The tipping point

To tip or not to tip: that is the question. And often, there is no good answer

 

I have to confess that the recent brouhaha about the service charge that restaurants tag on to their bills (and whether consumers are bound to pay it) left me rather unmoved. And that’s because it’s an entirely different minefield that occupies my mind when I eat out: tipping. 

 

As a concept, it is simple enough. If you have eaten a meal and enjoyed it, then you leave a little something to thank the service staff. But how much do you leave – and how do you leave it? It’s a tricky business because the answer varies widely from country to country. In some places, ten per cent is a perfectly acceptable tip. In others, anything less than twenty per cent is a virtual insult. In some places, you can add the amount on to your bill and pay by credit card. In others, it is expected that you tip in cash only. In some places, you are not expected to tip if a service charge is added. In others, the waiters will chase you outside into the street if you don’t top up the service charge with a little extra.

 

As I said, it’s a veritable minefield. And no matter what choice I make, it invariably turns out to be the wrong one (at least, judging by the look on my server’s face!).

 

What’s worse is that it’s not just restaurants that leave you struggling to make sense of this business. The entire hospitality sector joins in to make your life miserable. Checking into a hotel abroad and need help with your bags? How much should you tip the staff member who carries it up? It sounds like a simple question but it can be challenging if you haven’t quite worked out the exchange rate. And what if you don’t have any small notes in the local currency, having just arrived in the country? Do you apologize for the fact that you aren’t sufficiently organized or just brazen it out with effusive ‘thank yous’ while the staffer hangs around ostentatiously looking for a tip?

 

It can be even more complicated in Indian hotels, when you are escorted up to your room by assorted staff members, all of them in uniform. All you can do is take a guess as to which one of them you are expected to tip. And the chances are that he or she will leap back with indignation from your proffered hand and say with great dignity, “Oh no, ma’am, I am the manager!” leaving you all red and flustered.

 

Some hotels make it easy for guests by mentioning clearly that they have a no-tipping policy. And that if you want to leave a little something for the staff then you can put it in envelope and leave it at reception, where it will be put in the general pot for everyone to share. But most hotels don’t follow that eminently sensible policy. So, you are left wondering if you need to tip every time you order something from room service; whether you need to give the woman making your bed and cleaning your loo a little extra something (or will you end up offending her?); and if a tip is mandated for the doorman who snaps forward to open your car door for you. And what about the spa operator? Does she get a tip as well? And how do you do that when you have left your wallet safely locked in your room?

 

I don’t know about you, but questions like these run constantly through my head when I am staying at a hotel. So, what should be a restful vacation turns into a stressful exercise in second guessing.

 

It doesn’t end even when you leave the confines of your hotel. Does your taxi driver expect to be tipped? Well, that depends on which country you are in. Is a 10 per cent tip enough for the hairstylist who gave you that very expensive haircut? Or does his tight smile mean he was expecting something around 20 per cent? And what about the porter you hired to help with your bags at the airport? You’ve paid his fee but he’s hanging around, looking like he expects a little more for his trouble.

 

Honestly, it’s quite enough to make you reach your own tipping point!

Raindrops keep falling

The monsoon is finally here – and I couldn’t be happier. 

 

There is no better feeling than when, after sweltering through ground-breaking heat for months, you wake up to the sound of a thundershower and hear raindrops beating against your window in an incessant rhythm that sings its way into your very soul. The sweet sound of the season’s first rain, heralding the start of the monsoon, is the best kind of morning alarm, and not surprisingly it had me tumbling out of bed and running to the balcony so that I could witness it first-hand.

 

The monsoon is always something that I look forward to (don’t come at me with talk of clogged roads; I simply refuse to let mundane concerns ruin the romance of the rains) but this year it came as a particular relief. Temperatures had been touching the mid to high forties with a distressing regularity and leaving home had become akin to stepping into a hot oven which wouldn’t just bake you but burn you to a crisp. So, the ten-degree drop in temperature that the rains brought was particularly welcome. 

 

As I stood on my balcony, inhaling the magical smell of petrichor (the scent the dry earth emits when rain hits it for the first time) and luxuriating in the feel of raindrops dropping on my head, I found myself transported to monsoons past and all the fun times I had had during them.

