Being Empired

Being Empired. 

A phrase that has applications across the diverse spectrum of Bangalorean existence. One that describes, in equal measure, primordial angst and contemporary urban rage. Two words that are slowly becoming the mantra of this city we all love so much, and despise even more, all at the same time. The promise of abundant joy and happiness meeting the unfathomable despair of reality.

Allow me to elaborate.

A young man steps out of an unspecified location of his choice at the unearthly hour of 12 AM. He is hungry. This man is not new to the city. He has spent a large portion of his life roaming on assorted two-wheelers and remembers fondly the several options that were available to him in and around Shivajinagar, one of which is the original location of our preferred choice of notoriety, Hotel Empire. This being the present day, the young man is excited to be headed to any one of the many Hotel Empires scattered around town. In his mind, he has already sifted through Empire’s 5 page laminated menu and jotted down the few dishes he expects to slam. Half Mutton Varuval, Quarter Brain Fry, Two Coin Parottas, Half Kebab and One Ghee Rice. He traverses the winding routes, uninhabited by Khaki Breath Breathers and finally reaches his preferred location. After about a fifteen minute wait punctuated by sounds of a hundred drunk and boisterous souls, he is offered a seat and made to place his order by a man in a black jacket and a neck tie. The man scribbles on a wad of papers that makeshifts as a note pad. The order is placed. The young man waits, his mind transfixed on the soon to be felt feeling of dipping a flaky coin parotta into that creamy varuval. 

About ten minutes after placing the order, he is informed that the varuval is over. Five minutes after, the coin parotta’s too have vanished along with the brain fry. All that remains is butter chicken. Empire Butter Chicken. The Soylent Green of the butter chicken world. The one dish where all the butter chickens of the world go to die. The butter chicken that if regulated by the FDA as a food product, wouldn’t make it past animal trials. The butter chicken used as cleaning liquid after everyone has left Empire on the one day of the year that Empire closes its doors to fumigate and acid wash their toilets with its strongest cleaning agent. Agent Butter Chicken. That butter chicken.

He is offered butter chicken. He nods his head in despair but eats it anyways.

He has been Empired.  

And so was I several weeks ago, after yearning to try out the food at Taj Hotel in KR Market and finding the kebabs over cooked and dry and the kidney still tasting of funk. The Theetar Biryani its only saving grace.

There is no saving grace at Empire though. Just Butter Chicken.