Persian Restaurant is not your fancy Jimmy Boy kind of Irani restaurant. It does not reek of genteel Parsi nostalgia. It’s minuscule, with exactly five tables squeezed against the walls. The waiters all look south Indian. "It’s a favourite with taxi drivers," Husain informs me blandly. And also with him because 60 years back when Colaba was under the British army, he’d paint their gate signage and "come here to have my chai and meals. It became a habit". Six decades down and even though the Taj and Oberoi five-star monoliths next door would love to have him, he still drops by at Persian for his morning cuppa. "I also like the keema and dal here," he muses. It’s too early for that, so we settle for maska pau (butter bun) with Irani chai. It comes in a jiffy on a cracked porcelain plate. We dip the pau into the sweet, milky tea and pop it in. Nothing in their insipid, innocuous appearance prepares you for that moment of instant nirvana when they join in gooey, buttery bliss around the taste buds. Heaven!
We notice an old Parsi gentleman reading the paper at one of the tables. He looks like he has been here forever. It’s a nice place to come to if you’re retired, like to read every line in the newspaper, hate talking to people but want them around anyway. Husain does not have time for any of this. Few hours down he is off to Prague with Tabu for his new film. The bill is Rs 23. But unlike other fancy places Husain patronises, they don’t ask him to sign the menu or draw a sketch on their paper mats. In fact they barely notice him. Now you know why he comes here.
