As a kid, I loved eating out. You could get me to do anything for dinner at a restaurant. That came out wrong.

Let me start again. It’s not like I was a gourmet—more a gourmand, really. Not that I was particular about cuisine either. Any place was okay. Except South Indian food. I was never a fan of dosais and idlis. Even today, I sniff and taste with a creased brow when friends call upon me as the token South Indian to critique their sambhar, but I’m always afraid of being exposed as a charlatan. Also, my mom cooked South Indian better than most restaurants, so all my cravings were satisfied at home. No, my desire to eat out wasn’t about being an epicure.

And it wasn’t so I could wear ‘outside’ clothes. This was years before I became fashion conscious—I used to wear any shirt and pants that floated to the top of the drawer. Nor was it about going somewhere by car—I was never one of those let’s-go-for-a-drive people. Drive to what, I’d ask. I wasn’t getting in a car without a flight plan. Going for a spin in the Maruti Zen seemed pointless. Maybe what floated my boat was to go to a nice place where I could order food instead of being told to eat or go to bed hungry. That seems probable.

Sitting down to eat is the easy part, right? Well, you see, my dad loves outdoor seating. He finds it peaceful and natural. I still think that the mosquito-mafia of Mumbai had gotten him out of a jam once in exchange for sanguinary installments from his offspring. He rarely got his way though, what with the rest of us preferring air-conditioning to dengue. Not to mention the heat and the humidity. I chuckle when Americans comment on how spicy Indian food is while they’re helping themselves to chilli paneer in the New York winter. Try eating vegetable kolhapuri outdoors in the Indian summer. You’ll sweat so much, it will be the first time you tightened your belt after a meal.

But really, once you were on a comfortable chair and teased by the arctic outpouring of a quiet Voltas, what was not to like? There were clear glasses (instead of the boring steel tumblers we had at home), tablecloths, and cloth napkins that I spread on my lap—but only after tying them bib-like as practice for lobster dinners when I become rich and famous. (It’s happening, trust me. 2012 is totally my year.) Being called ‘sir’ by the waiter didn’t hurt, and nothing beats meat-eating under mom’s vegetarian scowl.

I can imagine what an embarrassing little turd I must have been—grabbing at the appetizers before the waiter set the plate down. Mom always had to bat my hands away so dad could get at least one bite of the chicken tikka. To a Tambram boy with herbivorous tradition, meat was shiksa-like. Luckily, the cultural embargo on all things slain ensured more meat for me. I remember welling up when my sister sunk her teeth into a piece of chicken and declared that she liked it. It was historic. All meat dishes smuggled home by dad would have to be shared. Still, I lied, cheated, and stole. My sister never found out that chicken lollypop came eight pieces to a plate. I always hid two pieces and very publicly divided the remaining six. I remember filling two glasses with Pepsi, topping the under-filled glass with water, and controlling my glee as she took the diluted, but ostensibly favored, glass. To be fair, my parents did ask me whether I wanted a sibling before trying. But it was hardly informed consent—I was three years old. So, while my kid sister was looking up to me, I longed for a sibling-free universe with routine stomach-aches from too many reshmi kababs.

I’d start to get depressed by the arrival of the main course. The naans were like Sunday to me. No, I didn’t misspell that. You see, I’m most comfortable with a buffer between the present and the work-week. I truly enjoy my Sunday on Saturday. And I knew that the main course meant the check was next.

The check scene at our table was always strange. Dad would scan it for a whole minute. (I think it began when some restaurant overcharged him in 1982. We knew better than to ask.) Only then would he pull out the Visa. I held my breath the first time he placed a credit card on the check and the waiter carried it away without enquiry. I remember asking him, “When the waiter gets that card, does he assume that you have paid?” (I was ready to bow to the plastic god.) “No beta, he makes sure that you pay,” was my mother’s wry reply. So you can imagine how long I was allowed to believe in Santa Claus.

Today, restaurants are as much about the conversation as the food. Also, the whole you’ll-get-sick-if-you-eat-out-a-lot adage doesn’t scare me anymore. At least restaurants have standards. My kitchen doesn’t have a Zagat rating.

But the fruit flies love it.