Last night, I joined a few old friends of mine for a post-club drink (a must for any self-respecting clubber). Around 3 am better sense walked in with a buddy called ‘the need to eat’. Aziz bhai’s nocturnal cart at Bandra station is a regular haunt of for us and the urge to head there was kicking in. The spirits however, had other plans. Alcohol has a way of making one believe they can achieve just about anything, on this particular occasion, Hritik (name changed to preserve his dignity and my teeth), imagined himself to be a talented chef, and he is, if scrambled eggs is the only item on the menu.
We had eggs (no pun intended), veggies and a drunk aspiring chef - everything you need to make a great scrambled egg. Almost. The bread bin was empty. A trip to the bakery was in order. For the uninitiated, any bakery in Bandra will sell you bread at any hour of the night, you just have to use the backdoor (once again, no pun intended). The bakery at Chapel road was the closest one on this occasion. Jude (yeah, that’s his real name), and I volunteered to run the errand (Hritik and the rest were on onion cutting duty).
Chapel road is a very quiet place at night. Come to think of it, most places are quiet at night, but this place has a very spooky vibe. Until a decade ago, nobody without a prison record would even consider stepping out when the moon was on watch.
We got off the main road and entered a series of ‘mug my ass’ lanes. Catacomb like. Along the way we passed a couple of shirtless, knife scar barring chaps smoking (probably operation scars, I figured at the time). I put on my best “I’m drunk, don’t mess with me” face. In retrospect, it’s a good thing they didn’t notice. Before you know it, we were there. The backdoor entrance (I really have to stop saying this)
Bread making has nothing at all to do with romance (contrary to what the guy who sell the stuff would have you believe). The place looked more like sweat shop. A glass factory even. No kidding. And believe me, these bakers look nothing like the cuddly Pillsbury Dough Boy. Rough, raw and rugged.
The guys th
ere were kind (tolerant actually) enough to let us check out the oven area. This is the first time I actually came face-to-face with the guy who bakes my bread. The head baker there. His name is Gunie (Gun-E… wicked huh?), and he looked like he could kick the Pillsbury Dough Boy's ass from here to Madras. He was really pressed for time and yet was kind enough to share a smile when we pointed the camera his way (nice pic Jude). I did want to chat more with Gunie, explore the hidden world of Mumbai’s bakers, but time was something he did not have, another being a drink. We said thank you and goodbye and left. Gunie was the genuine article and that Pillsbury guy was stealing all his credit! Prick!
We had eggs (no pun intended), veggies and a drunk aspiring chef - everything you need to make a great scrambled egg. Almost. The bread bin was empty. A trip to the bakery was in order. For the uninitiated, any bakery in Bandra will sell you bread at any hour of the night, you just have to use the backdoor (once again, no pun intended). The bakery at Chapel road was the closest one on this occasion. Jude (yeah, that’s his real name), and I volunteered to run the errand (Hritik and the rest were on onion cutting duty).
Chapel road is a very quiet place at night. Come to think of it, most places are quiet at night, but this place has a very spooky vibe. Until a decade ago, nobody without a prison record would even consider stepping out when the moon was on watch.
We got off the main road and entered a series of ‘mug my ass’ lanes. Catacomb like. Along the way we passed a couple of shirtless, knife scar barring chaps smoking (probably operation scars, I figured at the time). I put on my best “I’m drunk, don’t mess with me” face. In retrospect, it’s a good thing they didn’t notice. Before you know it, we were there. The backdoor entrance (I really have to stop saying this)
Bread making has nothing at all to do with romance (contrary to what the guy who sell the stuff would have you believe). The place looked more like sweat shop. A glass factory even. No kidding. And believe me, these bakers look nothing like the cuddly Pillsbury Dough Boy. Rough, raw and rugged.
The guys th
ere were kind (tolerant actually) enough to let us check out the oven area. This is the first time I actually came face-to-face with the guy who bakes my bread. The head baker there. His name is Gunie (Gun-E… wicked huh?), and he looked like he could kick the Pillsbury Dough Boy's ass from here to Madras. He was really pressed for time and yet was kind enough to share a smile when we pointed the camera his way (nice pic Jude). I did want to chat more with Gunie, explore the hidden world of Mumbai’s bakers, but time was something he did not have, another being a drink. We said thank you and goodbye and left. Gunie was the genuine article and that Pillsbury guy was stealing all his credit! Prick! When we got back to the crib, the boys had kept everything ready. The onions were chopped, chilies ready, everything was set. There was jut one problem. The chef had passed out.
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