folklore

The farmlore experience in the style of Gonzo Journalism. An experiment about an experiment, if you will

It was golden hour. I sat in an auto headed towards the airport. I wasn’t flying to a foreign land this time. Something I normally would do, if on this route, to taste exquisite cuisines and experience different cultures. I was going to farmlore, a locavore restaurant on the outskirts of Bangalore which served local ingredients, re-imagined in a cuisine-free style.

Cuisine-free food, you say; like a lack of identity? Identity is debt and I paid mine off over the past decade. Debt in the form of identity, student loans, relationships - just like this mango, falling off the tree in the farm where the restaurant is located. The mango, after being nourished, falls to the ground, cutting off its cord. A lot of things in life are like that. You’re nourished, you get everything you want and then you cut the cord.

I walked past those mango orchards and stopped in front of the entrance; for a quick smoke. I’m a smoker. As I take a drag from my Menthols, I am also engulfed by the faint smell of burning wood-fire. There’s something transcendent about the smoke. Feels like comfort. Maybe it’s because of our primal evolutionary makeup where the smell of wood-fire meant it was a time of relaxation and nourishment after a hard days work. Whatever it was, I liked it.

It’s 6:30 pm and the other diners are walking in. Hurriedly I stub the cigarette and take a sip of water to quench my parched throat. I step inside through those towering wooden doors. Those that are meant to remind you of your insignificance in a place like this. I noticed graffiti on the wall immediately opposite the entrance. It’s pretty but entirely forgettable.

I am ushered in by the staff; asked to take a seat anywhere I wanted. I sat at the left most corner of the bar. I like corners, they offer easier escape routes. No sooner did I take that seat, was I asked to move to the right; because the four chairs on the left were reserved for some regulars. Loyalty, it would seem, has perks. I complied. I sat next to a young gentleman, probably in his mid-20s. He’s a stockbroker, he told me. We exchanged pleasantries. 

I’ve always been curious about this place. The chef is someone who worked under René Redzepi of Noma fame. She is at the edge of her field; and it would be remiss of me to not support someone like her. I see her working inside the open kitchen right in front of me. She’s giving orders to her staff working over the wood-fire stove. I could smell it in the air. Almost like being around a campfire. 

The waiter asks me if I’d like some homemade Kombucha. I nod my head. 

And then the symphony begins

To begin with, we are served some cr(m)unchies. A little bit of tang, a little bit of sweet. Unremarkable, but whets the appetite. One bit of it was served in a severed wooden hand of a mannequin. How tasteful, I thought. 

We move swiftly through the courses, waiting for no one. Mythrayie, the head chef, explaining some of them to us. While the rest were explained by her sous chef.  

The symphony continues as every bit of food served brings back nostalgia. 

The aforementioned Mango makes an appearance. Not the ripe kind, ready to be plucked. But the raw kind served as a sorbet with ginger. This was served on a bed of mango leaves. As if the massacre needed witnesses. 

But we move on, as one does.

Next up we had a 14 hour roasted watermelon, topped with strawberries and dehydrated tomatoes. This is love on a plate, brimming red, perfect for my parched throat.

Soon after that the next course followed. Oysters topped with orange fish roe. (Hello sunshine!) Accompanied with a cream of lettuce soup. The green stuff tastes alien but in a good way.

This was followed by the most succulent scallops on a bed of orange and green sauce. How shell-fish of me to be eating this alone!

More meaty goodness followed in the form of perfectly cooked duck with roasted ridge gourd, with some chimichuri butter hidden underneath. Such a revelation. A prestige if you will.

Next up we had bannur lamb served in a nest on fire. There's that smell of wood-fire again. Accompanied by a purple grape sauce. At this point I was either lost in my mind, confused, delighted or some combination of all of the above that I forgot to take a picture. It wouldn't have done it justice anyway.

The crescendo has peaked. What a trip, I thought not knowing what was coming up next.

