For the love of it

The sauce dripped off Jangeer’s chin like water from a leaky tap, creating a small pool on the napkin beside his plate. He slurped the rest back into his mouth and then wiped his chin with his sleeve. It was enough to make Omar grimace.
He had been watching Jangeer from the kitchen, as he chucked down his favourite dish; Sag Aloo. Omar hated to admit it, but his cousin knew how to eat. Once, an American tourist had come into the Golden Star and tried to outdo Jangeer, dish for dish. It had resulted in two bowls of sick, one extremely embarrassed man and Jangeer leaning back in his chair, with the smuggest expression on his face that Omar had ever seen. He made sure it never happened again though, as Jangeer had very nearly broken the seat.
“Anna!” he now called from his table.
Anna was a waitress at the restaurant. She was a young girl, barely out of her teens who lived with her mum in a village east of Dunbar. She always served Jangeer at the table, partly because he demanded it, but also because she had developed a particular affection for him. It made Omar nauseous to think about why.
“Hi Jangeer” said Anna, standing by his table.
“Get me some more Aloo” he barked, not looking up from his plates, “and three more poppadoms.”
Anna paused for a second to look at him, and then went back to the kitchen. “Three more poppadoms and some Sag Aloo for Jangeer.”
“Tell him he can have two” replied Omar irritably. “I swear we lose profit because of that guy.”
But Omar knew that wasn’t really the case. He was losing business simply because there weren’t enough people coming in. That was why he had started doing the All You Can Eat buffet on Sunday afternoons. It had brought a few people in, but it wasn’t enough to cover the quiet nights during the week. In all honesty, it was barely enough to keep the Golden Star open.
Omar wandered over to the window while he let a pan heat up. Outside, it was still raining. “So much for Sunny Dunny” he said to himself.
Across the road was the Ostrich. Through the misted windows, Omar could see figures bustling about. Then the door opened and out stepped an old man. He was bent almost double at the waist, showing a balding head of wispy grey hair. He held on to the doorframe of the pub and reached gingerly for the pavement with his foot, as though feeling for a solid foothold on a cliff. When both his feet were firmly on the ground, he straightened almost to 80 degrees and looked across at the restaurant.
“Here comes Jim” said Omar, wearily.
Jim had started coming to the restaurant a couple of months ago. Omar was convinced that he didn’t even like Indian food. He seemed more interested in asking irritating questions about India. The fact that Omar was born in Glasgow didn’t seem to make any difference.
As Jim approached, Omar pulled the door open for him.
“Oh” he exclaimed. “How did you know I was coming?”
“I saw you across the street.”
“The gods told you, eh?” Jim wheezed out a laugh.
Omar helped him to the table in the corner, catching a pungent aroma of whisky on his breath. Jim shuffled round to the side with the sofa, then teetering like a see-saw, thudded backwards on to the seat.
“Ooh! It smells interesting in here today. What have you been making?”
“The same as I always do on a Sunday, Jim.”
“Well, you never know with you.”
“You mean Indian people?” said Omar, turning to the buffet.
“Well you like to cook don’t you? I saw a documentary about it once.”
Omar filled a plate with some tandoori chicken, pilau rice and a bit of curry sauce. It was the same thing every time. He brought the plate over to Jim and placed it on the table.
“Made in India, eh?” said Jim, breaking into another wheeze. Omar smiled politely and went back to the kitchen, while Jim continued to talk. “You ever tried fish and chips?”
The front door opened again. Omar looked over his shoulder to see a burly looking man enter. His face had a weathered look and he was sporting a thick beard. An unbuttoned shirt revealed a black t-shirt printed with a very faint list of tour dates for some undecipherable band. The man let out a belch, before sauntering over to look at the food.
“Hiya” said Anna, approaching him.
“Alright lass?” he replied. “What’s all this then?”
“It’s an all you can eat buffet; £5.50. Just help yourself.”
The man guffawed. “All I can eat, eh? That’ll be quite a bit then!” He grasped a plate and began to load it with food.
Omar noticed that Jangeer was watching the man intently and it occurred to him he might be a little intimidated. After all, if the man could eat as much as he proclaimed to, then he could pose a threat to Jangeer’s status as the biggest eater in the restaurant. The thought of it made Omar grin.
The door opened again and this time Margaret and Rowan entered. They came in every other Sunday, invariably ending their meal with a drunken row about whether one of them really loved the other. Omar was pretty certain that they were the only lesbians in Dunbar.
“Hello!” bellowed Margaret from the doorway. She waved in a rather uncoordinated manner, before Rowan yanked her towards the table by the window. “Oy! What are you doing?”
“I want to sit down!” Rowan swung her arm and knocked a glass off the table. It bounced once on the floor and then smashed. Anna went over with a dust pan and began to clear it up.
Omar stared at them through the service hatch until Margaret noticed.
“Sorry” she whispered.
He breathed heavily through his nose and then went over to the bar. It was a good vantage point to survey the restaurant and he took a minute to look around.
