Eating Out

Anjolie Ela Menon doesn’t do five-star lunches. Don’t get me wrong,five-stars will do for dinner. It’s just that she’s up to her elbows in paint inher studio in West Nizamuddin most afternoons and can’t bear the idea of changing forlunch. So, we spend almost as much time on the phone trying to decide where to meet thanwe do talking over chopsticks-licking-good spare ribs in honey sauce and fried jumboprawns at Ichiban in Pandara Road.I expect Anjolie to look, well, a little studio-worn,bringing in her wake a touch of Nizamuddin Bohemia and a little paint on her hair andclothes. Nada. She looks fabulous. The secret: a black kurta that hides theconsequences of the morning’s work and tons of silver and a huge crystal around herneck. And, yes, a healthy appetite. We get down to ordering immediately. I’d been atrifle worried about the chosen venue: what kind of Chinese food could you get in theheart of gentrified Punjabi dhabaland that is Pandara Road?

I’m glad my fears are mislaid. Anjolie is obviously a habitué of the place andrattles off the order (the ribs, prawns, crisp fried spinach) with nary a glance at themenu. What follows is most decidedly not Punjabi-Chinese cuisine, no telltale tomatoes,ji.

The conversation naturally veers to food. Good artists usually make good chefs and inart camps you’re likely to see Anjolie with ladle in one hand and paintbrush in theother. She’s as adventurous with her palate as she’s with her palette. And afearless invader of roadside fare, wherever. Once in Beijing, she ate what lookedsuspiciously like unmentionables, and probably were. But with her it was gulp-and-bear it.Anjolie follows her whims in art too—she can easily go from her trademark canvaseswith melancholy-tinged faces to painting kitschy images on found furniture to makingMurano Ganeshas, or even computer art—sans visual indigestion. Food talk over, wechat about men—from the dearth of exciting ones to the best and worst. Anjolie hasvery definite views, and here I take out my notebook—must get the quote right."I don’t like shiny new men with that brand new look. I like shaggy men, thewoolly kind. I hate men who think they are handsome." Perhaps it’s her variedparentage—an American grandmother, a Bengali grandfather—that has contributed toher eclectic taste in everything, including food. By the time we are done, we’resatiated, conversationwise and foodwise. There’s hardly anything left for a doggybag, and the bill is more than reasonable. The next morning we find ourselves on a Mumbaiflight: turns out neither of us had dinner the night before.