the new oishii near the port in male is one of extremes. tonight, it is extremely crowded – the servers are on the verge of a major panic attack, but they somehow find us a table amid this mayhem. and when we order, we are told that the kitchen is going to be extremely slow – expect an hour for our sushi.

to even ask a server for a can of coke here seems an act of torture.

‘do you think it’s because the queen died?’ i ask aiminadhi [whom we last met in my piece about vacationing in dharavandhoo].

‘i think it’s because it’s a saturday,’ responds aiminadhi. ‘why can’t they have extra help on a busy day like this? it’s common sense.’

‘hmm.’

the decor deserves a comment. i think it achieves a kind of maximalist charm whereas aiminadhi thinks it’s just overwhelming.

‘they went overboard, perhaps because there was no one to say ‘when,’ she said earlier.

anyhow, we had ordered a couple of maki – salmon and prawn tempura -, unagi nigiri, and ramen with beef in kimchi broth. our server said it wouldn’t take too long to bring us the latter.

so aiminadhi and i eavesdrop and make comments on the conversation at the next table, the make-up of which is like a multicultural benetton ad from the 90s – there’s a reference for you 30-somethings. they seem to have just discovered sarcasm, like chandler (another reference) from friends, and it is painful.

‘i found it funny that people on twitter were sad that the queen had died,’ says aiminadhi, pushing a can of coke towards me.

‘why?’ i open it for her and she pours herself some.

‘because we’re brown, she’s not our queen. she even stole our diamond.’

it’s our diamond now, as south asians, but then you gotta remember it belonged to a mughal emperor and we don’t quite know how the kohi noor fell into THOSE hands.

i find myself singing ‘shine bright like a diamond’ when the server puts our ramen in front of us.

and my god!

‘it’s the first time i’m eating ramen, you know?’ i confess to aiminadhi who is astonished.

‘you gotta be kidding me. really?’

‘i’ve had udon, but never ramen.’

‘there’s a first time for everything, and of all the places you could’ve had it, it just had to be here,’ she says and we dig in with our soup spoons.

‘god,’ i say. it’s so good, the kimchi broth is stunning – by this i mean it tastes like kimchi, and great kimchi at that.

‘i love the beef, so tender,’ says aiminadhi. ‘you know, i like my patty medium when i have a burger cos i don’t want the burger to get too soggy. and when i eat steak, i like my meat medium rare. not rare. medium rare.’

she enjoys going off on meaty tangents. meanwhile, the cosmopolitan table next to us is in uproar!

‘did they put something in the coke?’ i ask.

‘maybe.’

and just as i suck on some cola and burp, drawing a look of horror from aiminadhi, our sushi comes.

‘wow, how long have we been at this ramen?’ i say.

‘long enough.’

the salmon maki, though pretty, is utterly tasteless. it’s like eating plain rice. without salt. time and again, the issue plagues this self-proclaimed house of sushi.

the unagi nigiri is last to arrive and by far the best of the lot with the sweet, buttery eel more than making up for deficiencies in the grain.

our meal has concluded.

‘time to get the bill,’ i tell my friend. and dear lord. we’ve eaten 1021 MVR worth of japaneses. how is that even possible? aiminadhi looks terrified. is this real?

yes. yes it is.

‘er…let’s go halves,’ i say.

‘next time, review big places when you’ve got the clout to make dinner complimentary OK?’ she tells me as we exit the restaurant.

‘and next time maybe YOU should eat like a woma -’ i find myself thinking in response.

‘you looked like you were about to say something.’ says aiminadhi.

‘oh. nothing. nothing at all.’