On the left was Jim, who looked to be having a doze. His head was craned to one side as though he were being ill down the back of the table. His hands rested on the table, still clutching a knife and fork.
On the other side sat Margaret and Rowan, who were now locked in deep conversation, their faces inches from each others.
Then there was Jangeer, who was giving frequent glances to his left where the anonymous Scotsman was just finishing his first plate of food. Still chewing, he shoved the table forward with his belly, swinging his feet out to the side and then making his way up to the buffet again.
“Omar” called Jangeer, sternly. “Where is the Aloo?”
“It’s coming, Jangeer. Sometimes, you do have to wait for food, you know?”
The Scotsman guffawed as he sat back down with a plateful of lamb madras and six poppadoms.
“You sound like a man who appreciates eating” he said. Jangeer fixed his gaze on the floor and said nothing.
When the Aloo was finally ready, Omar brought the pot out and put it down on the side. He was about to go back to the kitchen, when he stopped. To his amazement, Jangeer had got up from his table and come over to the buffet. In all the time he had been coming here, Omar had never witnessed Jangeer serve himself.
Hurriedly, he loaded up his plate with fresh Aloo, Lamb Madras and nine poppadoms. Then he sat back down and looked deliberately at the Scotsman.
“So you want a challenge, do you boy?
Jangeer picked up his knife and fork.
“All right lad. You’re on.”
The Scotsman was the first to finish his plate, closely followed by Jangeer. Then both men heaved themselves over the buffet and reloaded with chicken tikka massala.
Omar, meanwhile, leaned against the bar and watched with fascination at the contest that had begun.
“I’ll go put on some more rice” said Anna enthusiastically.
Finally, thought Omar, here was someone who was giving Jangeer a run for his money.
Over in the corner, Jim made a sound like a dying sheep and Omar saw that he was awake again and watching the two men with curiosity. Even Margaret and Rowan had stopped talking and become transfixed by this spectacle.
The men’s plates were cleared in a matter of minutes. Then, with spoons in hand, they attacked the buffet. Omar watched in silence, too stunned to protest as they matched each other mouthful for mouthful, lunging at anything that was left. Once the main dishes were finished off, they moved on to the sundries. Like wild animals, they tore at chapattis, wolfing it down with gulps of raita. Then came a barrage of poppadoms. Shards flew from their mouths as they stuffed in as many as they could, littering the floor with debris.
By now, their faces began to shine with a greasy sweat. Jangeer paused and leaned on the side, breathing heavily. The Scotsman held his stomach and squeezed his eyes shut as if in pain. Then with a shaky hand, Jangeer lifted a spoonful of dall towards his mouth. It faltered, and then dropped to the floor, spilling a grey dribble down the tablecloth.
For a moment, no one in the restaurant moved. Everyone was waiting to see what would happen next, except nothing did. It was a stalemate.
“I’ve got it!” cried Omar suddenly and rushed into the kitchen. He opened the fridge door and from the bottom shelf, grabbed a tub. He tore off the lid and inside, were several frozen Rasagolla; a cheese-based dessert. One would be more than enough to decide a winner, he thought, and chucked a plate of them in the microwave, setting it on full power.
Omar could hardly contain his excitement. Nothing like this had ever happened before at the Golden Star and he had a feeling that somehow it’s very future was connected with the outcome of this bizarre competition.
With seconds still to go, Omar whipped the bowl out of the microwave and drenched the contents in syrup. Then he placed it on the buffet table, shouting, “eat!”
Jangeer was the first to take one. He held it up like some ancient stone, letting the syrup run down his fingers all the way to his elbow. The Scotsman picked one up and following a brief pause, they both stuffed them in their mouths.
Cheesy liquid ejected from their lips and poured down their chins like egg yolk. Facing each other, both men began to chew. After a moment, Jangeer stopped.
Everyone in the restaurant shrunk back, as if expecting an explosion. But instead, Jangeer just stood rigid to the spot. He was staring fixatedly at the Scotsman’s face. Then, as if in a trance, he lifted his hand towards it and gingerly touched his cheek.
The effect was profound. The furrowed brow that the man had been wearing all evening dissolved and was replaced by a look of child-like wonder. He lifted his own hand and touched Jangeer lightly on the arm.
“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Jangeer whimpered like a puppy and then the two of them embraced each other in a passionate, sticky kiss.
Jim shrieked and waved his arms about as though he were shooing away a ghost, Margaret and Rowan broke into a cheer before snogging each other and Anna burst into tears.
Meanwhile, Omar looked on blankly. He knew that there was a reason for all of this happening, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. He stared at the bar, deep in thought, until he was distracted by a commotion outside the window. To his astonishment, a small group of spectators had gathered in the street and were peering into the restaurant.
“That’s it!” cried Omar, slapping his hand on the bar. “We’ll have a Curry Eating Competition. It’ll bring crowds in. And you two can be the judges!” He laughed at the brilliance of it, but no one was paying him any attention. They were still watching the men, locked in each other arms.
“Bet you don’t get that in India” said Jim.