In circumstances like the ones I find myself in, it’s very hard to do any serious travelling. Even though I am periodically tempted by my father to join him on his travels to far-away countries, I can’t even think about actually leaving Brighton and getting lost in the jungles of Indonesia. Oh, how I wish I could!
The good thing about living in the UK, especially in Brighton, is the fact that there are so many different cultures mingled together. One can actually believe the impression – every now-and-then for a while – they are on a visit to a different country. Surrounded by a variety of people of all origins, religions, colours, shapes, and races it is, at times, quite difficult to believe one is still on the UK grounds.
Yesterday we all (Barbora, her brother Ondrej, and I) went to the famous Cosmopolitan Hotel, where all of us work (well, I quit some time ago), for the grand opening of a Mauritian restaurant in the premises of the ex-Cosmobar. The restaurant is called Happy Diwali (or something similar; I’m not 100% positive about the spelling of the second part of its name), and it sounds good – no matter what it means.
The Cosmopolitan Hotel, where I have spent 14 months working as a night manager, was sold to a Mauritian lady, Rita, sometime in mid-September. She has decided to change a few things around the hotel and one of her plans was opening the Mauritian restaurant in the hotel’s basement. She invited all the hotel owners and managers from the neighbouring hotels, from around the little New Steine square, her staff, and their guests for a free three-course menu.
To my great surprise the two, to me so well known, dingy rooms of the ex-Cosmobar have not been changed at all. Except for a few tea-lights and a string of Christmas-style colour lights, there was nothing changed in the bar. When I noticed how terribly smudgy were the glass-tops of the tables, a sudden thought sped through my mind: “Is this how they want to pay me for the hours and hours of my meticulously cleaning the tables?” But the new management had, in fact, nothing to do with this and it couldn’t possibly be anybody’s attempt to make me feel bad, so I dismissed this thought in no-time.
We came and were not seated. We found us a couple of tables where we got settled, with little green menus in our hands, waiting for a miracle to happen. No such luck, though. We were advised, by our friends (other members of staff), to go round the corner and help ourselves to the food that’s on the buffet tables. With the help of the aforementioned colleagues, who managed to get through their supper before we arrived, we picked a little bit of everything from the bowls and containers arranged on a white tablecloth.
We tried the food and in a while it was my duty to get us some glasses of water, as the food was generally very spicy. Very good indeed, can’t say nay, but spicy. Too spicy for the untrained European tongues. I located the jug of water but couldn’t find any glasses, so I had to go to the kitchen, where I got the attention of a Mauritian woman. She then brought a couple of glasses to our table. The anxious atmosphere slowly dissolved as our tummies filled with spices. Actually, people were turning relaxed, everybody was smiling, jokes were told and we had a good laugh. The spicy food has inflicted its magical effects on us.
The music was strictly Mauritian (Indian style) and the people there, other than us, were 95% Mauritian. These circumstances, combined with the curry taste of the oriental food, created an illusion, like I mentioned earlier in this article, of not being in the UK any longer. Being there, for the first time ever I didn’t feel trapped in some dingy Cosmopolitan Hotel basement, but I felt rather like at a Mauritian wedding. (Having no idea how does a Mauritian wedding look like, I believe I can say this.)
Jamini and Bhavna (or this is how I think their names are spelled), Rita’s nieces, came around for a short chat. They showed us Henna paintings on their hands and told us some facts about their traditional dress and described some of the food we were eating, so we could have at least a rough idea. The girls were both dressed to impress. And they indeed did impress us all. Bhavna has changed so much, for example, I couldn’t have possibly guessed it was really her without Barbora’s help.
We ate well and I ate plenty, simply to have a bite of every dish they prepared. Rita has stopped by our table to enquire about our satisfaction with the food. I praised the food and asked her if she cooked it herself. With modesty, she answered she did, most of it, which I found very impressive.
For reasons I couldn’t quite tell, some of us were putting on their coats and started talking about leaving. I could hardly believe my eyes, until I found myself dressed too and half-dragged out. Why can’t these people just stay and have a good time? Finished supper, deal done, we’re going home. On my way out I stopped at Rita’s table to thank them all for the great food and for the invitation.
Once out of the spice-filled smell of the restaurant, the cruel and cold reality of the English November hit us and shook our frames. On-board of the double-decker I realized that, in my head, I was returning from a virtual trip to Mauritius.
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