 

My earliest memories of childhood revolve around the monsoon. I remember my mother stripping me down to my frilly white underwear and letting me loose on my verandah as the rain came pouring down. She would clog the drains that led off it with pieces of cloth so that the water accumulated until it was up to shins. The giddy excitement I felt as I skidding around in the few inches of water, screaming in delight, lives on in my head so many decades later. As does my searing disappointment when she finally decided that I had had enough and dragged me away to dry me off. Left to myself, I would have wallowed in my private ‘swimming pool’ forever.

 

Perhaps it was this that triggered my love of the monsoon. But, for as long as my memory goes back, I have adored this time of the year. The magic of the horizon as it turns grey, then black; the majestic sound of thunder; the lightning flashes that electrify the sky; the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops; the freshly-washed look of the trees after a shower; I love it all.

 

And then, there are the food memories. Monsoon in our household always meant hot steaming bowls of khichdi with oodles of desi ghee floating on top, paired with a mustard oil-enhanced alu chokha for lunch. Tea would be accompanied by assorted pakoras, sprinkled with a generous dusting of chaat masala. And sometimes, as a special treat, we would get spicy shingaras (no, there are nothing like north Indian samosas) with syrupy sweet crisp jilipis (no, nothing like the north Indian jalebis) hot from the kadhai of the local mishti dokan. 

 

So, I guess it’s no surprise that my first instinct when it rains is to deep fry. Unfortunately, pakoras are not my forte so I end up making Mumbai-style kanda bhajiya which my husband loves. If I am feeling lazy then I just take out a packet of frozen alu tikkis from the freezer and shallow fry them, slathering them with green chutney or maybe even ketchup. The masala tea of my childhood has been replaced by a steaming hot cappuccino, courtesy my new-fangled coffee machine. The only childhood monsoon staple that has survived into my adulthood is the khichdi, which I rustle up the moment the sky threatens rain. 

 

Alas, it’s no longer possible to strip down to my underwear and wallow in my self-made ‘swimming pool’ as I did as a child (mustn’t frighten the neighbours!). But I do the next best thing. I leave my umbrella behind and head out to the neighbourhood park for a walk, revelling in the feel of raindrops enveloping me in their misty beauty. I walk until I am soaked to the skin. 

 

There’s no mom any more to summon me back and dry me off. So, with great reluctance, I force myself to turn back home – until the next shower beckons.

 

Hot favourites

Here’s a list of cracking good reads to get you through the summer

 

Ever since I was a child, I looked forward to summer holidays because they meant I could spend long, uninterrupted days reading all my favourite authors. Even now that I am all grown up and cannot take entire weeks off for the summer, I still stock up on books to read late into the sultry, sticky nights of the hot months. 

 

Just in case you are inclined to do the same, here’s a handy list of the books that have been keeping me entertained of late. I do hope you enjoy them too!

 

A Line To Kill by Anthony Horowitz

 

Setting a murder mystery on an island on which the characters remain trapped is an old trope made most famous by Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None. But Anthony Horowitz breathes fresh life into this format with this book, in which he casts himself as the dim Watson-like figure to the Sherlock figure played by ex-detective inspector Daniel Hawthorne. The two men are invited to a literary festival hosted on the tiny island of Alderney and with a certain inevitability, a body is discovered. Nobody can get on or off the island, and it is up to Hawthorne and Horowitz to unmask the killer. As locked room mysteries go, this one is rather fun.

 

The Love Of My Life by Rosie Walsh

 

What if you wake up one morning and realise that you are married to a stranger? That the woman you love, the mother of your daughter, is not the person you believe she is? Is there any coming back from the discovery? Can any marriage survive such knowledge? This book by Rosie Walsh examines these questions through the love story of Leo and Emma, as they bring up their daughter Ruby and a dog, somewhat improbably named John Keats. Leo, an obituary writer, is assigned to write a stock obit of his wife, as she battles cancer. His research sheds light on secrets that Emma has never shared with him – and their lives begin to unravel from that point on. Nothing is as it seems in this book; and the big reveal – when it comes – will leave you gobsmacked.