Time for dessert. I’ve never been a fan of desserts. But it felt rude to refuse something on a degustation menu. It was strawberry ice-cream on a bed on candied orange topped with a s’more. Torched at the table of course. Accompanied by hot chocolate on the side. 

I sat cramped next to 4 white people on my left and the stock-trader on the right.

That and the smell of s’mores transports me to Winter Camping. 8 years ago. On the harshest winter night in Wisconsin. We sat by the campfire, the 6 of us. Drinking hot chocolate and torching marshmallows. “This is comfort. This is camaraderie.”, I tried to convince myself. There was doubt.

I pull the burning embers from the fire and light a joint. The smell is familiar; but I haven’t gotten used to it yet. My comrades are shocked. They haven’t smoked the green stuff in ages. I pass it to them. They smoke, exchange stories and debate politics, while I sit quietly. Still. Contemplative.

There is Tycho playing in the background. I recognize the song. It’s called ‘A Walk’.

The chatter continues. 

She gets up and says she’s going for A Walk in the woods. Co-incidental I thought. Oh well, ‘Stay safe’, I say.

Stay Safe. The battle cry of my immigrant life. Stay safe; don’t wander too far; stay in your lane while you wait for your Green Card to actually be free in the land of the free. But for now you are a caged blue bird in the wild west.

Tycho was the first song on The Playlist my ex-girlfriend made for me. It was called Farewell February - the playlist she’d made to comfort me during my birthday which was usually a month of melancholy. The music on the speakers fades as I move away to the park bench a few feet ahead. I put on my earphones to listen to this playlist. I knew this playlist. I knew it well. It was a source of comfort. Also, a parting gift I hadn’t seen coming.

A few songs in and ‘Sad Sad City by Ghostland Observatory’ plays. ‘How poignant’, I thought.

There was nothing to do here in this city. I didn’t like my comrades. I didn’t like the quest. I missed my friends. ‘Oh you Green Eyed monster; what do you want? Really.’ 

My inner monologue is disturbed by some commotion I can hear by the campfire. We can’t find the girl who went for a walk in the woods, it would seem. They decide to go search for her. I follow along, one earphone still plugged in. ‘Why even try by Sara Quin’ plays.

We walk a few hundred feet and find her on the ground, collapsed; while ‘Happy to see you by Yppah’ plays. We bring her back to the campfire to warm her up and feed her some hot chocolate.

‘Sorry about your Irony by El Ten Eleven’ plays as I call it a night. 

I wake up bright and early. Well rested. The early morning light on the white snow with my friend tending the campfire is a sight to behold. I have a smile on my face. Time for some bacon, eggs and hot chocolate.

Someone kept the fire alive all night it would seem. There are burnt embers and the fire is still roaring. My comrades step out from their tents, hungover from the night’s activities. 

One by one, we gathered around the campfire again. No one speaks. Someone hands me a cup of hot chocolate while another asks ‘How do you like your eggs and bacon’. ‘Over easy and burnt to a crisp’, I say. He obliges. We don’t talk anymore.

With breakfast being done; I now inquire about the Girl Who Took A Walk. She’s fine now, just resting, they say. 

I am glad.

We bid our goodbyes. I get in my car and drive home. Home is an alien concept when you are away from it for so long. ‘Home is where the heart is’, they say. By that definition I was A thousand miles away from it, not 40.  ‘Lost in my mind by The Head and The Heart’ plays on the radio.

I remember a smart person, I know, once told me ‘What is this dichotomy? Emotions are just chemical reactions in the brain. There is nothing called the heart. It’s just an organ that pumps blood’. I disagree with her. I do not have such a reductionist approach to life.

This trip down memory-lane is now rudely interrupted. It’s the hotel staff. They ask me if I’d like some ‘Bad Boy Gummies’.

I laugh and ask ‘What’s in it’?

They say it’s just Gin and Whiskey. I refuse.

Things have changed.

I think.

I leave. The night fades.