Do you have email?
Was that the American guy talking? To the waiter?
I glanced over his way. It was. And his wife also. Repeated the question. Repeated. Here in this café, English was broken. Urdu or Hindi. Most likely.
His wife. For these purposes. But perhaps his partner, travelling companion. She was one of those older women who once wore a sleeveless t-shirt to advantage. Now her arms roll and the grey t-shirt she wears mirrors that roll in her breasts and her stomach. Her weight and perhaps the rather worn chair she sits on forces her back and down onto the seat.
All this together with her thick grey hair, unkempt – or at least untied – produces a blowsy woman though its unlikely she knows that her youth is gone. Perhaps she thinks she has aged as he has.
He sits straighter and his tight hair and small pony tail produce an almost distinguished look. His jeans and t-shirt fit him well so well that the clothes appear to have been pressed. Smart-casual almost.
They've finished their dinner. They were finishing it as I came by looking for a place to eat. They certainly had their share of food judging by the number of plates. And beer.
This is the best they'd told me. The best? I had hoped it might be good as hawker style Pakistani/Indian food could be good even – or especially - in a rather run-down shopping centre. But the best? I found that unlikely and the unkind “where-have-they-come-from?” thought briefly flashed in my mind
But it would be cheap and it was available so I'd stayed. The chairs had looked reasonably comfortable – other places were only offering stools – and there were separate tables rather than a bench which I would have had to share with others. At close quarters. A hole in the wall, but a large hole in the wall café.
Here I could read and eat slightly – perhaps an exaggerated statement - away from the passing traffic and the transactions occurring at other stalls.
Right across from me was a mobile phone stall. The main activity here involved one man doing some sort of temporary repair on a phone while at the same time repeatedly chiding another staff on his reading of the English word s-t-a-f-f. The staff member had thought it was stall, not understanding the difference between the letters -f and -l.
Other small stalls were selling groceries, hardware and of course food. And amongst all of these roamed prospective customers and young women lounging about. Perhaps they were waiting for their friends, perhaps they were soliciting It was hard to tell. And touts for the food stalls. Waving menus, cajoling, calling out to their friends and competitors and seemingly incessantly making or receiving mobile phone calls. In Hindi or Urdu. Most likely.
Amongst this chatter I was now reading and waiting for my food.
Again I heard the woman ask if they had email. Internet. He said. I'll pay for cooking lessons over the Internet
The waiter. More a tout than a waiter but yes he did take food orders and he did bring it when it was ready. However between times he was one of several people touting – as far as I could see – for this café and another next door.
He looked puzzled. Do you have a card one of the couple asked.
A car?
A card.
And a business card for the stall – I assumed - was produced from among the now small crowd of waiter-touts.
Email? The couple asked again.
The waiter looked puzzled. Was he being accused.
Someone handed him a mobile phone and for a few moments he talked to the person on the other end and then handed the phone to the woman.
Her husband didn't take the phone though every now and again he repeated that the food was so good he wanted to take lessons from this café over the Internet. He'd pay, he kept repeating.
She - on the phone – also repeated that her husband wanted to take cooking lessons over the Internet.
The phone call ended. The waiter still looked puzzled but no longer accused. The card changed hands.
The couple left.
Who would write the recipes. In English. I wondered.
And, I thought, I don't recall mention of the rate of pay.
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