@shaari_ comes to pick me up for our lunch date. i have to consult google maps to guide us because i’m not a hundred percent on the location and shaari even less.

‘i still don’t believe this place exists,’ he says.

on the contrary… we stop on buruzu magu, park near signs that say ‘ayubowan’ and ‘ngb’. together, like a pair of obscene siblings. shaari laughs in his hushed voice. we are off to a good start.

inside, a moustached man takes a brick to the tiny construction site near the entrance of the restaurant.
and a server arrives with our menus.

‘thank GOD we don’t have to scan a fucking QR code,’ mutters shaari.

and it’s a good menu with plenty of sri lankan staples. unfortunately lamprais is not to be had because they don’t have banana leaves. ngb!

i pick chicken curry and rice on the server’s suggestion while shaari goes for the string hopper koththu.
‘i’ve been meaning to ask,’ says shaari. ‘why husenfulhu?’

ah, finally, someone had to ask. so i tell him:

‘there was this katheeb who used to visit us, i forget the island but he was a friend of the family. and his name was…’

‘i see,’ says shaari. ‘but what’s special about him?’

‘my mother feared his visits and she would go to the toilet when he called out his salaam,’ i tell shaari cautiously. ‘cos you see, he’d eat the entire baiyththeli. and while he stuffed his face, he would ramble about his wonderful son who never did drugs, never even smoked in fact, never grew out his hair.’

‘never dated a girl?’ shaari laughs.

‘actually, he divorced his long time wife on his father’s request. imagine!’

‘ah,’ remarks my friend. ‘his brain ought to be preserved for further study. i guess you never met him.’

‘why’d you say that?’

‘cos you’re a degenerate?’ he says.

‘hmm.’

the server brings our food.

‘it’s amazing,’ says shaari. ‘i can’t tell the difference between this and normal koththu.’

‘is there roshi in it?’ i ask and shaari runs his fork through the pile of string hoppers. there is none.

meanwhile, my chicken curry comes with sides of dry dahl curry, beetroot salad, curried spinach, i think it is spinach anyway, paaparu and chili paste.

the chicken is oily, fiery hot, obviating the need for more heat, and most importantly, tender as first love. i eat, as my friend saththaaru might say, frantically, in silence.

‘so,’ asks shaari when i am done. ‘where’s the dutiful son now?’

‘last i heard he was in jail for embezzlement.’

‘my god!’ remarks shaari. ‘how did the father take it?’

‘oh the man had a heart attack. he’s still alive though, and he probably regrets that.’

we get the bill – it’s under 160 for water and a meal for two.

‘i’m definitely gonna come back for more,’ says shaari. ‘great find.’