As the waiter as Tote went around the table, repeating the exact question to each and every person in his sing-song voice, Tara could not help smirking. The Tote School of Culinary Service, was it, memorized by rote and regurgitated by rote.
In the expansive courtyard, size zero teens in teensy plunging dresses hung onto their mobiles and their spiky-haired guys, while inside the glass-walled party room, in the flickering razzmatazz of disco lights, plump ladies twirled with balding men. The hip and happening of Mumbai out for a typical Friday night. Mercs and beemers queued to disgorge more evening revelers, and somewhere in the distance, from between the makeshift fence of foliage, a slum dwelling teen peeked at its new nightly neighbors.
Still, a walnut-mushroom tiramisu, heavy like a buttery foam cloud, and a plump steak soaked in its jus, were not to be sneered at. Sipping her blue champagne, Tara dug into her food.
