Coeur flottant merveilleux aux fraises

There are some things in life I don’t get. Men, their excitement over ‘whose burp is louder’, ‘that fart was wicked’, ‘Knock it’ being the ultimate statement & ‘networking’.

The obligation to spend the evening bonding over beers and small talk, with people you average 50 hours/week with. I don’t mind if I genuinely like you, but for a lame excuse like ‘networking’.. it’s a shame for the evening to be disposed off like that. If it’s meant to do anything, like, help you bond with team mates, then why choose noisy pubs where any scope of conversation is zero. You stand around, shake your head pretending that you ‘get’ the music, lean uncomfortably close over other people’s ears to get in a word, I mean c’mon!

Award nights are another phenomenon I don’t get. All the effort to look sophisticatedly gorgeous (it’s easier for me than for many others, but still.) knowing equally well that it’s not you at the receiving end tonight (yes I mean with the award as well). These are people you work with alright, and facing the ‘phantom underwear’ next morning may not be pretty.

So, you sit through dinner and dishes you can’t pronounce (thank god for Le menu, imagine getting around ordering des cuisses de grenouille.). For the plat principal usually, I get away with articulating ‘Vegetarian’ or ‘Chicken’, simply.
That’s the other thing about this kind of refined jamboree, what’s up with getting only one option, either Veg or Non-veg. Its food people!!

In the land that gave me birth, without Butter Chicken, Dal Makhani, Paneer Kolhapuri, Chutney, Pappad, Roti, Chawal, Paratha & Gulab Jamun over a semi-casual evening, the host is considered plain rude!

Right, so I got past with ‘Chicken please’ but compounding my irritation was ‘Would you like the Bonneau du Martray's Corton-Charlemagne or the Coche-Dury's Meursault Perrieres?’
‘One mango Lassi please’ would be my most tempting retort but this is where I look shyly around claiming ‘Oh! I’m not much of a connoisseur (no kidding!) if I can just have something sweet and white’. I may as well have added ‘I don’t get out much!’

Thank good for the wine to wash down the food they served last night. It’s almost like the more stars the ballroom has, the shittier the food. Or maybe that’s what they call fine dining, and I’m just a Tandoori chick! There’s a reason I don’t get out much.

I must admit, I do enjoy my whites and sparkling Rose, but why must it be so complicated? Like the title of my post- which is no more than what may happen to the simple, honest dish of strawberries and cream once it falls into the hands of a Frenchman.