It's beginning to look a lot like pizza night around here. Never been a big fan of the thing, however, once in a way a whacking big wedge doesn't go down too badly. It always brings up memories, though, of our former home and the wondrous experience of getting take out.
Here, the takeout guy comes almost as soon as you've hung up after ordering. They do not ask for directions. They remember your favorites. If there's any change or unavailability in the menu at all, they tell you in advance.
In our glory days in Bangalore, getting takeout dinners was almost always a bit of an adventure, mainly because we would decide only at the last minute. There was this one particular place that did the most wonderful, pillowy naan and the only tikka (barbecue) things that weren't doused in artificial color. But, to offset this, one had to navigate through their somewhat difficult staff.
If you called them, the phone would ring for eternity. Finally, the slouch at the counter would deign to pick up. You could hear his sigh, before he managed "hello?" There would be a dead silence as you went through your order. Finally, defeated, one would have to ask, "are you there? Have you got all that?"
Another sigh would come crashing across the line. "Yes," he would concede, and in the same tone of infinite exhaustion, "anything else you want?"
That's why we stopped telephoning them altogether. J preferred to make the 6-minute trek to the actual place and collect the food himself. I would send him off on this errand, waiting to hear of the mood of the day prevailing there. I was never disappointed.
Still, the food was always incredibly good. No one makes naan like their toothless old cook. I want to call them tonight: it will be early morning there, so I can only imagine the level of energy when they do answer.