D and I go out for din din...at least that was the plan!!!

Among the many things D and I have in common (apart from being two 'weirdos' who are equally 'insane') is our love for varied cuisines and unique dining experiences.

Although her 'love for food' translates into the experience of going through the menu and deciding what to order, my fascination with the field of gastronomy begins and ends with consuming the servings ordered.

One fine day she calls me up asking me if i was 'vella' enough to have dinner. Reminding her I led to the term 'vella' being invented, I raise the most dangerous question of all..."Where?"

What ensued for the next fifteen minutes was a veritable flood of emails from D containing links to websites of eating joints strewn all over London. Having admitted that I was more vella than her, I had unsuspectingly fallen into a trap.

Now I had to decide where we would be having dinner, knowing very well that if I screwed up, I would be subjected to a few painful weeks of 'never getting to hear the end of it'!!!

After a few hours and a dozen "how about this?"s and "why don't you decide then?"s later, D announced her sudden craving for momos. We zeroed in on this place called 'Base Camp'. The reviews were good, the price seemed right and they served momos!!! Registering her approval with an "yayyyy", D switched off, as she often does, into her "kaaj aachhey" ("I have work") mode.

Although I was a bit speculative as to whether the momos in London would even begin to compare with the Elgin Road ones, I dialled the number printed boldly on the website.

"The number that you have entered does not exist", said the curt, but surprisingly posh voice on the other end. "CRAP AND DOUBLE CRAP" I cursed in my breath. Deciding not to wait any longer, I break the news to D, who again, very predictably gives one of her 'hmmmm's.

Finally we decided to make the trip anyway and that if the 'Base Camp' wasn't to our liking, we'd go somewhere else. Little did either of us know at that time how important a phrase like 'somewhere else' would turn out to be!

Having fixed up a time and place to meet, we get back to our daily schedules (and NO, mine does NOT include me being vella all the time!!).

Now what I did not know was that Base Camp lay in the far-away corners of 'Zone 4' (one of the six transport zones of London), a zone which I had absolutely no idea of, being confined mostly to Zones 1 and 2.

Being the trust-worthy fool that I am, I was relying completely on D's knowledge of the location we were heading towards. Only after we were on the Tube did I come to know that the only bit of 'knowledge' she had was a rather confusing squiggly thing of a map. (Readers of this blog will know about my infamous grasp over the subject of geography)

Having received one of D's "don't be so paranoid" glares, I decided to stay 'mum' for the entire journey, which involved two line changes and thus required an incredible amount of effort on my part (Again, readers who are unfortunate enough to know me would agree).

Almost an hour later, we reached the neighbourhood of Leytonstone.

My very first thought on getting out of the Tube station was to grab D and turn around. Now I am definitely NOT the timid type and don't mind venturing into the unknown. However, there are places where you can't drag a female of the species to. Although in this case, it was the female of the species who was doing all the dragging, something in my gut was telling me that this was a bad idea.

Leytonstone resembled one of those neighbourhoods you see in gangster movies, and by 'gangster' I don't mean those fedora-wearing, tommygun-wielding, snarling types. I mean the hooded jacket wearing, knife-wielding, snarling types. In fact, a couple of those types were standing a few feet away from us.

I looked at D, who was busy studying the map she had brought along with her. "Give that to me", I said snatching it from her and stuffing it in my pocket. "Don't we need that?" asked D.

"Naah...I replied, rather unconvincingly. Being the stubborner of us two, D had decided to let her craving for momos override her judgement and so we started looking around for Leytonstone High Street, which was supposed to be where this place was. "...and it had better be damn good", I grumbled.

After a fifteen minute walk along this unlit (hence dark) road lined with shops and other suspicious looking 'commercial establishments' (none of which were open, by the way), we sighted Base Camp. "You have got to be kidding me!!!" both of us exclaimed. The freaking thing was closed!!! And from the appearance of the place, it had been so for a few months at least!!!

Feeling disappointed and relieved at the same time, I dragged D back to the Tube station. After walking for a while, I realised that she wasn't walking beside me. Panic-stricken, I turned around and saw her, standing under the only functioning street light, busy fiddling with her Blackberry, completely oblivious to the fact that she was at that moment, what military strategists would refer to as a 'soft target' .

Apparently, she was researching other restaurants on that fruity gadget of hers. And whenever I was attempting to interrupt this endeavour, she shoved me away. Realising, to my discomfort, how freakishly strong my skinny friend was (she had used just one elbow to physically displace my considerable mass by a few inches), I decided to pay no attention to D and walked towards the Tube station. Soon enough, I could hear her pattering behind me.

Turning around to flash my ' Hah I win!' grin, I saw this rather agitated, petite, middle-aged lady rushing towards me. Managing to step away in the last moment, I realised that my considerable mass had been blocking a considerable part of the entrance to the station. I also realised that it was pretty late. Although it was only nine in the evening, this was well past the normal dinner time in the United Kingdom. And we did have a long journey to reach the sanctuary that was Central London, if we were to have dinner at all!

Luckily enough, D sensed that as well. And so, we headed back towards Zone 2, closer to home and civilisation!!

On the Tube, I suggested that we go somewhere that would be close to where D stayed. And so, we decided to head towards this joint called 'Chillie's' in Canary Wharf. Chillie's was a decent place, with pretty good food, and although the price was a bit steep, the servings were adequate. The downside to Chillie's was that both of us had had a lot of meals there and it was TOO familiar. A rather disappointing conclusion to our gastronomic journey.

However, both of us were ravenous and D's craving for momos had turned to a craving for anything that had ever moved once.

Having ordered a trout, some chicken, a diet coke and a Long Island Ice Tea...we waited, rather impatiently for our food, which was brought to our table by this rather flirty waitress (who somehow seemed to be having some problems with buttoning up her blouse).

"I have a headache', announced D, pushing away her plate. This translated into the following:

a. I have had my fill by ordering stuff from the menu, and,

b. I'm bored and want to go home!!!

Now I was stuck with more food than I could finish, an increasingly irritated friend and a waitress, who I could have sworn, had just changed into a blouse which was two sizes too small!

Managing to convince D to have some of the trout, I gobbled up the rest (hence, my considerable mass) and signalled for the bill.

"Don't tip her", grumbled D. This translated into:

a. I didn't like the food (cos I wanted momos), and,

b. Why the hell were you ogling that b**** (read waitress)!!??!!

Leaving me over-stuffed and a tad confused at the table, D sauntered off.

Paying off the bill (which included a rather hefty tip), I gathered my scattered belongings (which consisted of my suit jacket, my overcoat and my laptop) and managed to catch up with D on one of the many escalators.

Realising that our grand plans had been screwed up royally, I braced myself for the assault.

D turned around on the escalator and flashed one of her 'Bardot' smiles. Nauseous from an over-indulgence in a combination of trout and chicken and lima beans and feeling tired and sleepy from the 'now hectic' day I was having, I managed a rather confused "HUH????"

At the DLR station, I delivered a few parting words of advice like "Take care and take an aspirin and let me know once you reach home", all of which fell on deaf ears.

I went to bed that night, steeped in mortal fear. Having spent the remaining hours of the night visualising how my punishment was going to be meted out, I trudged to work the next day.

After having gone through the early morning ritual of saying "Hi"s, checking my mail and having coffee, I decided to brave it and sent out a mail to D.

A few minutes later, I got a reply. It was a few minutes before I realised why my colleagues were looking at me in bemusement. Apparently, the expression on my face was rather similar to the emoticon on my screen.

I was, once again, free to breathe again!!! :)