The Great Mutton Mirage: A Culinary Tragedy
Wednesday, the 12th of March 2025, was a day destined to be etched in our memories—not for any momentous achievement, but for a gastronomic saga of Shakespearean proportions.
Having spent the entire day at St John’s Hospital, Bangalore, enduring a battery of routine check-ups, my family and I found ourselves utterly drained. The ordeal had left us famished, fatigued, and faintly irritable. My grandchildren, deprived of their afternoon nap, were on the brink of a tantrum. My wife, wearied by the ceaseless poking and prodding of medical examinations, could scarcely keep her eyes open. My son, the unwavering chauffeur, navigated the chaotic Bangalore traffic with the singular mission of finding a decent place to restore our spirits and, more crucially, our stomachs.
At long last, we arrived at a modest yet seemingly inviting restaurant. It was not the Ritz, but in our state of desperation, it appeared as grand as a palace.
A Promising Beginning
Eager to break our fast, we ordered with careful precision—chicken sweet corn soup for the ladies, a refreshing fruit juice for my grandson, and, for the men who had braved the day, a much-needed vodka with lemonade. Accompanying these were crispy vegetable pakoras and perfectly roasted chicken, a combination that swiftly revived our spirits and reinvigorated our weary bodies.
With our appetites now whetted, we turned to the pièce de résistance—the main course, for which we ordered Mutton Rogan Josh, Tandoori Chapati lavishly smothered in butter, and a fresh, crisp salad. The very thought of the aromatic mutton, slow-cooked to perfection, had us salivating in eager anticipation.
And then, as in every great tragedy, came the first blow.
The First Betrayal
The waiter returned, his expression bearing the weight of a man about to deliver ill tidings to a noble house.
“Sir, I regret to inform you… the mutton is finished.”
We were stunned into silence. Finished? How could it be finished? Had we not dreamt of it, spoken of it, longed for it? Disappointed, yet unwilling to let our evening be entirely ruined, we conceded defeat and settled for Dal Fry and Cumin Potato—a humble, vegetarian compromise that was as exciting as a tax audit.
But just as we were preparing to swallow this bitter pill, the waiter returned with a glimmer of hope.
“Sir, if you are willing to wait for thirty minutes, we can arrange for mutton.”
Ah! A reprieve! A second chance! Hope flared a new in our hearts. Of course, we would wait! Thirty minutes was but a trifling inconvenience in the grand pursuit of culinary bliss. And so, we settled in with another round of drinks, indulging in lively conversation, our expectations rising with every passing moment.
The Grand Tragedy
Thirty minutes later, the waiter returned once more. But something in his demeanour told us that all was not well.
“Sir, I deeply apologise… but the mutton that was being prepared… has been burnt.”
Burnt. Ruined. Reduced to an unrecognisable heap of culinary ashes.
At that moment, time stood still. Forks were lowered, smiles evaporated, and an air of universal disappointment enveloped our table. My wife cast a forlorn glance at the kitchen door, my son clenched his jaw in silent frustration, and my grandchildren—oblivious to the magnitude of the catastrophe—continued sipping their juice.
The unfulfilled promise of Rogan Josh left an ache far deeper than hunger. But what choice did we have? Defeated, deflated, and thoroughly exasperated, we reluctantly resigned ourselves to the Dal Fry and Cumin Potato. And while the food, in all fairness, was well-prepared, it tasted of nothing but the bitter disappointment of lost dreams.
The Moral of the Story
As we departed, we cast one final glance at the restaurant—a battlefield of broken expectations and charred ambitions. And in that moment, we made a solemn vow:
If ever a waiter tells you that mutton will be ready in thirty minutes, abandon all hope and run.
Tags:
#CulinaryTragedy #MuttonMisfortune #FoodFiasco #DiningDisasters #HilariousHospitality #MeatyMirage #BangaloreEats
