Delhi Diary

Percentage City

Two weeks ago, I received a nice tax refund cheque. When I deposited it in the bank, the thing bounced. The clerk in the income tax office who had written the cheque had messed up its date. Ours must be the only major country where government cheques are not computer-generated, but let’s not get into that. My accountant told me the flaw was deliberate and it happens all the time. I had two options: I can pay the clerk Rs 500 and get a fresh cheque issued right away or I can twiddle my thumbs for the next six months or so waiting for it. This is extortion; there’s no other way of describing it.

Someone I know holds a lucrative franchise for selling a well-known line of Italian clothes in the malls. They are expensive but he says most of his customers are not from the posh colonies. They live in modest government quarters. These are children of central and municipal government officers with so much cash stacked away, they don’t know what to do with it.

Mumbai may have more black money but Delhi is the bribe capital of India.

Only Aperitifs

I make a point of attending book launches whenever the author happens to be a friend and the publisher is serving booze. On such occasions, if he has written another dreadful book, I grab his hand firmly, look him in the eye and say, “You have done it again!” Authors find themselves with two sets of friends when a book comes out. The supportive ones will buy the book and some of them will not even bother reading it. Others will expect you to give them a free, autographed copy. Let me tell you something on behalf of authors everywhere. We  really do not get unlimited supplies of our books from the publisher without paying for them. Most times, we are restricted to 10 copies, sometimes just five. These go to our near and dear ones—mothers, wives, mistresses, not necessarily in that order.

When you ask us for a complimentary copy of the book, the cost comes from our pockets. Authors do get a small discount and we would be happy to pass this on to you if you insist. You may be under the impression that writers rake in money. It is not so. Our royalties are a pittance unless, of course, we hit the Booker jackpot.

I hope the alert reader has noticed I’ve written this entire piece without plugging my latest book, Happy Hours: The Penguin Book of Cocktails (Rs 499).

Outsider, Looking In

For the past three years, the Delhi Gymkhana would not allow me to enter its premises. I wrote something critical of the place and the general committee was not amused. Mind you, I always went as a guest. I’ve never been a member. As Groucho Marx put it, I would not want to join a club that would accept someone like me. Some determined friends lobbied on my behalf and they recently lifted the ban. Now I can go dancing there on Saturday nights. However, the staff has instructions to keep an eye on me. I’m happy to report that the place has improved dramatically. The outgoing president, Air Marshal P.S. Ahluwalia, has worked wonders. The toilets have been refurbished and no longer smell; they have spruced up the bar and, the other day, I had mouth-watering kababs for lunch on the lawns.

I still find certain aspects of the club disagreeable but I’ve learnt my lesson. I’ll keep my mouth shut!

Epicure’s Delight

Ten years ago, Delhi was largely a tandoori chicken town. There was hardly any fine dining outside the five-star hotels. These days it can outrank any of our other cities when it comes to range and quality of cuisine. The malls are partly responsible for this. Space is not a problem. Sheila Dixit has also made it easier to get a liquor licence. We always had Italian and Chinese but now we have food from Morocco, Mexico, Vietnam, Greece, even Israel.

Be warned, dinner for two with drinks will set you back anywhere from Rs 4,000 at Zest, the new kid in town, to Rs 15,000 at the Orient Express, old and reliable. The best bargain, if that is the word, is the Sunday brunch at the Machan. For Rs 3,000 a head you get unlimited Russian vodka and French champagne with your caviar, lobsters and other goodies.

Rrrrring In The New

A man walks into his office in Connaught Place wearing an ear ring. His colleagues are amazed because, usually, he dresses very conservatively.

“Why are you wearing an ear ring?” a friend asks.

“Why not?” the man replies, “Many men wear ear rings these days.”

“But since when did you start wearing an ear ring?” his friend asks.

“Since my wife found it in our car,” the man replies.