 

Anna The Biography by Amy Odell

No journalist has ever had more power in the world of fashion than Anna Wintour, who made her name as editor of Vogue – though she now runs pretty much all of the editorial at the Conde Nast publishing company. Unusually for a fashion journalist, she is now a household name in America and more of a celebrity than many of the people Vogue writes about. She is also as feared as she is admired with tags like Nuclear Wintour being applied to her (the film, The Devil Wears Prada, was famously based on her). This broadly sympathetic biography tries to work out what makes her tick. And though it doesn’t have all the answers it is an enjoyable read as it captures what life can be like for a woman who rises to the top of her profession.

 

The Widow by K.L. Slater

 

Life for Kate and Michael is near idyllic as they bring up their young daughter, Tansy, is a scenic village in the English countryside. But the peace and tranquility they revel in is shattered when a young Polish single mother suddenly goes missing and suspicion begins to fall on Michael. Kate tries hard not to believe the worst of her husband, even as the evidence against him mounts. But when he is killed – run over by a truck as he leaves the police station after an interrogation; begging the question whether it was an accident or a suicide – Kate devotes her attention to safeguarding his memory for her young daughter, no matter what it takes.

 

The Palace Papers by Tina Brown

 

I picked up this book wondering what new information Tina Brown could possibly have about the British royal family, a topic she has already mined for all it has. As it turns out, she has a lot of fresh dirt to dish, from plumbing the depths of Camilla’s mind to examining what made Harry and Meghan bolt across the Atlantic. All of this information is dished up in a chatty, gossipy style that Brown has made her own from her Tatler and Vanity Fair days, making this a cracking good read.

 

Family ties

The Duke and Duchess of Sussex rush back into the embrace of the royal family at the Queen’s Platinum Jubilee celebrations

 

Families, eh? Love them or hate them; there is just no way you can leave them. That’s the thought that struck me as I watched the Platinum Jubilee celebrations to mark Queen Elizabeth’s 70 years on the throne.

 

Unless you have been living under a rock over the past few years, you will be familiar with Prince Harry, his wife, Meghan, and their long and winding whine-athon with Oprah Winfrey. The Duke and Duchess of Sussex – as they were styled after their wedding – gave up their royal duties and departed the green fields of England for the sunny climes of California, where they announced they would make their own way in the world. But wait, not before slagging off the royal family from which they had consciously uncoupled.

 

So, while Meghan, already upset that no one had asked her if she was ‘okay’, announced dolefully that the royal institution – which she referred to, rather sinisterly as ‘the firm’ – had ignored her mental health issues and failed to provide her with support when she felt suicidal while pregnant, Harry angrily revealed that his father, Prince Charles, had cut him off financially once he announced he was leaving for America. Meghan confided that her sister-in-law, Catherine, the Duchess of Cambridge, had made her cry. Harry said living in the royal family felt like being part of a circus (with him being the performing animal, obviously).

 

Meghan upped the ante even further, saying that an unnamed royal had speculated about the color of her unborn child when she was pregnant. Harry clarified, later in the same interview, that this had happened at the beginning of their relationship, but by then, the damage had been done: the royal family had been painted with a racist brush, and the reputational damage was complete.

 

So, what do you think happened when this racist, unfeeling, even cruel, family celebrated the 70^th anniversary of their matriarch’s enthronement? Why, of course, Harry and Meghan wanted to be a part of the festivities! They would, they announced grandly, be ‘honoured’ to attend.

 

And so, they dutifully turned up for the Jubilee celebrations, even though they were pointedly not invited to make the obligatory balcony appearance with the Queen (that was just for working royals, we were told). Harry wore a slightly hangdog expression during the proceedings, perhaps reflecting on all that he had left behind, though he managed to muster the occasional smile. Meghan, drawing on her experiences as a cable show actress, had a huge grin pasted on throughout, accessorized with even huger hats.  

 

The events were carefully choreographed to keep the warring brothers, Princes William and Harry, apart. And the public didn’t get to see Meghan and Catherine interact either at the Trooping the Colour or at St Paul’s Cathedral. But the family dynamics behind closed doors would have been fascinating.

 

Did the two sisters-in-law grin through gritted teeth and kiss each other on the cheek? How did Prince Charles react to the daughter-in-law who had smeared his family as racist? What was the reunion between Harry and his stepmother, Camilla, the Duchess of Cornwall, like, given that rumour had it that he planned to slag her off in his forthcoming autobiography? And did the two brothers manage to mend their relationship, or at least begin to make amends?

