I had great plans for the early summer, none of which involved me being in Lahore. This did not go as planned. A series of mindless delays involving everything from visa to tickets to polio vaccination forms had kept me captive in my house muttering to myself like a mental patient. I’m beyond thrilled to report that I finally sorted myself out and am now sitting in an outdoor café in Paris. I know! I’m jealous of myself, too. I keep taking scenic selfies to convince myself I’m here.
The delay worked out in the end, since I wanted to avoid Ramzan in July (like an albino avoids UV rays). For the next few weeks I’m going to be going around France and then on to Venice for a few days, my favorite city. I can say that definitively. Have you ever felt that wave of familiarity the moment you enter a city that you’ve never visited before? That immediate sense that you were home? Venice was like that for me the first time I went there, like I’d been there in a past life or similar. (Which may not be far from the truth since my janam kundli said that my fourth incarnation was in Europe around the 15th century; sounds grand but he told me I was a tree for my fifth…)
Anyway, I stopped in London for a few days to stay with friends before coming here. As ever, London greeted me coldly and without remorse. It was rainy and grey and depressing (I keep muttering “it’s June…” in a small voice) but I seem to be the only one who’s noticed. Everyone else thinks it’s the height of summer and people are wandering around in summer dresses and linens, despite temperatures in the mid teens. My own nipples, by contrast, could cut glass. I’m grateful, I keep reminding myself as I walk around under streetlights and near rivers. The electricity doesn’t cut out, you see different races on the streets and the sight of skin doesn’t incite people to violence. That’s what I call a holiday.
[quote]France is the same, except for more wifi and pictures of Carla Bruni[/quote]
The one warm day we did have this weekend found me in London’s Spitalfields Market working at a food stall. A friend of mine has decided to open a pop-up street food stall. Pop-ups, in case you don’t know, are all the rage. The recession economy has inspired people to set up temporary shops rather than invest in premises, and these little establishments materialize for a few days and then disappear. My friend Numra’s stall – a nice little enclosed space opposite the church outside Spitalfields – is called Bun Kabab and runs every weekend.
My high school in Lahore is the only place I have eaten bun kababs and frankly have always hated them for that reason. Numra’s BK’s, by contrast, were amazing. She’s turned them into gourmet creations with brioche and lentils and fritters and all kinds of cool accompaniments. If you’re in London anytime Thursday through Sunday, give it a try. It’s really quite yummy. Apparently she was inspired by a restaurant called Dishoom in London. Perhaps you’ve heard of it; I hadn’t until a few months ago and I still haven’t been there. Strangely, when I was in Bombay a few months ago I met the man who owns Dishoom. He was in the city with his team of chefs to give them a crash course on Mumbai street food for one of his new projects and I accompanied him for a night of street food eating after we began chatting at a restaurant.
But bun kabas can only keep me so interested. For the past three weeks I have been starving myself in anticipation of France for two reasons: one is that everything is cooked in butter in France and I intend to be a major part of that tradition. The second (mildly distressing) one is that I have to publicly appear in a swimsuit in less than ten days. (!) I’m not sure how to reconcile those two objectives but I will.
It has been a full ten years now since I have been to France, the last time being a short trip while I was in college. It remains unchanged, except for more wifi and pictures of Carla Bruni. The lights twinkle, the river flows prettily and everyone is well-dressed and eating in large fashionable groups at cafés that line streets that look like runways as they cackle and smoke.
Speaking of: I’d better go. I’ve been writing this in a café and the waiter is eyeing me unappreciatively. Before I go, a small but useful tip: the French are not big on service. Unlike the Americans, they don’t work for tips and so don’t really give a toss about what you think or how you feel. (A French salesman will never tell you to “have a good one!”) Especially if you don’t speak French, which I don’t. My advice? Whenever they ask you a question with a raised eyebrow and an indecipherable accent, reply to them in sign language. And if that doesn’t work, pout.
Write to thekantawala@gmail and follow @fkantawala on twitter
The delay worked out in the end, since I wanted to avoid Ramzan in July (like an albino avoids UV rays). For the next few weeks I’m going to be going around France and then on to Venice for a few days, my favorite city. I can say that definitively. Have you ever felt that wave of familiarity the moment you enter a city that you’ve never visited before? That immediate sense that you were home? Venice was like that for me the first time I went there, like I’d been there in a past life or similar. (Which may not be far from the truth since my janam kundli said that my fourth incarnation was in Europe around the 15th century; sounds grand but he told me I was a tree for my fifth…)
Anyway, I stopped in London for a few days to stay with friends before coming here. As ever, London greeted me coldly and without remorse. It was rainy and grey and depressing (I keep muttering “it’s June…” in a small voice) but I seem to be the only one who’s noticed. Everyone else thinks it’s the height of summer and people are wandering around in summer dresses and linens, despite temperatures in the mid teens. My own nipples, by contrast, could cut glass. I’m grateful, I keep reminding myself as I walk around under streetlights and near rivers. The electricity doesn’t cut out, you see different races on the streets and the sight of skin doesn’t incite people to violence. That’s what I call a holiday.
[quote]France is the same, except for more wifi and pictures of Carla Bruni[/quote]
The one warm day we did have this weekend found me in London’s Spitalfields Market working at a food stall. A friend of mine has decided to open a pop-up street food stall. Pop-ups, in case you don’t know, are all the rage. The recession economy has inspired people to set up temporary shops rather than invest in premises, and these little establishments materialize for a few days and then disappear. My friend Numra’s stall – a nice little enclosed space opposite the church outside Spitalfields – is called Bun Kabab and runs every weekend.
My high school in Lahore is the only place I have eaten bun kababs and frankly have always hated them for that reason. Numra’s BK’s, by contrast, were amazing. She’s turned them into gourmet creations with brioche and lentils and fritters and all kinds of cool accompaniments. If you’re in London anytime Thursday through Sunday, give it a try. It’s really quite yummy. Apparently she was inspired by a restaurant called Dishoom in London. Perhaps you’ve heard of it; I hadn’t until a few months ago and I still haven’t been there. Strangely, when I was in Bombay a few months ago I met the man who owns Dishoom. He was in the city with his team of chefs to give them a crash course on Mumbai street food for one of his new projects and I accompanied him for a night of street food eating after we began chatting at a restaurant.
But bun kabas can only keep me so interested. For the past three weeks I have been starving myself in anticipation of France for two reasons: one is that everything is cooked in butter in France and I intend to be a major part of that tradition. The second (mildly distressing) one is that I have to publicly appear in a swimsuit in less than ten days. (!) I’m not sure how to reconcile those two objectives but I will.
It has been a full ten years now since I have been to France, the last time being a short trip while I was in college. It remains unchanged, except for more wifi and pictures of Carla Bruni. The lights twinkle, the river flows prettily and everyone is well-dressed and eating in large fashionable groups at cafés that line streets that look like runways as they cackle and smoke.
Speaking of: I’d better go. I’ve been writing this in a café and the waiter is eyeing me unappreciatively. Before I go, a small but useful tip: the French are not big on service. Unlike the Americans, they don’t work for tips and so don’t really give a toss about what you think or how you feel. (A French salesman will never tell you to “have a good one!”) Especially if you don’t speak French, which I don’t. My advice? Whenever they ask you a question with a raised eyebrow and an indecipherable accent, reply to them in sign language. And if that doesn’t work, pout.
Write to thekantawala@gmail and follow @fkantawala on twitter