Dinner in the Morning

I went to the front desk of the hotel where I was staying, hopeful but not optimistic that they'd be able to tell me where I could find some vittles at the hour of 20 past midnight. The guy at the desk made a few calls but ultimately told me nothing was available except junk food. I raised an eyebrow in a way that indicated I was neither neither stranger to nor foe of junk food. He went on to say that it may be unhygienic, which made me think he might have meant greasy fried food made in small, dirty restaurants rather than the candy bars neatly perched upon brightly lit convenience store shelves I had initially pictured. I thanked him and returned to my room to eat my bananas and see how protein powder tasted in water.

Upon reaching my room, I received a call from the front desk. The many-minded behemoth that is the staff of the K Stars hotel had been able to find a "non-junk food" restaurant open at that hour. I slipped my shoes back on and returned to the front desk, where I was told to follow a man dressed in a bellboy-type uniform with the words "K Stars" on the breast who spoke very little English. I did as instructed.

The first restaurant, right next door, turned out to be closed. We turned back and went down the street in the opposite direction, coming upon a bustling eatery whose lighting and decor made me think, for some reason, that it should be full of Arabian prostitutes. Perhaps this was because it reminded me of the dance club area of the hotel where I stayed in Morocco which, while not full of, did have a non-zero number of Arabian prostitutes.

That number was three.

I know, because there were three women.

There were no women at this restaurant, but there was food. Upon being seated, I told my escort, who, I found out, was named Laloo Pandey, that I would be fine and he could go. I was worried that he would be getting behind in his work. I tried to give him Rs 20 for his trouble. He motioned that he was fine and that I should order. I did so and tried to indicate that if he wanted to order something, he was free to, and that I would pay. He magnanimously declined.

Still, he refused to let me fend for myself.

"He must be waiting to make sure I get the food I ordered," I thought.

Seven or eight minutes later, a waiter arrived with two sets of plates, placing one set in front of me and one in front of Mr. Pandey.

"Oh," I thought, "He must not want to be rude and tell the waiter to take his plates back."

Then the waiter brought out the food I'd ordered. He began to dish it out onto Mr. Pandey's plate first.

"Oh," I thought, "He must not want to be rude. He will probably wait for the waiter to give me a portion and then add his portion to it."

The waiter placed two butter rotis (thin slightly crispy tortilla-like entities glistening in a glaze of butter) on the mini plates in front of each of us. He then took his exit.

It was then, when he made no motion to indicate that I should take the food in front of him, that I realized that that night, Laloo Pandey and I would dine together.

Which was fine, really. Even my portion of the food was more than enough. And he was considerate, ordering another helping of butter roti for us and making sure I had enough water after we had shared my first bottle.

He escorted me back to the hotel and, not only that, but also to my room, the number of which he had asked on the walk back. As we got closer to my door, I began to think, "What else do you want from me, Pandey? I've fed you. Given that, a tip seems a bit much." Would he want to quickly jump in the shower? Or catch a flick on the room's TV? I had no idea.

Luckily, when I opened the door, he made no move to enter, and I thanked him and shook his hand as he turned to leave.

I mean, I don't know what Pandey thinks of Western courting mores, but you're not gettin' into my room on the first date.