Foodies

We got up painfully, possibly illegally early for people on holiday, in order to be driven to a train station in a nearby town and catch a 7am train to a mountain town called Ooty. This was a tourist train, powered by a hundred year old steam locomotive, pushing carriages that were nearly a hundred years old, from a simpler time before computers, air conditioning or, apparently, toilets.

The train rattled and ground its way out of the city then slowly started its climb into the mountains, and the reason why this rattling antique is so popular with tourists soon became apparent. There were spectacular plunging cliffs, dense thickets of towering trees, cloud shrouded mountaintops and waterfalls. Every 45 minutes or so, the train would stop at a siding in the middle of nowhere to allow passengers to buy greasy snacks, or brave some outdoor toilets that refined the term “stench”.

It was at the second of this stops that we experienced the Monkey Swarm. Dozens of furry little nightmares descended out of the jungle, leaping through the open windows of the train and snatching anything food-related they could get their thieving little hands on. We had snacks, but they were inside heavy tupperware in a bag under the seat. However our cabinmates, a sweet Indian family of four, had their food sitting in a takeaway bag on the seat, and the bag was snatched up by a darting simian who immediately fled into the jungle with it. I hope he liked curry.

After an hour or two the landscape started to change, flattening a little into sub-alpine meadows and the first of the famous local tea plantations. A little while later, we arrived in Ooty, a colonial resort city favoured by the British Raj because of the cool climate. And, of course, the proximity to plenty of tea. We were collected from the railway station by Mr Fixit, who had driven up in the car while we were ogling views and being attacked by monkeys. While we gushed about the views and recounted our narrow survival from Monkey Attack, he drove us to The Boss’ guesthouse on the outskirts of town.

The Boss loves Ooty, and for years the guesthouse served as his family retreat during savage Coimbatore summers, but in his old age he finds that the climate exacerbates his asthma, so he hasn’t been there since 2020. From his description we were expecting some modest little holiday chalet, basic but functional, sufficient to act as a base for us to explore Ooty and its surrounds.

Of course it was no such thing. The house is a sprawling, beautifully restored Edwardian bungalow, nestled in an immaculate manicured English garden filled with roses and flowering cherry trees. While our modernist mansion in the city is like an art gallery, the guesthouse is much more personal, with framed photos of The Boss’ family, favourite books, charmingly worn antique furniture, and, in my bedroom, a framed photo of his late but beloved pet leopard.

Once we’d settled in, it only seemed appropriate to drive into town and have a late lunch at the Savoy Hotel. Ooty’s branch of the Savoy was built in the 1850s and was originally a school, although it was quickly decided that it was far too nice for gross sticky children, and it was repurposed to serve long boozy lunches to rich people, who may also be gross and/or sticky, but have deeper wallets. I elected to have a club sandwich and a gin & tonic, in honour of the elite colonial bastards who have come before me.

After lunch we drove up to the top of Doddabetta, literally “Big Mountain”, the highest point in all of Tamil Nadu, to take in the views and marvel at the hideous plastic tat that was being sold to tourists – to reach the actual peak from the carpark you have to run a Gauntlet of Tacky Capitalism, presumably to prove your worth to the great spirits of the mountain.

Later, for dinner, we were taken to a fancy mountaintop restaurant with huge plate glass windows overlooking the valley. It was international in tone, and had a cocktail list, so I decided to order a martini. The beaming waiter took my order, but came back a few minutes later to inform me that the martini was not available this evening.

This seemed odd – a martini only has two ingredients – but maybe they were out of Noilly Pratt. I asked for an Old-Fashioned instead.

A few minutes later the waiter returns. Old-Fashioneds – which only have three ingredients, one of which is just sugar – were also not available.

When I fixed him with an unimpressed stare, he encouraged me to accompany him to the bar, and maybe the barman and I could work something out. I did so, and after gazing at the bottles on the shelves and nodding politely at the smiling barman, I asked him for a negroni.

He continued to smile, but it was now fixed, and his eyes darted between me and the waiter. He clearly had no idea what I was talking about.

I sighed, and ordered a glass of white wine instead. And to be fair, it was quite good.

After a restorative sip of booze, I ordered the Greek Fish, which was allegedly flavoured with olives, capers and wine. And this is what I received:

Instead olives, there was sambal. Instead of capers, there was turmeric and chilli. Instead of wine, there was coconut cream. However under all that there was indeed fish, so that’s something, I guess.

My theory is that the restaurant had been in the process of being robbed by a gang of thieves when the first dinner guests arrived, and in a panic they’d thrown on the clothes of the staff who were tied up in the back and were trying to keep us unawares until they could make their escape.