Lately I’ve developed a strange habit. Once in a while, I revisit my old favourite restaurants, not just to eat, but to check if they are still the same. Like visiting people from your past and hoping time has been kind to them.
It also helps when friends settled abroad call and ask, ‘Is that place still good?’ I like giving honest updates. Like our friendship, the restaurant has also changed.
Some changes are hard to accept.
Paradise now tastes like Middle Earth. Not fantasy, just soil.
Alpha became Beta. Nan King became Non King.
The city has new people coming in every day. Someone who cannot compare the old taste walks in and becomes a fan.
This time I picked a place I still had faith in, Café Bahar. In my head, Bahar was dependable. I had already hyped it to my friend
before taking him there, like a
biryani broker closing a deal.
When we reached, there was a line. Around fifteen people.
My friend looked at the queue like, ‘We could be home with Swiggy and dignity’. I saw hope. A line outside an old restaurant today is like a blue tick on Instagram, verified and still relevant.
We gave our name. The waiter asked how many and then asked, ‘Gents or family?’ That is when I knew our fate.
If you say gents, you unlock Hyderabad’s most consistent social experiment: the shared table.
And just like that, we were seated in RAC. On my left were two Telugu guys. On my right were two Americans being introduced to ‘real Hyderabad’ by their IT friend who was clearly taking this responsibility seriously.
Sharing tables here is normal. Comfort is optional. Everyone pretends not to look at other plates while fully scanning them. Not to steal, just to confirm you ordered correctly. If their biryani looks better, you feel personally betrayed.
But the real show was the service.
The Telugu guys on my left waited. Their biryani came fast because biryani has self-respect. But their drinks, sides and desserts arrived like relatives to a wedding, late but unapologetic.
Meanwhile, the Americans were getting a live documentary. The waiter explained every dish, spices, preparation, origin. I am sure if they asked, he would have shared the chicken’s childhood dreams.
Our waiter walked to us. He jogged to them.
I asked for extra onions. They arrived after the bill, like a vote of thanks speech.
Then the manager appeared for the Americans. Not walked, appeared. Like he was summoned. For a second it felt like Lord Mountbatten had come for dinner.
It was not rude. It was familiar. Something shifts when white customers enter Indian restaurants. Staff become alert. Smiles widen. English improves. It is not racism. It is colonial muscle memory.
One Telugu guy even said, ‘Bro, I come here every week’. True. But this white guy who cannot even say ‘Bahar’ properly might go back and recommend it to Elon Musk, so obviously we must impress.
For a moment it felt like India was losing. Then the bill came and the match turned. The Americans paid and left, no tip. The waiter could not even ask because the manager was standing there like a third umpire.
We were all at the same shared table watching this like a live match. The Telugu guys looked at each other, smiled, and tipped nicely, like the rupee, exchange rate, or GDP had absolutely no effect on their generosity.
Sandesh
@msgfromsandesh
(This comedian is here to tell funny stories about Hyderabad)
(The writer’s views are his own)