i’m climbing the steps to the second floor of opa, the mediterranean restaurant that’s opened near raalhugandu at the old tuskaloosa’s spot (as millennials will recall).

manike and moosaalhu are supposed to join me tonight, so i take a booth at the corner of this much too bright restaurant with its ornate chandeliers and lighting. it’s actually not bad decor but someone needs to dial the lights down.

the menu looks very good, and just as i made my decision, my two friends show up.

‘well done, well done,’ i say. ‘finally, you’ve made it almost on time.’

‘you know how he is,’ says manike giving me a hug. ‘how are you? it’s been so long. how was india?’

i have gifts for both of them, but i wait till they place their orders – muhammara, baked chicken with lemon potato, the vexingly spelled meatballs in tomato sauce, a greek salad, and some turkish bread to accompany the sides.

when the server leaves, i brandish the dark, paisley patterned pashmina i got for manike. she looks at it quizzically.

‘is it real pashmina?’ she asks, taking it between her fingers. ‘it feels very good.’

‘you bet it does. it’s from a kashmiri seller in himachal pradesh.’

‘oh husenfulhu, thank you so much,’ she says. and i think i see the gratitude in her eyes.

for my obnoxious friend, i have a delicate, obviously feminine coin purse. inside is a keytag with a hand that has (i think) shiva’s head emanating from the centre of the open palm.

‘how did you even get this into the country,’ moosaalhu asks, fiddling with it.

‘do you really want to know,’ asks manike playfully.

‘thank you,’ he says. ‘how was the trip?’

‘great but exhausting,’ i say. ‘i’m so glad to be back.’

‘you look glad,’ says manike. ‘what was it like?’

‘well. the mountains were stunning when it snowed. a very spiritual little town. everyday i’d spin the mani wheels for luck.’

‘the WHAT wheels?’ asks moosaalhu.

‘oh look it up. it’s tibetan. anyway, here comes the food.’

i try the muhammara with some bread. it has a very pronounced walnutty flavour but the spices seem a bit off. and on top of that, it’s much too sour. manike wrinkles her face.

‘i’m not too sold on this,’ she says.

we try the chicken, and it’s pretty decent, tender, moist, but the potatoes are way too tangy.

‘the chef must be in a sour mood,’ mutters manike, eating some feta from the greek salad, which is OK, nothing worth taking back or writing home about.

the meatballs are last to arrive and the portions are exceedingly small.

‘well, this is disappointing,’ i say and have a meatball. it’s beefy, maybe slightly gamey as manike says, but the saltiness really throws me off.

‘it’s actually the tomato base that’s salty,’ explains manike. ‘maybe you can eat the beef without getting too much sauce on it.’

and that’s what i try.

‘your brother’s still there, right?’ asks manike. i nod.

‘the boy’s finally getting to spend some time alone with his thoughts, and what a place to do that,’ i say. ibrahimdi and i were sad to part but i believe it will be a trip he remembers for a long while.

then i recall following him across the snow covered lawn and slipping on the ice near the drain, falling on my side, twice. some young men who were drinking rum by the hotel’s entrance yelled at me asking me if i was alright. and ibrahimdi came running from whereever he was to help me up.

‘you’re too old, husenbe,’ he said. ‘too old for the cold.’

‘i’ll show you who’s old,’ i snap.

‘what?’ says moosaalhu.

‘oh, i was just reminiscing.’

‘indeed,’ grins moosaalhu. ‘that’s all there’s left at your age.’

manike slaps his arm.

the bill arrives and it’s pretty hefty – and the meal being what it was adds salt to the wound. but it’s done. opa needs to put in way more effort to do justice to the cuisine. i hope it does because it has potential.