My father was a gourmet. A real connoisseur of food. Perhaps God had given him a special tongue. It is difficult to say whether there was any restaurant which he had not visited and known its specialty. Why did he have to eat outside? I see no reason. My mother was a wonderful cook; all the dishes she made were tasty. In spite of this, my father was attracted to restaurants. It is not that these restaurants were serving anything special. Whatever was available there, most of them were made in the house too. But that was his nature.

Invariably, he would find something, even if very minor, wrong with whatever dish he was given. Rarely can one get his appreciation. He, of course, did not or could not indulge in this favorite ‘fault-finding’ endeavor in restaurants. If you gave him coffee, which to us would be heavenly, he would ask, "Did you boil the milk for a second longer?" or "Did you boil the milk for a second time?" or "Did you mix sugar at the right time and right quantity?" and so many other doubts. Just for coffee, these many questions. Imagine about breakfast or lunch.

"You could have boiled the ‘sambar’ for a little more." "Rasam lacks the punch." "Curry could have been fried a little more." "It is a tiny bit salty." "It needs a wee bit more salt." Oh, God. Poor mother. In spite of her best efforts to prepare the tastiest dishes, these comments would flow. Very, very rarely would there be an appreciation. We all would wait for that day. This happened with my wife’s cooking too when she had taken over. She too was an excellent cook but not protected from my father’s own uncaring blatant reviews. Ultimately, everyone got used to such things.

As a family, we all too enjoyed tasty food. We were used to getting it on a daily basis. So that was normal for us. This meant when we ate in others’ houses, we did feel the difference. The only place where we felt the food was up to what we were used to was in my mother’s mami’s house, a family about whom I had written in detail earlier.

But we were not carping critics like my father. For that matter, we rarely commented. Whatever food I took to the office, whether made by my mother or my wife, my colleagues would throng to taste it. This happened with my sons too in their schools and colleges. Both my mother and wife would keep extra food for such distribution. Many times we would get only a tiny portion to eat. In fact, my younger son used to comment that he was taking lunch for others and not for himself. Even now, when his friends come home, they tell my wife about these incidents. And my wife invariably makes something exotic for them when they come home.

Luckily, my daughter-in-law has picked up from my wife. No, this is not a political statement. I mean really.

Continued in 296. Bud Bugs - Part 2