“Yes.” He threw her an amused look. “I gather as a native who’s eating here you must have a particular dish to recommend. Nothing too spicy for starters, as I am not yet used to it.”
Pen thought. “The Vindaloo chicken is prime. I just had it myself. Not spicy at all,” she lied. She’d had Biryani, but the Vindaloo was even spicier; it was the spiciest dish on this planet, generously seasoned with chilli and garlic.
“Splendid. I shall have a dish of that.” The man beamed, called the waiter, and ordered the Vindaloo.
Pen stood in front of him awkwardly. “Well. Enjoy your meal. I ought to go.”
“You are always in such a hurry,” he complained as he leaned back, steepling his fingers, looking at her through his sleepy eyes. “Sit down.” He lifted a manicured hand and invited her to sit.
Pen looked with longing at her plate. Confound it. She’d paid for the food; she might as well eat it. She tried to ignore the dandy who insisted on watching her eat with her hands, as if it were the most fascinating thing on earth.
“I have heard of this place before, of course, but never had the opportunity to visit. I see I almost missed out on a most exceptional experience.”
Pen grunted. She decided the best course of action was simply to let him talk. Leaning both elbows on the table in the grossest of table manners, she tore a piece of naan, wiped her plate with it and popped it into her mouth.
“So seen in this light, I am loath to admit that I am rather grateful for you having hustled me to the ground. Even though my head did suffer for it.” He placed a hand on the back of his head. “I might not have decided to try the food here if I hadn’t recognised you.”
“You’re welcome,” Pen mumbled with full mouth.
The waiter brought a bowl of water and a piece of lemon.
Alworth picked it up.
“Don’t drink that!” Pen exclaimed. “You’re supposed to wash your hands in it. I see this really is your first time eating Indian food.”
The man grinned. He really had a perfect set of teeth, Pen noted grumpily.
“The Gajrela, sir.”
The waiter placed the dessert in front of Pen. Her mouth watered. This had been her favourite dish when she’d been a little girl. It was carrot pudding garnished with a gold leaf. The heady smell of cardamom almost brought tears to her eyes.
Pen picked up a silver spoon and dipped it into the orange mass. She closed her eyes in bliss. Ayah used to feed this to her. Sweet Ayah who used to tell her stories of the monkey and the crocodile, and Rama and the demon king. Then she’d tucked her into her cot and drew the mosquito net over her bed. A nightly ritual that had given her comfort. How long ago that was.
Pen sighed.
“That good?” The amused drawl penetrated through her thoughts again.
Pen’s eyes popped open and looked directly into his. They were smoky grey and deceptively sleepy. She had the impression those eyes saw more than they should. Pen shifted uneasily in her chair.
“It is quite good,” she said as she popped another spoonful into her mouth.
“Excellent. I, myself, haven’t had the honour of tasting any kind of authentic Indian food yet. My cook, alas, is obstinately British in his cuisine.”
“You said you are travelling to India?”
“Yes. I am fulfilling—shall we say—a childhood dream of mine. I’ve always wanted to travel to India. And you?”
“Me?” She really did not want to talk about herself with a stranger.
“Yes, you. Pen Kumari from Bikaner, you said was your name?”
“Yes.” She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Once more, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was laughing at her, even though his face did not twitch a muscle.
The waiter brought a silver tray and placed it in front of him.
“The Vindaloo, sir.”
Alworth rubbed his hands. “Ah. Here we are. This will be good, yes?”
