Level “C” deposits one in an area that looks like the back halls of many hotels. There is little to suggest that “yes, you are where you should be” to confidence-challenged guests. However, I figure a little exploring won’t hurt, and soon I find some fire doors that open on to something more “guesty” including the entrance to a restaurant named “Ginseng.” There is a hostess booth/podium right outside the doors, but that is devoid of hostessness. I guess that makes it hostessless.
So I walk in. There is one family eating in the restaurant and no other patrons. The room should seat 50 easily. Not sure I like that but my options are limited with my self-imposed constraint to stay in the safety of this hotel.
I walk farther in and finally spot the hostess. I ask if I can see a menu and she forces me to sit. Apparently menus are for people sitting at tables. It’s a promissory note of sorts that payment is imminent.
So I sit and I am brought a menu. It is a Chinese food menu, but the only thing I can make sense of in the main sections are Kung Pao chicken and the word “custard” embedded in some dessert description.
The waitress approaches and asks if I want something to drink. I say that I want to examine the menu first before I order anything. She gives me an understanding look and says she’ll bring me the “other” menu. I don’t know whether to feel insulted or loved.
A little afraid I’m going to get the kinds menu and have to order mac and cheese or a happy hot dog, instead I am brought the “café” menu which has more sensible things like chicken sandwiches, even burgers.
I am brave and here to experience the Indian culture, and so I decide to make a bold move, going where no man has gone before. Kung Pao it is.
Oh, and a diet coke, NO ICE please. Again I get that understanding look. Some might call it pity or even condescension. I’ll take what I can get.
Shortly after I sit down the other family gets their check and leaves. I have the restaurant all to myself. I’m like a king, feasting in his banquet hall with only my servants to keep me company and attend to my every dining need.
I wish they’d leave me alone and let me dine in peace!
The food comes in two bowls – once with rice and the other with the kung pao. When delivered the waiter spoons some out on my plate, asks if all is ok, and then leaves. But once I get to a point where I wish to replenish my plate, he sees me from across the room reaching for the bowls and dashes over to save the day. I guess I didn’t realize that it was against the rules for a customer to serve himself.
It was all good though. I’m not complaining so much as contrasting Indian reality against American Germophobe expectations.
All through the meal there is music playing in the establishment. This is not unusual and as is my habit I ignore it with all but 5% of my brain. That 5% is like Siri or Google listening for its key phrase to wake up, or like your brain waiting for your name to be called out even if not directed at you or in the conversation you’re in. My brain does that too, but it is also always on alert for things that the rest of my brain might find amusing.
And mid-way through my meal my brain engages with the music as some odd lyrics are being broadcast. “My arms are long, my hair is woolly…” the music is just over the edge of my being able to hear the words, so I don’t get them all. It is being sung by a woman but so far it sounds like it should be about Chewbacca, and so my interest is piqued. “My butt is strong…? My name is Aunt Sarah?” This is odd and while I’m sure Chewy had some good gluteus muscles, I don’t recall anyone calling him Aunt Sarah and living to sing about it… so I google for the lyrics while I eat. Another lesson learned: googling “my arms are long” gets me tons of complaints about people with arms they feel are too long and what can they do about it. Google’s auto-complete also suggests that maybe the question I ought to be asking is “why are my arms long like muskets?” Well, now I have something new to worry about, but I decide to stay on mission.
Turns out the song seems to be about a lady who is inflicted with multiple personalities of differing races suffering vicariously her mother’s rape by her white father and who now sells her body for promiscuous purposes and on the side murders people because she’s bitter about ancestral slavery. Welcome to Ginseng, the Family Restaurant! Bring your kids! Eat and be entertained and educated! Think I’m making it up? You can see for yourself. I admit there is some interpretation going on from my end, but such is the way of fine art. http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/ninasimone/fourwomen.html
Oh, and the power went out during my meal for about 2 minutes. It was very dark. VERY.
I could not finish my meal, which the waiter seemed to think was an atrocity but I’m only human, and just one of them at that, and cannot eat quantities that should be measured in liters. He did convince me to try dessert, however, and looking for something light I ordered chocolate mousse. At first he did not understand until I pointed out that it was on the kiddie menu that I was given. Another understanding look.
The mousse took a while to kill and prepare, so after about 10 minutes they brought this big glass dessert bowl out nearly overflowing with chocolate shavings and a cherry on the top. There was clearly mousse buried underneath all that but who would argue with good presentation?
My first bite was a combination of the shavings and the mousse together. I can best describe it as chocolate rubber. It was good, but it has been argued in the past that chocolate makes just about anything good. The texture was just something… unique… and it took a while to decide whether I liked it or not.
In the end I decided that I did like it, but would not order it again. You figure out what that means.
I could not finish it – again it was too much, so after about ½ I decided I was done, got my check, practically apologized to the waiter that I failed him for the last time by not finishing his wonderfully presented dessert, and left.
