CHENNAI: March 19, 2020. A slice of nutty sponge cake with French cold-pressed coffee at Brod Bakery on ECR was all the sinful pleasure I indulged in after a weary workday. Every bite and sip promised me a trip to heaven. Immersed in this experience, I decided to come back here soon with a friend. But who knew that daydreams are mere hypothetical particles of matter that would be crushed by a lethal invisible monster that would lock down all restaurants and eateries. And my sweet plans, as well.
In the initial month, I suffered from separation anxiety. But as we entered into one lockdown after another, hope and takeaways opened up too. As rules eased out, I started doing it all — ordered from Swiggy, picked up kebab rolls from a favourite shop, ate inside my car and cleaned up the mess. My prayers to the food gods were finally answered on June 8 when most restaurants gingerly opened their doors. For someone who loves hanging out with friends and checking out new restaurants in the city regularly, planning a simple dinner became a Himalayan task because I wanted this to be perfect. I finally booked a table for two at 8.15 pm at Soy Soi restaurant in Kotturpuram. Table reservations were not accepted after 8.45 pm at the restaurant.
After greeting me, the valet sanitised his hands, pulled down his face shield, and then offered to park my car. Unlike Before-Corona, the keys were now handed to me as soon as the car was parked. Next up, I was asked to sanitise my hands. But what’s the use of sanitising before entry, when you don’t have anyone to open the doors? So, I carefully pushed open the door with my elbow and was met with a warrior-like figure (thanks to PPE et al) with a thermal scanner instead of a sword. This staff stood at a safe distance and checked my body temperature.
By now, I was beginning to miss my pre-lockdown dine-ins — hassle-free and convenient. But the virus has changed the way we live. The restaurant was eerily silent; there were just 12 tables, including two-seaters and six-seaters. To maintain social distancing, every alternate table, placed four to five feet apart was non-serviceable. Except for two tables (including mine), all the others were empty. The sanitised crockery and cutlery for my table were placed inside a glass box and not touched till the food arrived. The kit comprised a set of forks, knives, spoons, plates, tissues, sachets of sanitiser and glass tumblers. Bottled water was served on request.
I preferred to drink directly from the bottle instead of pouring it into a glass. Air-conditioners were turned off and new ceiling fans had been installed. Menu cards were replaced by QR codes that can be scanned on mobile phones to place orders. The staff count was limited, and all of them were dressed in their uniforms with new accessories — masks and gloves. They ensured social distancing was followed while interacting.
Scanning the menu QR code with my phone in one hand and wiping off beads of sweat, I finally asked for Burmese chilli lamb and prawn dim sums for starters and char siew pork rice for the main course.
My eyes were fixated at the kitchen door, trying to catch a glimpse of the new normal inside the kitchen. Eighty days and twenty minutes later, I soaked my senses in the aroma, colours and flavours of heaven on my plate. I gently opened the glass box and took a plate, knife and fork out of it. After wiping the plate with a tissue, I self-served the items on my plate. Every bite was filled with equal portions of relief and gratitude. While the taste didn’t live up to my expectations, the virus-riddled world has taught me to count my blessings.
As I was beginning to let this experience sink in, I was presented with a rude shock: the bill. With taxes and hygiene charges, the evening had turned out to be an extravagant affair. I gulped the disappointment, realising that nothing was going to be the same again. A link to the bill was sent to my phone and we were urged to pay digitally to ensure contactless payment. As we went to the cashier to make the payment, our seat was being disinfected and sanitised. Reflecting on the sheer scale of the global crisis, I missed a few things I took for granted — the bustling traffic, friendly banter across tables, and bursts of laughter. But the experience was a plate of delicious memories created during an unprecedented lockdown.