Eating Out

Dan was keen to go out to eat for dinner to revisit some of his favorite places in Kandy from the moment we arrived. I had been recalcitrant for the first few nights, using jet-lag to excuse the gathering clouds of my depression and general unwillingness to stray too far from my own bed. After we had secured the apartment Dan insisted that we go out to celebrate. “Let’s go to Flower Song” he said, “You’ll like it. The waiters wear tuxes, the décor is cool, the food it great. That place has been there forever, it never changes,” he plied me.
“Alright, alright,” I agreed, rolling over on the stiff straw mattress, maneuvering my feet toward the floor. “minimal effort,” I told myself, “just throw on anything that you can wear in the street and make sure your teeth are clean.”
“And it’s too far to walk, we’ll take a driver, I’ll ask Malik,” Dan furthered, sweetening the deal as he left the room to arrange transportation.

It gets dark in Kandy at 6 PM every night and it was already dark when Dan and I loaded into the hotel’s Japanese van with Siam at the wheel for my first evening foray. Dan and Siam began a long discussion in Singhala addressing how best to get to Flower Song’s downtown location considering the main street was closed for one of the early nights of the Parehera parade. Looking out into the darkness of Kandy town at night I saw groups of young men passing by in waves. Some where walking with their arms around each other, some where dressed alike, some where holding hands. I saw very few women and no children. As a general rule I do not like to tread where the local women will not go “Is this a town of young men?” I interjected grumpily. “Isn’t there a war on? Shouldn’t they be in the army or something?” I finished, crossing my arms and frowning into the darkness.
“The Army is a really tough job. Nobody wants to do it anymore; they’re having real problems with recruitment” Dan explained, “these boys,” he gestured to a throng clad in tight acid-washed jeans and knock-off “Diesel” T-shirts, “are not from Kandy. They come from all over the country to walk around the streets confused and looking for girls.”
“I don’t see any girls,” I commented, “they are quite ill-informed on that point.”
“Well, eventually they get tired and go off into a little alley together,” Dan explained sarcastically.
“Ah, so it’s not just the monks ‘splitting the rock’ around here huh?” I replied and raised my left eyebrow in amusement. The van stopped and I could see a small illuminated red pen-and-ink drawing of an Asian woman with the words “Flower Song” in white letters over it on the wall. A security guard sat next to the entrance and the whole thing had the feel of a nice Bangkok brothel. Dan and Siam agreed on a pick-up time, we got out of the van, and Siam pulled away. As we stepped up onto the curb to go the restaurant a security guard informed us in English that Flower Song was closed for Perahera. In the time it took me to comprehend his words and what it would mean to be stuck on this abandoned street for an hour and a half, Dan had already taken off running after the van. Two cops and the security guard were the only other people on the street. I gave them a look of “looks like I’ll be here with you guys a bit,” and then we all watched in wonder as all six feet, 200 pounds of Dan proceeded to tear uphill and around the corner out of sight.

Dan returned with Siam in the van a few minutes later. “How ‘bout Paivas?” he suggested as he wiped the sweat off his brow and helped me into the van, “you like North Indian right?”
“North Indian, is uh, good, when I was there, the food was…good.” I replied, awestruck. “I can’t believe you caught the van.”
“I knew I’d get him at the intersection,” Dan replied, grinning. “Sorry to leave you, but I figured you’d be alright with the law right there and all.”

At Paivas Dan and Siam agreed on another pick-up time and he waited until we were inside before pulling away. There was a short eats area downstairs and we proceeded to the restaurant upstairs. “This place used to be really nice…” Dan explained as I examined the dingy drop-ceiling and unfortunate circa 1975 worn velveteen and fake-brass chairs at the tables. “Well, those days are clearly behind us,” I commented as I sat down in the corner with my back to the wall. There were two other diners, a young couple who sat wordlessly slumped into their food. The waiter approached us quickly, recognizing Dan. They began an extensive conversation in Singhala on a topic I could not determine as I greedily surveyed the menu for my Rajasthani favorites. “He’s been here forever,” Dan explained after we finally ordered our food. He was beginning to explain how Paivas used have a nice mural and another location when a table saw roared to life downstairs. “What the hell could they be building, what the hell could they need to build at 8 PM at night?” I exclaimed. The saw felt like it was under my feet and in my head all at once. The food arrived and we ate quickly and silently. I gazed out the window at the Anglican church with painted over windows and an illuminated but very askance neon cross on it’s main steeple. Leaving the restaurant I had to step over piles of freshly cut board and past the deafening power tools to get into the van.

“Well, the food was pretty good,” Dan ventured once we were back inside the van.
“my mattar paneer was pretty good,” I acknowledged, “but the naan looked like it was made by someone who had never seen naan before.”
“yeah, the naan used to be really special, back at the old location. And that mural, it was so cool.” Dan mourned.
“The food was tasty aside from the non-naan, but it loses some points on ambiance. I’m sure we’ll be back though.” I replied.