The world's tiniest cafe

On the banks of the Colaba Causeway, Manan had promised me a show of his bargaining prowess. And it truly was. His magic turned a Rs. 250 necklace into Rs. 100. But Devyani had already lost interest and so the poor shopkeeper was left with neither a sale nor his face. I started walking ahead. On the right were street shops with a background of incoming traffic, and stonewalled buildings across the road. On the left, fixed shops selling everything from clothes to clocks. Then came an electronics shop.

With a plastic curtain.

With a 100 tiny post cards and letters on it.

I peeped in. No electronics in sight.

I pecked my neck further.

The randomness pulled me in. It looked like a cafe started on a dare that just took off. It looked like a place that was someone's last ditch effort to save it from being razed down. A little note in a corner said, “just like home”.

Home?

A home decorated with the enthusiasm of a child perhaps.

There were CD disks and menu cards hanging instead of curtains. Seating was planned for only 6 people at 3 flimsy tables. A friend group had hogged a table and a young couple was on a date at a second table. Spotting the standing fan, I rushed to the seat nearest to it. It was as if everyone and everything- time itself, was running at a laboured, halted pace in the café. Maybe the sultry humid air was slowing down the ether. As I attempted to sit at the tiny table, my knees knocked the table so hard that a special menu placed atop it fell down. My excitement was as palpable as the sweat on my forehead.

In some time, a menu was placed by the owner. A big, burly and suave guy with light shades on. Totally Bollywood. At Rs. 175 for a cold coffee, it certainly wasn’t cheap. Meanwhile, a waiter came with- wet tissues! And a box of Kissme toffees.

“Well, the service is definitely not shy.”

By now, Devyani had figured that Manan and I were lost. She called us up. With instructions of back and forth, we managed to guide her into our nook. Now there was no seat for her and she was already cranky about being left on the street. Manan requested the couple beside us if they could shift to the table that had just been emptied. They were kind enough.

The smooth service and the momentary respite from the humid air meant that we needed to order something soon.

Confused by the enormous menu, I turned to the notes on the walls for recommendations. Some spoke of their surprise at this discovery. Some appreciated the food. None were from repeat customers. As if the café only presented itself to weary pedestrians by sheer clairvoyance. Nothing about specific dishes. I looked to the shelf behind the cashier’s desk. A few packets of Korean noodles and a few packets of soup. Maybe the menu was seasonal. I was gliding my eyes back to the notes on the wall when they were pulled by a set of old 8x8 passport photo set.

It looked like some hero out for a photo shoot.

Long hair.

I stole a glance at the owner.

Self-aware smile.

The owner stood tall, smiling down at me.

Shades on.

Well, that settled it for my brain which had slowed down by now. Hahaha.

Where was I? Food. There was something called Pina Cotta. I had no idea if that was a food version of the coconut drink or a new kind of bread. Manan picked noodles. Devyani picked schezwan noodles. I went along. A minute later, the waiter came back, “Sir, schezwan is not available. Do try our Korean noodles.” I chuckled.

As we waited for the food, I looked around. There were still no electronics that I could find. I only saw old shelves with sliding glass covers. This was the living room of a tiny Bombay house. With all the home decorations still intact- plastic flowers, PoP dolls and old magazines. A wooden almirah blocked a part of the room off in one corner. It was loaded with what looked like birthday party supplies (?). A new group of 4 people walked in.

I thought the place was already at full capacity. I was wrong.

The owner lady got up from her seat at the cashier’s desk and the table was promptly converted into fresh seating arrangements. The short, stocky lady with a stern face and a kind smile walked out of her seat. As she walked past us, she looked at our table. Just our first plate of noodles. “That’s it?” she asked.

We clarified that we had one more dish coming and she walked out the entrance.

By the time we had our second plate of noodles, she was back. With a bag of groceries. Passing us this time, she stopped and stared at me. “I have met you. You’ve been here before, right?”

“No?” I exclaimed with a hint of doubt.

“This is your first time?”

“This is my first time in this entire area.” This time I was sure.

She went away into what I assume to be the kitchen. The home decorated by the child did not seem so bad anymore. I suppose in the end home isn’t more than a place where you are recognised with a smile. A sense of familiarity.

The cramped place let you not just see but also breathe in any dish that anyone ordered. Coffee, burger, fries, cheese maggi. I got to try it all.

Satiated and given a brief bit of calm on a hot and heavy day, I was ready to leave.

As I walked out, I turned back to take a final look. The only sign of a café there was a hastily painted “mini café” on the tiny step in front of the entrance.

I looked back. Lest it disappear.