Helen Simonson - Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

“My parents’ tradition is to serve this dish family style or buffet,” said Mr. Rasool. “A large clay platter with all the trimmings in little silver bowls around it-sunflower seeds, persimmon slices, and tamarind chutney.”

“I wonder if it might be a little spicy for the main course,” said Grace, cupping her hand around her mouth as if making a small megaphone. “What do you think, Major?”

“Anyone who doesn’t find this delicious is a fool,” said the Major. He nodded his head fiercely at Mrs. Rasool and Mrs. Ali. “However…” He was not sure how to express his firm conviction that the golf club crowd would throw a fit if served a rice-based main course instead of a hearty slab of congealing meat. Mrs. Rasool raised an eyebrow at him.

“However, it is perhaps not foolproof, so to speak?” she asked. The Major could only smile in vague apology.

“I understand perfectly,” said Mrs. Rasool. She waved her hand and a waiter hurried into the kitchen. The band stopped abruptly as if the wave included them. They followed the waiters out of the room.

“It’s certainly a very interesting flavor,” said Grace. “We don’t want to be difficult.”

“Of course not,” said Mrs. Rasool. “I’m sure you will approve of our more popular alternative.” The waiter returned at a run, with a silver salver that held a perfectly shaped individual Yorkshire pudding containing a fragrant slice of pinkish beef. It sat on a pool of burgundy gravy and was accompanied by a dollop of cumin-scented yellow potatoes and a lettuce leaf holding slices of tomato, red onion, and star fruit. A wisp of steam rose from the beef as they contemplated it in astonished silence.

“It’s quite perfect,” breathed Grace. “Are the potatoes spicy?” The elder Mr. Rasool muttered something to his son. Mrs. Rasool gave a sharp laugh that was almost a hiss.

“Not at all. I will give you pictures to take back with you,” she said. “I think we have agreed on the chicken skewers, samosas, and chicken wings as passed hors d’oeuvres, and then the beef, and I suggest trifle for dessert.”

“Trifle?” said the Major. He had been hoping for some samples of dessert.

“One of the more agreeable traditions that you left us,” said Mrs. Rasool. “We spice ours with tamarind jam.”

“Roast beef and trifle,” said Grace in a daze of food and punch. “And all authentically Mughal, you say?”

“Of course,” said Mrs. Rasool. “Everyone will be very happy to dine like the Emperor Shah Jehan and no one will find it too spicy.”

The Major could detect no hint of derision in Mrs. Rasool’s tone. She seemed completely happy to accommodate. Mr. Rasool also nodded and made a few calculations in his black book. Only the old couple looked rather stern.

“Now, what about the music?” asked Mrs. Rasool. “Do you need to hear more from the sitar or would you prefer to arrange a dance band?”

“Oh, no more sitar, please,” said Grace. The Major breathed a sigh of relief as Mrs. Rasool and Grace began to discuss the difficulty of finding a quiet band that knew all the standards and yet could impart an exotic air to the evening.

The Major felt he was not obliged to participate in the discussion. Instead, he took the opportunity of the relative quiet to lean across to talk to Mrs. Ali.

“When I was a small boy in Lahore, we always had rasmalai for our special dessert,” he whispered. It was the only local dish he remembered his mother allowing in the cool white villa. Mostly they had jam puddings and meat pies and thick gravy like the rest of their friends. “Our cook always used rose petals and saffron in the syrup and there was a goat in the service yard to get the milk for cheese.” He saw a brief image of the goat, a grumpy animal with a crooked back leg and pieces of dung always caught in its stringy tail. He seemed to remember that there was also a boy, around his own age, who lived in the yard and took care of the goat. The Major decided not to share this recollection with Mrs. Ali. “Whenever I order it now, it never seems to taste quite as I remember.”

“Ah, the foods of childhood,” said Mrs. Ali, breaking into a smile. “I believe the impossibility of recreating such dishes may be due more to an unfortunate stubbornness of memory than any inherent failure of preparation, but still we pursue them.” She turned to Mrs. Rasool and touched her sleeve. “Najwa, could the Major try some of your mother-in-law’s famous homemade rasmalai?” she asked.

Over the Major’s protestations that he could not eat another thing, the waiters brought bowls of cheese curds floating in bright pink syrup.

“My mother-in-law makes this herself,” said Mrs. Rasool. “She likes to keep a small presence in the kitchen.”

“You must be very talented,” said Grace to the old woman, speaking loud and slow as if to a deaf person. “I always wish I had the time to cook.” The old woman glared at her.

“It is mostly a matter of watching cheese drip dry,” said Mrs. Rasool. “But it allows her to keep an eye on everything else in the kitchen, doesn’t it, Mummy?”

“My parents are a big help to us,” added Mr. Rasool, patting his wife on the arm in a tentative way.

The Major took a spoonful of dessert and felt the pleasure of the smooth cheese and the light syrup: a thrill of recognition in the lightness, the taste more scent than flavor.

“This is almost it,” he said quietly to Mrs. Ali. “Very close.”

“Lovely,” said Grace puckering her lips around the tiniest spoonful of cheese. “But I do think the trifle is a better idea.” She pushed away her dish and drank from her glass of punch. “Now, what can you suggest about decorations?”

“I was looking into it, as Mrs. Ali asked,” said Mrs. Rasool, “and I was afraid it would all be very expensive.”

“But then we struck on a lucky coincidence,” added Mr. Rasool. “A distinguished friend offered to help.”

“Oh, really?” said Grace. “Because our budget, as you know…”

“I know, I know,” said Mr. Rasool. “So let me introduce you to my friend Mrs. Khan. She is the wife of Dr. Khan, a specialist at Hill Hospital. One of our most prominent families. She has her own decorating business.” He waved his hand and the Major looked to see the two ladies from the window table getting up. The older one waved back and spoke to her companion, who hurried out of the restaurant.

“Saadia Khan?” asked Mrs. Ali quietly. “Are you sure that’s a good idea, Najwa?” Najwa Rasool gave a pained smile.

“My husband insists that she is very keen to help.”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Khan implied she might even help out on a complimentary basis,” said Mr. Rasool. “I believe her husband has many friends among the membership of your respected club.”

“Really?” said Grace. “I haven’t heard the name. Dr. Khan, is it?”

“Yes, very prominent man. His wife is involved in many charitable efforts. She is very concerned with the welfare of our young women.”

Mrs. Khan loomed impressively over the table. She wore a tweed suit with a heavy gold brooch on the lapel and a single ring on each hand, one a plain gold band and the other an enormous sapphire in a heavy gold setting. She carried a large, stiff handbag and a tightly rolled umbrella. The Major thought her face seemed rather smooth for her age; her hair, in lacquered layers, reminded him of Britain’s former lady Prime Minister. He tried to stand up and caught his thigh painfully on the edge of the table as he struggled out of the banquette to stand by Mrs. Ali’s chair. He blinked several times. The Rasools also stood and introductions were made.

“How do you do, Major? Do call me Sadie, everyone does,” said Mrs. Khan with a big smile that did not wrinkle any other part of her face. “And Miss DeVere, I believe we met at that awful Chamber of Commerce garden party last year?”