It wasn't exactly that I was looking for a familiar face, I promise; no, that's just what found me,…read morewhen I least expected it, but perhaps most needed it.
I walked into this place, Mowgli, for a business meeting with a colleague, late on a Friday night, around 10pm. We'd had to wait for a while to be seated. It was a busy Liverpool night, the evening before Derby Day. It was right when the hostess led us around the corner towards our table, one of the booths with small swinging rope chairs, like in your childhood friend's backyard, that I caught sight of her. The sight of that face, half obscured under blonde hair as she read her menu, so arrested me that the toe of my sneaker caught on the polished linoleum floor, almost tripping me and causing an embarrassing squeak. I was certain it was her, it was unmistakeable-- and yet, it was equally unlikely, nearly impossible. So far from home, so long since we'd last met. Why, how, here in Liverpool, of all places?
Even though I knew it couldn't have been the friend I remembered, I couldn't convince myself entirely otherwise. I remained in a state of agitation as we sat down, unable to fully dispel the nagging thought that a long-lost acquaintance was here, in the room, and even though she hadn't even seen me gawking as I passed, I felt I was violating some social code in avoiding greeting her.
We ordered, and I ate, trying to hide my distraction, though I'm sure it registered to my colleague. I kept stealing glances towards that table near the door, probably appearing shifty, like the cops were after me. Only because of his gracious nature did my colleague steer the conversation and avoid awkward silences while we were supposed to be ironing out the finer points of the Q3 fiscal plan.
Just after we got our third shared course, the Goan Fish Curry, the woman got up, put on her coat, and left. I realized I'd never know, and somehow, that thought felt torturous. Then, as she neared the front door, she turned and looked right at me from across the dining room, my bite of paneer and roti catching in my esophagus-- but no, she was looking behind me, as her companion left the restroom behind our table. And then, in a moment, there was no doubt left in the whole universe. I took a bite of the Chat Yogurt Bomb, and as it burst and gushed sweet yogurt in my mouth, she looked back once again, waved, and winked, this time unmistakably. It was a moment of Proustian, epiphanic confusion. Suddenly, the taste of the Chat reminded me that the last time I'd had that dish, years ago now in New York, had been sitting with her on one of the last times we saw each other.
As I left the dinner in something of a mixed state of shellshock and acute nostalgia, I gradually realized that it couldn't possibly have been my friend, the woman whom I thought I saw. It was impossible, because I knew she was in New York. So, whoever I'd seen must really have just been some nice scouse woman with a passing resemblance, maybe enhanced by the moody ambience of the restaurant. And yet, somehow it really was her. Yes, I was tired, yes it was late, yes I've been under a lot of stress lately... and, no, it couldn't have been her. But somehow the paradox persists. That night it both wasn't, and also was, Emma. Emma, my dear old friend, a friend I miss.
If you find yourself here at Mowgli Bold Street, be prepared for the impossible. Be prepared for apparitions of a friend from times bygone that you wish you could give a hi five to, but don't know when you'll have the chance to next. It's a bittersweet experience.
We ate the Chat Bombs, Paneer, Fish Curry, and Mowgli's take on Chicken Tikka Masala. It was all good, tamarind and citrusy flavors in the sauces predominate, at least in the dishes we ordered.
It's her birthday next month, on the 20th. I never forget a friend's birthday. Maybe I'll send her a postcard ahead of time to wish her well.
