Peter Cat - "one of Calcutta's oldest great restaurants", "not just a famous watering hole, it serves fabulous kababs as well.. ", "you must absolutely have the Chello's kebab there"
When you come across something like this, it must be had. So a taxi brought me to Calcutta's downtown Park Street. Streets were still empty in late afternoon, the heat was keeping the people out. Oxford, the bookstore appealed, but kebabs always appeal more, so I moved on. Reaching the cross-road I was told to reach, I must confess, I couldn't find Peter Cat amidst the loud surrounds of MacDonald's and KFC. Phone-a-friend was quickly utilised, and there it was - snuggled into a cubbyhole across the street from KFC, a low tiny off-white porch embossed with the simple italicised black font stating 'Peter Cat'.
The rights to entry are reserved, and you are stopped at the entrance until someone probably says 'Okay, he looks feline!' from inside. You enter and are struck by the cool and the darkness inside. For the first few moments you can't see your way in. Then you pick up cues from the lights that are suspended very low over the tables - the only lights. It reminds you of an English den - cozy, dark and hence busy.
The seating is in alcoves - the suspended lighting creates a very personal space around the table. They have realised this and hence ask you to switch off your cellphones. Waiters go around in hushed movements - they are doing the Mughal court attendants today- complete with flowing sherwanis and tussled turbans. Most patrons are families, I am the only loner. I am almost as weird to them as they are to me right now- sole male scribbling away in a notebook, earphones plugged where they belong, staring into the dark beyond my alcoved luminance between bursts of written activity. Weirdo !
Chello kebabs had to be ordered and the heat was countered with an exotic pineapple based cocktail. While the staff did whatever it is they do to get my order, I chanced upon Him himself, Peter Cat. There he was, in loud black brush-strokes on the back cover of the menu. There was something weird and sur-real about him. He looked a very angry old cat. Food thankfully came to the rescue.
It's a unique combination of mutton and chicken kebabs, served with rice, baked tomato and a sunny-side-up. It's warm, succulent and its meats after all. Awesome ! The cocktail is as exotic as it had promised in the menu and the lunch is made.
When all has been devoured, the thought of a cool dessert comes into the mind. A Tooty-Fruity is promptly placed on order. You'd think ice-cream would arrive faster than food - mais non - this is Peter Cat at work and he's probably pissed off at my choice. It's much like the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld. Eventually the stuff arrives, and it's a combination of ice cream and actual fresh fruits, to my surprise. Its delicious nonetheless.
I am done here, paid and all, and back out in the heat. It's definitely less searing now, more people have come out, and Ganguly's restaurant calls you out for an innings. But I resist, and make for the sanctuary between books.
Oxford - very colonial in name - is a posh bookstore, very Borders like in being. Books on two floors, a chai cafe on the top, wooden book shelves and floorboards make it immensely pleasurable. The sports section is sought, and without much ado the search is answered - right in the front, under a spotlight is featured Ramchandra Guha's A Corner of a Foreign Field.
It is picked up for browsing, and the body wanders up the creaking stair-case to the chai place - an Ice peach tea is decided upon. That arrives, and I am immersed in the book - which is informative and captivating. It's queasy to be reading about cricket in the colonial times, sat in Park Street on a hot afternoon in the most colonial of all Indian cities. You're almost afraid of offending the ghosts from the Raj - foreign and natives alike.
Inspired, the drink is gulped, the book bought, and I am headed out for a crack at the Victoria Memorial.
When you come across something like this, it must be had. So a taxi brought me to Calcutta's downtown Park Street. Streets were still empty in late afternoon, the heat was keeping the people out. Oxford, the bookstore appealed, but kebabs always appeal more, so I moved on. Reaching the cross-road I was told to reach, I must confess, I couldn't find Peter Cat amidst the loud surrounds of MacDonald's and KFC. Phone-a-friend was quickly utilised, and there it was - snuggled into a cubbyhole across the street from KFC, a low tiny off-white porch embossed with the simple italicised black font stating 'Peter Cat'.
The rights to entry are reserved, and you are stopped at the entrance until someone probably says 'Okay, he looks feline!' from inside. You enter and are struck by the cool and the darkness inside. For the first few moments you can't see your way in. Then you pick up cues from the lights that are suspended very low over the tables - the only lights. It reminds you of an English den - cozy, dark and hence busy.
The seating is in alcoves - the suspended lighting creates a very personal space around the table. They have realised this and hence ask you to switch off your cellphones. Waiters go around in hushed movements - they are doing the Mughal court attendants today- complete with flowing sherwanis and tussled turbans. Most patrons are families, I am the only loner. I am almost as weird to them as they are to me right now- sole male scribbling away in a notebook, earphones plugged where they belong, staring into the dark beyond my alcoved luminance between bursts of written activity. Weirdo !
Chello kebabs had to be ordered and the heat was countered with an exotic pineapple based cocktail. While the staff did whatever it is they do to get my order, I chanced upon Him himself, Peter Cat. There he was, in loud black brush-strokes on the back cover of the menu. There was something weird and sur-real about him. He looked a very angry old cat. Food thankfully came to the rescue.
It's a unique combination of mutton and chicken kebabs, served with rice, baked tomato and a sunny-side-up. It's warm, succulent and its meats after all. Awesome ! The cocktail is as exotic as it had promised in the menu and the lunch is made.
When all has been devoured, the thought of a cool dessert comes into the mind. A Tooty-Fruity is promptly placed on order. You'd think ice-cream would arrive faster than food - mais non - this is Peter Cat at work and he's probably pissed off at my choice. It's much like the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld. Eventually the stuff arrives, and it's a combination of ice cream and actual fresh fruits, to my surprise. Its delicious nonetheless.
I am done here, paid and all, and back out in the heat. It's definitely less searing now, more people have come out, and Ganguly's restaurant calls you out for an innings. But I resist, and make for the sanctuary between books.
Oxford - very colonial in name - is a posh bookstore, very Borders like in being. Books on two floors, a chai cafe on the top, wooden book shelves and floorboards make it immensely pleasurable. The sports section is sought, and without much ado the search is answered - right in the front, under a spotlight is featured Ramchandra Guha's A Corner of a Foreign Field.
It is picked up for browsing, and the body wanders up the creaking stair-case to the chai place - an Ice peach tea is decided upon. That arrives, and I am immersed in the book - which is informative and captivating. It's queasy to be reading about cricket in the colonial times, sat in Park Street on a hot afternoon in the most colonial of all Indian cities. You're almost afraid of offending the ghosts from the Raj - foreign and natives alike.
Inspired, the drink is gulped, the book bought, and I am headed out for a crack at the Victoria Memorial.
