Nik Shankar strode into his small office and stripped off his chef’s jacket. He snatched the water bottle from his desk and drained its contents in three big gulps. He then reached for the other bottle on the coffee table next to the small, worn couch in the corner of the room.
“I saw that,” Ruqsana Syed Singh, his sous-chef and business partner, said, hobbling into the room, supporting her belly with one hand.
“I’m parched,” Nik said, taking a few more sips before handing her the bottle.
“You’re always parched. But how does that justify stealing a pregnant woman’s water?” she demanded, ruining the effect by awkwardly lowering herself into the chair opposite Nik’s.
He watched patiently as she battled with the narrow chair, wiggling and shifting in the seat, trying – and failing – to get comfortable. Nik shook his head in frustration and gestured to the old couch. “Might I suggest a more suitable seating option?”
“Did you just fat shame me, Chef?” she glowered at him.
He gave her a frustrated look. “Please sit on the couch.”
“Just because you’re tall and shredded, doesn’t mean you can –”
“Come on, Ruq,” Nik sighed, wiping his neck with a towel.
“The chair has better lumbar support and the foetus is killing my back,” Ruq groaned.
“Firstly, I do recommend calling it a ‘baby’ instead of ‘foetus’. Secondly, I believe it’s the ‘being on your feet for sixteen hours’ that’s killing your back, not the baby. And finally, you really should consider starting your maternity leave.”
“You sound just like Abhi,” she retorted, referring to her husband, Abhishek, who, along with Ruq, was one of Nik’s closest friends.
Nik shrugged. “He’s not wrong.”
Ruq hesitated. “Being in the kitchen keeps my mind off . . . things.”
Nik leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers over his abs, processing that statement.
There were very few people he knew who revelled not just in the exhilaration but also the pain and drudgery of being a chef. And Ruq was one of them.
They had met as line cooks at the same restaurant in Paris: Ruq, fresh from her Le Cordon Bleu programme, and Nik, with no formal training whatsoever, but several apprenticeships under his belt. As the only desis employed by the restaurant, they had bonded over their Indianness, the sheer degradation of working under a French chef and their shared love for “the trenches” – the deep recesses of the kitchen where the slicing and dicing happened. Even today, filling in for an absent cook was something they found therapeutic.
Nik admired Ruq’s passion for her craft and her keen business sense, so when he decided to open Apostrophe five years ago, she was the first person he had called. Ruq had rubbed her palms in glee – something she always did when she was excited – and said, “So when do we start?”
Diners and critics alike celebrated Apostrophe’s inventive menu, showering Nik with accolades that he dutifully shared with his sous-chef. She was, after all, the one who had stood by him through months of failed experiments. They had practised the same recipes dozens of times, introducing subtle changes with each iteration, brainstorming plating techniques, photographing and comparing different versions until they were convinced the dish was perfect. And Abhi had been their designated taste-tester.
Nik’s reverie became redolent with garlic.
Yogurt. Fried garlic. Dill. Pomegranate.
The pomegranate had been Ruq’s idea. The contrast of the purplish-red colour speckled on milky-white yogurt had reminded Nik of bright orange tobiko on sushi rolls. It was one of the first dishes they had created while playing around in Ruq’s kitchen, before Apostrophe’s kitchen was built and ready.
“Something’s off,” Nik had said after swallowing his third spoonful.
“Are you kidding? This is the best raita I’ve ever tasted!” Ruq argued.
Abhi had walked in, rolling his eyes at the conversation. “God, please make it stop,” he muttered under his breath, reaching into the freezer for some ice.
And that was the moment Nik realised the missing piece of the puzzle.
“We’re not in the business of feeding people. We’re in the business of feeding their soul,” Nik had said, holding up a hand to quell Ruq’s protests. “I know it sounds pretentious, but anyone can cook a great meal. I want their senses to be teased every second they spend at the restaurant. And when they leave, I want them to feel fulfilled. Like their visit to Apostrophe is the one memory they can never shake off. An experience unmatched by any other – culinary or otherwise. A completion.”
The next day, he placed the final version of the raita in front of Ruq.
A frozen sphere of wafer-thin ice that cracked open with a gentle tap of the spoon. The crackling sound touched her ears a mere moment before her gaze fell upon the surprising colours – Tyrian purple on unassuming white. Taste came later, much later.
Ruq’s face had lit up with understanding, with that unnamed feeling that only people like them experienced.
It was the same feeling Nik had when he recognized a scar or a burn mark on his body that was imperceptible to others. Inadvertently, his right thumb found the cluster of faint brown spots on his left wrist and he was transported to that day many years ago, when his life had changed forever.
He could feel the beads of sweat on his forehead.
He could hear the laughing jab.
“You know what they say. ‘If you can’t handle the heat, stay out of the kitchen!’”
He heard the hiss of the blistering oil a millisecond before it splashed on to his hand, branding him forever.
There was something about the tangibility and permanence of these battle wounds that gave Nik comfort. They were real and they were . . . here. He wanted to hold on to them, to keep them from fading away forever.
He brushed a dark lock of hair off his forehead, pushing back memories that always skimmed the surface, threatening to erupt and annihilate him in their wake.
He turned to Ruq and nodded. “If it keeps your mind off things.”
Ruq opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it.
“What?” he asked, his tone even. “Another ‘favour’?”
Ruq bit back a smile at the insinuation.
Last week, it had taken her but a few minutes in Tanvi Bedi’s company to know that Nik needed to meet the wedding planner. Ruq just had to see the two of them in a room together – not because she was trying to play matchmaker but because it would be a fascinating social experiment.
Would Tanvi’s sharp wit be able to pierce Nik’s unshakeable composure? Would her unfiltered opinions force him to step out from behind his veil of politeness? Would he finally let his guard down?
Excerpted with permission from All That Sizzles, Sakshama Puri Dhariwal, Penguin India.
