upstairs at moti mahal in maafannu’s depths, i take a seat without being shown a table. as is the way in male sometimes. i’m waiting for moosaalhu and his girlfriend manike to show up for dinner. moosaalhu wanted some nice indian food for a change, their last butter chicken and tikka from tandoor were terrible: the butter chicken was like a curry and the tikka hard and fibrous. i suggested moti mahal and they took me up on the offer. as they should.

‘is it just you, sir?’ asks a server and i tell him two more are on their way. he hands me the menus. i’m here for the butter chicken, so i don’t peruse it and wait instead for my friends who show up quickly.

after our greetings, i hand manike and moosaalhu the menus. and though hardly the biggest reader i know, he scans the menu and his eyes go wide.

‘woah, these guys invented butter chicken?’ he says.

‘the last i heard the matter was being decided in a court in US,’ i reply.

‘i know what i’m getting,’ he says and manike settles on some tikka and a puri for the table, along with a full portion of butter chicken that feeds four.

‘i’d like my naan crispy,’ i tell the server.

‘me too,’ says moosaalhu.

‘i’d like it crispy on the outside, not like a murana roshi,’ i advise the server who is busy taking notes.

‘that’s too much detail, you’re going to confuse him,’ laughs manike. ‘moosaalhu once gave too many instructions to a server and it didn’t end well.’

‘all right, all right! crispy naan, please.’

moosaalhu takes in the place, it is quite ornate, the interior of this restaurant. and he likes interiors, being an architect, albeit a struggling one.

‘struggling?’ laughs moosaalhu. ‘i’m off to europe next month.’

huh. i must have been thinking out loud.

‘i like how there are very few naked lights here,’ he says. ‘my friend thinks naked flouresent lights are the hallmark of fundies.

manike laughs.

‘why do they think that?’

‘ah, just from observation of the fothi and perfume fihaara out there,’ he says, smiling.

interesting.

the food doesn’t take long and in preparation manike and i wash our hands at the basins. i notice their gold coated taps, gaudy but still fitting in with the decor. the area is kitted out in mughal-inspired mosaic tiles, though they appear printed, not hand painted.

returning to the table, we have some of the tikka.

‘it’s very good,’ says moosaalhu in between chews. ‘so soft.’

‘complements your mind,’ i tell him and manike chuckles.

‘and the onions on the side are pickled,’ she says. ‘it’s great, have some husenfulhu.’

i do. it’s excellent.

soon, our naans and butter chicken come to the table.

‘so creamy, now this is proper butter chicken,’ says moosaalhu. ‘and they’ve done the naans just right.’

‘yeah, crispy out, soft within,’ i say.

‘like your head,’ says moosaalhu getting back at me for the earlier comment. it’s always a battle of the wit with him.

‘i really like this water too,’ says manike, sipping from the intricately made glass. ‘reminds me of aquarius from back in the day.’

and that was QUITE back in the day.

‘speaking of back in the day,’ i begin. ‘my family had this really generous friend who used to take me out to eat at least once a week.’

‘what did you eat?’ asks moosaalhu.

‘oh anything i wanted, he’d take me to seagull and tell me to order the steak.’

‘no kidding,’ says moosaalhu. ‘what did he do for a living?’

‘i’m getting to that,’ i tell him irritably. ‘i kind of lost touch with him though after i spent some time away in pakistan…’

‘ah, pakistan,’ says moosaalhu knowingly.

‘and then, one day, must have been around 2010 or so, i saw his photo on the paper. he was allegedly one of the big four drug smugglers.’

‘no wonder!’ exclaims manike. ‘is he still in jail?’

‘god knows,’ i say making my exit as the server arrives with the bill.

i wash my hands in the basin. i’m quite a good washer of my own mitts because i still remember the hand-washing technique popularised during COVID. while i lather my palms, a well dressed man appears next to me and washes his mouth in the basin, indian style.

back at the table i tell manike about it.

‘it’s their culture,’ she says. ‘if we open up a maldivian restaurant in europe, we’ll be eating with our hands, you can be sure.’

‘is that what you guys are going to do?’ i ask them and moosaalhu smiles slyly.

as we descend the stairs, my friend stops by a poster of the founder of moti mahal.

‘it’s not just a fluke, he also invented chicken tikka AND dahl makhni,’ he laughs.

‘i can totally believe it. everything was so very good, the tikka and the butter chicken especially,’ says manike.

outside, i ask moosaalhu how much i owe him.

‘it’s on me,’ he says, as i knew he would. the last laugh is mine, my tall, good-looking friend!

‘what’s that smell?’ asks manike as we walk towards her bike.

‘maafannu,’ says moosaalhu and she slaps his arm affectionately.