Did I tip? Well, no, but only because I saw they put a “service charge” on the bill and I read in my previously-mentioned extensive research that such is a valid substitute for the tip. Did I ask the waiter or hostess what they were expecting? No. I try and make such mistakes only once in a 24 hour period.
So I walk in. There is one family eating in the restaurant and no other patrons. The room should seat 50 easily. Not sure I like that but my options are limited with my self-imposed constraint to stay in the safety of this hotel.
I walk farther in and finally spot the hostess. I ask if I can see a menu and she forces me to sit. Apparently menus are for people sitting at tables. It’s a promissory note of sorts that payment is imminent.
So I sit and I am brought a menu. It is a Chinese food menu, but the only thing I can make sense of in the main sections are Kung Pao chicken and the word “custard” embedded in some dessert description.
The waitress approaches and asks if I want something to drink. I say that I want to examine the menu first before I order anything. She gives me an understanding look and says she’ll bring me the “other” menu. I don’t know whether to feel insulted or loved.
A little afraid I’m going to get the kinds menu and have to order mac and cheese or a happy hot dog, instead I am brought the “café” menu which has more sensible things like chicken sandwiches, even burgers.
I am brave and here to experience the Indian culture, and so I decide to make a bold move, going where no man has gone before. Kung Pao it is.
Oh, and a diet coke, NO ICE please. Again I get that understanding look. Some might call it pity or even condescension. I’ll take what I can get.
Shortly after I sit down the other family gets their check and leaves. I have the restaurant all to myself. I’m like a king, feasting in his banquet hall with only my servants to keep me company and attend to my every dining need.
I wish they’d leave me alone and let me dine in peace!
The food comes in two bowls – once with rice and the other with the kung pao. When delivered the waiter spoons some out on my plate, asks if all is ok, and then leaves. But once I get to a point where I wish to replenish my plate, he sees me from across the room reaching for the bowls and dashes over to save the day. I guess I didn’t realize that it was against the rules for a customer to serve himself.
It was all good though. I’m not complaining so much as contrasting Indian reality against American Germophobe expectations.
All through the meal there is music playing in the establishment. This is not unusual and as is my habit I ignore it with all but 5% of my brain. That 5% is like Siri or Google listening for its key phrase to wake up, or like your brain waiting for your name to be called out even if not directed at you or in the conversation you’re in. My brain does that too, but it is also always on alert for things that the rest of my brain might find amusing.
And mid-way through my meal my brain engages with the music as some odd lyrics are being broadcast. “My arms are long, my hair is woolly…” the music is just over the edge of my being able to hear the words, so I don’t get them all. It is being sung by a woman but so far it sounds like it should be about Chewbacca, and so my interest is piqued. “My butt is strong…? My name is Aunt Sarah?” This is odd and while I’m sure Chewy had some good gluteus muscles, I don’t recall anyone calling him Aunt Sarah and living to sing about it… so I google for the lyrics while I eat. Another lesson learned: googling “my arms are long” gets me tons of complaints about people with arms they feel are too long and what can they do about it. Google’s auto-complete also suggests that maybe the question I ought to be asking is “why are my arms long like muskets?” Well, now I have something new to worry about, but I decide to stay on mission.
Turns out the song seems to be about a lady who is inflicted with multiple personalities of differing races suffering vicariously her mother’s rape by her white father and who now sells her body for promiscuous purposes and on the side murders people because she’s bitter about ancestral slavery. Welcome to Ginseng, the Family Restaurant! Bring your kids! Eat and be entertained and educated! Think I’m making it up? You can see for yourself. I admit there is some interpretation going on from my end, but such is the way of fine art. http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/ninasimone/fourwomen.html
Oh, and the power went out during my meal for about 2 minutes. It was very dark. VERY.
I could not finish my meal, which the waiter seemed to think was an atrocity but I’m only human, and just one of them at that, and cannot eat quantities that should be measured in liters. He did convince me to try dessert, however, and looking for something light I ordered chocolate mousse. At first he did not understand until I pointed out that it was on the kiddie menu that I was given. Another understanding look.
The mousse took a while to kill and prepare, so after about 10 minutes they brought this big glass dessert bowl out nearly overflowing with chocolate shavings and a cherry on the top. There was clearly mousse buried underneath all that but who would argue with good presentation?
My first bite was a combination of the shavings and the mousse together. I can best describe it as chocolate rubber. It was good, but it has been argued in the past that chocolate makes just about anything good. The texture was just something… unique… and it took a while to decide whether I liked it or not.
In the end I decided that I did like it, but would not order it again. You figure out what that means.
I could not finish it – again it was too much, so after about ½ I decided I was done, got my check, practically apologized to the waiter that I failed him for the last time by not finishing his wonderfully presented dessert, and left.
Did I tip? Well, no, but only because I saw they put a “service charge” on the bill and I read in my previously-mentioned extensive research that such is a valid substitute for the tip. Did I ask the waiter or hostess what they were expecting? No. I try and make such mistakes only once in a 24 hour period.
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