A crime most fowl

It was a biryani party because she claimed to have the best recipe in the world and planned to serve lots of it, to lots of people.

A ravenous lot sat down to lunch, but the first bite had us jumping out of our skins. The solutions varied from sugar, yogurt, buttermilk and water to ice cubes and ice cream, but the cause of the problem could only be ascertained by a frantic call to India. Apparently, my dear friend Deepa had heard 30 green chillies, when her mother had said 13.

Then there was the time Valentine decided to bake a grand chocolate cake to surprise her fiancé. Now, I have seen her set two Wagyu steaks — and half her kitchen — on fire. But she had researched, planned and shopped intensely, and I gave up my misgivings. Gary was surprised when the five-foot, heart-shaped cake was brought out. But nothing matched our collective surprise as we dug into that very beauteous but vehemently bitter concoction featuring three types of chocolate. Valentine claimed she had not read the line in the recipe that said: Whisk in the sugar.

Sticking to parties featuring foods that guests don’t get to eat, Tony sent out a fancy invitation for “Sundowners, followed by dinner”. It was reasonable to think we would eat a few hours after studying the sinking sun, but the host seemed to be more intent on the downing part of the exercise. At 7pm, we were surprised to see him studying a cookbook, Imperial Dining with the Tsars (Tony is not Russian). At 8pm, we were alarmed to see him blanching sheets of spinach lasagne (Tony is not Italian either). At 10.30pm Tony was singing La Vie en Rose in a forced falsetto and cutting a linen shirt to make a bouquet garni (Tony is definitely not French). At 11.30pm, we stepped in and made a salad of boiled beets, boiled potatoes, pickled herrings and asparagus spears. At midnight, we tried to eat it.

— The author insists this is neither reminiscing nor rambling, but a series of tales with a single moral: stick to something simple.