THE SIZZLER STEAK

When my uncle announced that he was taking us kids out for dinner, I was elated. I was ten, enjoying my summer vacation at Madras with my cousins. Everything was so fresh, new and interesting.

The Blue Opal Restaurant was the stuff of dreams. I had never been in such a place before. Dazzling lights, beautifully laid tables, a shining tiled floor you could curl up and sleep on. Far, far different from anything else I had ever seen in my life.

No wonder. I was just a boy from a small town, who had seen nothing more glamorous than the Indian Coffee House.

When all of us were seated, I looked around at the smartly uniformed waiters majestically moving around, trays held aloft. Tall glasses containing brilliantly coloured liquids, with bent straws and lemon slices artistically arranged on their rims. Gleaming silver vessels, wafting intriguing aromas as they passed by.

On the table before me, tastefully coloured table mats with elegant floral designs, shining cutlery and napkins, all artistically arranged. Brilliantly white ceramic plates. A far cry from the steel plates and glasses I was used to at home.

This was Heaven indeed. 

When it was time to place our orders, most of my cousins wanted Sizzler Steaks. Though I had no idea what a Sizzler Steak, I ordered one too. When in doubt, go with the majority.

But first the soup. When I was served my portion, I grabbed the nearest spoon at hand, plunged it in the bowl and slurped down my first mouthful of sweet corn chicken soup. It was delicious. To this day, it remains my favourite of all soups.

It was then that I saw my uncle, sitting opposite me. There was a pained expression on his face which I couldn’t understand.

Looking around me, I realised that everyone else was using the large white soup spoons with their bowls tilted away from them, without making any tinkling noises.

I slowly put down my spoon and tried to emulate them. It slowed down my eating, but that was okay, it still tasted great. But my uncle still looked pained.

Then I figured out that the others were sipping their soup in silence, while I was emulating the sounds my dog Jessie used to make at feeding time. I did my best to remedy that too.

When the Sizzler Steaks arrived, I was amazed at the very concept. There they were, hot and sizzling in their plates, with vegetable pieces tastefully placed all round them. They made a wonderful sound, like pappads being deep fried, as the waiter bore them down to our table.

After my steak cooled down, I eagerly reached for it.

‘Stop’

I looked up and saw my uncle, frowning.

‘Use your knife and fork’ he said quietly.

I looked at all my cousins, who were digging into their steaks with the requisite implements.

‘Don’t you know how to use them?’ my uncle asked.

Suddenly feeling like vanishing into the ground, I shook my head slowly.

‘Look at the others and do what they are doing’ he said. There was a dangerous edge to his voice.

I tried my best, but I somehow couldn’t get the knack of it. Each time I tried to bring the knife into the steak, holding it down with the fork like the others were doing, it would slip and all the surrounding vegetables would spill onto the table cloth.

My aunt did try to get my uncle to allow me to use my hands, but he was adamant.

‘If not now, when will he ever learn?’

And for an excruciating half an hour, I sat in front of him, trying to eat that steak with my fork and knife. At intervals, he would tell me to keep my mouth closed while chewing the pitifully small pieces that I was able to break off.

Everyone else had finished and was waiting for me. There were a few sniggers, quickly hushed when my uncle’s attention turned in the direction of the perpetrators.

Close to tears, I did my best to finish off that horrible bit of meat, which by then tasted like plastic to me.

My ordeal ended when the beastly thing flew from my plate and landed under the table, when I made an inexpert poke at it with my fork.

I didn’t do it on purpose. I swear.

While the others ordered dessert, I went to the bathroom to wash my hands and cry a few tears of frustration.

Lucky I did, because when I came back, they were all washing their fingers in the finger bowls. I would probably have drunk from mine. After all, it did have a lemon slice in it.

I am sure my uncle regretted his strict behaviour. For the rest of the vacation, he pampered me with goodies galore. We went for various outings afterwards, but never again to a restaurant.

He was normally the sweetest of persons. But I guess that on that day, he couldn’t bear the thought that his nephew was an uncouth barbarian.

He was justified. In hindsight, I feel I would have done the same thing in his shoes.

Though, over the years, I have become reasonably comfortable with the proper use of forks and knives, I avoid using them as much as I can. I prefer to use my fingers. Licking a fork or knife is not really that great.

I have never come across a Sizzler Steak after that. If I do, I will relish demolishing it with my bare hands.