Dine and dash.
Two months later and I’m still not entirely convinced anybody will believe it actually happened…
Our first dinner in Hyderabad was entirely unremarkable. After a long travel day thanks to fog delays out of Delhi, Joe and I were mostly concerned with making sure Nicolas would eat a good meal and not wake us up at 5am hungry. The Hard Rock Cafe seemed as good a choice as any for a it’s-not-our-holiday Christmas Day feast. The music was too loud, of course. And Joe’s and my (not beef) hamburgers were overly seasoned. But Nicolas was so thrilled with his chicken tenders that he asked repeatedly the next few days if we could go back. (We did not.)
Tuesday night’s dinner was… let’s just say that an overly hungry, overly tired preschooler (and his mommy) didn’t fare well. Nicolas had talked about sushi all day and Joe delivered. He picked a lovely spot on the third floor of a building overlooking the posh Banjara Hills area. Things were going well until they weren’t. The sushi boat arrived and the sushi didn’t look exactly like the sushi Nicolas’s friend’s nanny made the week before. An epic meltdown ensued and both kiddo and I said things we had to apologize for later. I had, at least, stashed a for-emergency-use-only Cliff Bar in my purse. None of us left the table hungry but it wasn’t exactly the charming vacation meal that we had set out for.
But Wednesday’s dinner?
Well.
Joe and I were desperate for some of the biryani the city is known for, but we needed to pick somewhere that Nicolas would find something to eat too. We settled on a restaurant that we had noticed the night before on our ride back to the hotel; Google reviews glowed with promises of it being a family-friendly joint with good food (albeit a little pricey).
I didn’t think anything of it when we were one of two tables in the place. Eating on an American kiddo’s timetable means we’re often eating right when restaurants open and at least two hours before Indians show up.
I was slightly annoyed that we were seated in the patio area next to a fungusy-smelling fountain that clearly hadn’t been chlorinated in awhile. But we got used to the smell by the time we put in our order.
Joe’s first request for glasses for the bottle of water on our table went unanswered as the busboy started fogging the patio with incense to ward off mosquitos. I was growing slightly more annoyed but we had already ordered and kiddo was hungry. We would wait.
His second request for glasses didn’t even get an acknowledgement as the waiter breezed by our table.
On his third (rather insistent and definitely firm) request, the waiter bobbed his head slightly as if to say “I hear you,” but then went over to bus a table.
It was only out of the corner of my eye that I noticed the thing that was my line in the sand: the waiter had glanced around the bar area searching for something, looked over to our table, and then TOOK THE SAME DIRTY GLASSES HE HAD JUST PULLED OFF THE TABLE, DUMPED THE LAST BIT OF WATER OUT, AND STARTED WIPING THEM WITH A PAPER NAPKIN.
I didn’t need to see more to know that he was going to bring us those glasses rather than walk to the kitchen to find some that were (or may not actually have been any) cleaner.
I quickly conveyed to Joe what was happening. I had barely blinked before a bewildered Nicolas was swooped out of his seat and into Joe’s arms.
“We’re leaving, Sweetheart,” I said quietly as we walked toward the door, “we’ll get dinner at the hotel. This restaurant is too dirty.”
“The restaurant is dirty??!!” Nicolas puzzled (loudly) as we neared the hostess stand.
Joe and Nicolas were already out the door as I explained to the hostess why we would not be staying and that we hadn’t so much as opened the water bottle on our table. We wouldn’t be dining but we would definitely be dashing.
And dash we did.
Once outside, Joe and I held a walking 15-second strategy session. We still needed to get a ride down the hills to our hotel, but decided it best to move down the road a little bit before pulling out a phone to Uber an “auto.” Nicolas went up on Joe’s shoulders and I followed behind as we booked it down the now-dark street until we could a) get some distance b) find a spot safe enough to stand for a bit.
That spot was directly in front of the Iranian Consulate.
As we waited for our tuk-tuk to show up, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. My kiddo was hungry but seemed OK with the 10 minutes we promised it would take to get back. And my husband was laughing so hard his eyes were watering. I took his cue and joined in. What else was there to do, really?
We finally made it to the hotel restaurant at 6:45. Not late unless you’re a preschooler with a 7:15 bedtime. It was still too early for the dinner buffet to be open but not so early that the staff couldn’t go above and beyond to prepare a “no spicy, please” not-on-the-menu chicken burger for Nicolas.
Nicolas got fed, Joe and I managed to get some biryani, and we all ended up with a story.
(But did we eat at a pizza joint the next night? You bet we did.)
