “Our chef hasn’t even showed up for work today.” She shuts the door and walks back to the kitchen. I head home for a sandwich.