 

I guess we shall never know – unless, of course, the Sussexes decide to sit down for another heart-to-heart with Oprah Winfrey. Or if they decide to reveal their innermost thoughts in the reality show – oops, sorry, docu-series – they are currently shooting for Netflix. Or if Harry includes his Platinum Jubilee adventures in his book, which is due out later this year.

 

But, judging by the look of things, Harry and Meghan seem to have decided that love them or hate them, you just can’t leave your family. At the end of the day, you need that sprinkling of royal stardust to keep shining in the celebrity firmament back in California. 

 

Does that hold out much hope for Meghan’s estranged father, Thomas Markle, currently recovering from a stroke that has left him unable to speak? Will he finally get a visit – or at the very least, a call – from his daughter, who hasn’t seen him since her wedding four years ago? You’ll simply have to watch this space.

 

Feeling hot, hot, hot

And yet there is no getting out of the kitchen…

 

You know how the saying goes. If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the kitchen. There is just one problem with following that piece of advice, as temperatures hover around the mid to high forties in India. We can’t stand the heat; we would love to get out of the kitchen; but we can’t do that because we have a family to feed. 

 

No matter how scorching the day, you still have to rustle up three meals a day for yourself and those in your household. And there is a limit to how much – and how often – you can order in. So, how do you cope?

 

Well, here are some pointers, based entirely on my own experience of keeping everyone fed during the blistering summers of Delhi.

 

1)    Keep actual cooking to a minimum. Instead, rely on fresh vegetables, fruits and herbs that you can turn into scrumptious salads. Not only will this reduce the amount of time you spend by the range, these meals will be both cooling and nutritious for the whole family.

 

2)    I know, I know, getting a salad prepped is no joke. You have to chop and peel endlessly and that can be a sweaty business. But who said that you have to do all this in a hot and humid kitchen? Spread some old newspapers on your dining table, and set up your chopping board in air-conditioned comfort. You can, in fact, do all your food prep here; even if you are making a full meal.

 

 

3)    This is the time when you should get your oven to do all the heavy lifting. Chop up all the vegetables you need, arrange them on a baking tray, throw in some sausages (if you are a meat-eater) or chunks of halloumi cheese (if you are vegetarian), sprinkle with oil, bung them in the oven, set the time to 45 minutes (or an hour) and sit back and relax while your dinner is cooked. This is my go-to dish when it’s simply too hot to slave away on the stove. And it’s delicious, to boot. You can come up with your own variations.

 

4)    The other kitchen aid that I rely upon completely at this time of year is my Insta Pot. This is the best way to cook meat curries, stews, or even dals and subzis. Most days I don’t even bother to fry the onions, garlic, ginger and tomato with the masalas. Instead, I put all the ingredients in, press the button that says ‘Slow Cook’ and then let the Insta Pot work its magic over a couple of hours while I have a shower and then sit back with a nice cooling drink and a good book.

 

5)    Life is too short (not to mention, too hot) to make rotis on summer evenings. When I was young, I remember my mother sending off our dough to the neighbourhood tandoor, and getting hot crisp tandoori rotis back in a matter of minutes. But those days are long gone now. And I can’t really justify ordering in rotis and parathas. So, I compromise by ordering in some interesting breads that I can toast, butter generously, and eat with my subzis and dals. 

 

6)    This is the time to make one-pot meals that require minimal stirring and watching. So, ditch the stir fries and bhuna ghoshts; instead make a khichri with vegetables. Forget about the risottos that need constant attention; restrict yourself to pastas that can be put together in a jiffy.

 

7)    Batch cooking is what will save you endless botheration in the kitchen. If you are making a pasta sauce, make three times the quantity you need, and freeze the extra two portions to use later in the month. Fry up enormous amounts of ginger-garlic paste and keep it in the fridge to use for the rest of the week. Whatever you are cooking – whether it is dal or a Thai curry – you can’t go wrong by making a few extra portions and freezing them to use on a day when cooking seems like too much of a palaver.

 

8)    The best part of summer, of course, is that the heat is the perfect excuse to stuff yourself full of ice-cream. And, thank God, that requires no cooking at all (though you might want to slice a mango to eat alongside!).