Dining With Goldfish

Meal for two:

y dinner companion had cried off sick at the last minute. I carried no badges proclaiming self-sufficiency, like books, cigarettes and laptop. But I needn’t have worried. A waiter arrived with a dancing goldfish in a bowl: "Company for you," he said, "since you’re dining alone." The Vietnamese hostess in her conical hat kept stopping by for chats about Bangalore vs Hanoi. And then there was rain, sheets and sheets of it, crashing on to foliage, making tall candles flicker and Vietnamese lanterns tremble atmospherically. Together, the goldfish and I watched a piece of the Deccan plateau turn into a Southeast Asian rainforest. I’d really like to say the food was perfect.

As I waited for my bento box, a sort of rectangular thali with a sampling of wonderful sounding creations, from grilled salmon marinated in a soya ginger lemongrass vinaigrette to stir fried crabs in tamarind sauce, I thought about my last Vietnamese meal in a canteen in Hong Kong’s Kowloon district. The flavours were fresh and subtle, not swamped with chilli like those of Thailand. Why didn’t this meal taste quite as good? Perhaps food does not turn out right when made in bento-box sized helpings. Perhaps a canteen-trained palate can’t understand refined Vietnamese food. Perhaps it’s an immutable gastronomic law that prawns in five-star hotels are always rubbery. But food isn’t everything. This was a magical evening.