“Sorry. Can you please make me bhajias? I’ll help…actually, teach me how, and I’ll make you nylon bhajias every day for the rest of your life.” He solemnly put his hand on his chest. “Swear to god.”
“You’re drunk.”
He nodded happily. “And hungry.” He opened the fridge. “And I would kill someone for fresh bhajias right now. Where are the potatoes? Yay! You have cilantro!”
“You really want me to give you a cooking lesson at”—she checked the time on the microwave—“twelve thirty a.m.?”
“Yes! This will be fun.”
He pulled out random other things from her fridge. None of them were ingredients needed for bhajias.
Reena cringed. “Ketchup?”
“No ketchup?”
She put the ketchup back in the fridge and took out some tomatoes and onions. “Fine. But we’ll make a tomato chutney, too. And I’m only doing this because I’m drunk and want to eat bhajias.” She giggled. God bless gin.
“First, you need to peel and slice your potatoes,” she said, pulling one out from the bin in her pantry. He grinned and held up his phone in front of her.
“Are you recording me?” she asked.
He nodded. “Since you’re doing it anyway, you can enter that contest!”
“Nadim! I thought I told you I’m not doing that video! Besides…” She frowned.
“Besides what?”
She should keep her mouth shut. “It’s not supposed to be one person. The video is supposed to be…pairs.”
He beamed. “I have a tripod! C’mon, grab everything you need.” He started filling his arms with the stuff on the counter: the potatoes, bag of gram flour, cilantro, tomatoes, and garlic/ginger paste. Also, the box of samosas and the bottle of gin, of course.
Reena had no idea why she was going along with this, but his infectious enthusiasm was irresistible. She grabbed some onions and chilis, her cutting board and knife, a jug of oil and some spices, and followed him to his apartment.
They dropped it all in his much cleaner kitchen, and he connected his phone to a large tripod.
“Okay,” he said, eyes twinkling with excitement. And probably a healthy dose of gin. “Just need a second to set this up.”
While he fiddled with camera placement and turned on a bunch of lights in his apartment, Reena poured oil in a pot and started heating it. She then peeled and sliced the potatoes, and diced the onion and tomatoes for the chutney.
“All set up. I can start recording using this remote.”
Reena laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. “This is preposterous.”
“Don’t say that in front of the camera!” He rushed to stand next to her. “You’ll never win without confidence. Okay…action!”
She looked up at him, struggling not to laugh, and having no idea what to say.
“What are you showing me how to make, oh brilliant one?” he asked.
“Brilliant one?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “You and I both know you’re a culinary genius. So, tell me what we’re making.”
“Potato bhajias.” She turned and looked at the camera instead of at him. “These are similar to pakoras and are also called nylon bhajias in East Africa. This recipe is my mother’s—she grew up in Dar es Salaam.”
Nadim grinned. “Which is where I grew up. I used to get these at food stalls late at night. My favorite shop back home would make a fresh batch every five minutes. They put chopped green chilis in the batter.”
Reena raised a brow. “Can you take that kind of heat?”
