Two of the Doughnut-Looking Things

This morning I caught a motor rickshaw (called autos here) across town to Commercial Street, the home of Bangalore’s textile industry, to pick up a custom-made linen shirt and get some lunch.

After grabbing the shirt, my first garment with a Nehru collar, I wound my way through choked streets and alleys, taking time to people watch and search out the dozens of well-preserved Raj-era buildings that are a feature of the neighborhood.

My walk was relatively uneventful until I decided to stop for lunch. I have a bad habit of walking until I’m so hungry I’m completely out of energy to search for a decent place. Today was no exception. Starving, drained and dehydrated I ducked into the first restaurant I saw with a sizeable crowd.

The place was a smallish but typical Indian lunch spot with a window to the kitchen in the back, a few counters where you can stand and eat in the center, and a booth up front where you pay and place your order.

I’m still new to this system and inevitably fouled it up. I walked straight to the back, tried to order and was quickly redirected to the front. Although the guy taking orders spoke English, communication between us was poor at best.

I pointed to a stack of doughnut-looking things in the kitchen and said, "I will have two." He mumbled the name of whatever I had just ordered, asked for 20 rupees and slipped me a coupon that apparently detailed my order, even though it looked exactly like all the other coupons that had been passed out to the patrons who had ordered quite different things before me.

Back at the kitchen, I slid my coupon towards the server and -- much to my amazement -- he stacked two doughnut-looking things on a stainless-steel tray, filled up two cups with interesting looking sauces and slid it in my direction.

I began to say, “but how did you know…,” realized I was holding up the line and went on my way.