Good Morning Mr. Taylor
"Yes yes! Please come!"
The words ring out with a thick Indian accent, as I catch, out of the corner of my eye, the figure bustling about the one room apartment. I'm bent over, still half asleep, struggling to remove my sandals before I enter the room.
"Chapatti? You want chapatti?" the over-excited voice rings out again.
At this point I've managed to make my way inside, and take a chair next to Zach. We exchange knowing smiles, happily but wearily accepting our breakfast fate.
"Toast! Have toast!" booms Mr. Taylor, smiling from ear to ear as he sets down a small metal plate piled high with whitebread toast, easily half a loaf.
Mr. Taylor must be in his late fifties, but moves like a twenty two year old office intern who's had too many cups of coffee.
"Eggs yes? Double-fry? Double-fry?"
"Yes, double-fry please, Mr. Taylor." we both say, and I recall the first day we had eggs and I had foolishly asked for single-fry, receiving two eggs that had nice crisp undersides with copious amounts of uncooked whites on top.
Mr. Taylor frenetically moves about the kitchen area, not in fact doing anything, simply hovering about his wife as she prepares the eggs. Mrs. Taylor is his opposite: quiet, calm and somewhat stoic in her manner. I sometimes think that I catch her rolling her eyes at her husband's antics, though I'm not quite sure.
"Yes yes! Have more toast! Apply the butter! Apply the butter!"
Zach and I smile at each other again, 'apply the butter' has become our signature phrase of reference when telling others about our breakfast host, or when simply joking amongst ourselves.
"Here! Yes! More chappati!" he leans, kippah almost falling off of his head, to place the pancake-shaped Indian bread on our plates.
We sigh again, lacking the energy to fend off the onslaught of food. For the first couple of weeks we tried to convey to Mr. Taylor, both verbally and non-verbally, that each of us simply can't eat five chappatis, eight slices of toast, two eggs, two cups of chai and two bananas each morning. We discovered that the best strategy is to leave things on the plate when we can't eat any more, and upon third and forth servings make the universal 'too full' motion, simultaneously leaning back and rubbing our stomachs.
Zach is convinced that Mr. Taylor is just a very well intentioned obessive compulsive Indian. Couple this with a Jewish background and you've got a killer combination. While we've been enjoying our time in the homestay, Zach and I both acknowledge how difficult it can be to deal with our overzealous host each morning. This weekend we move into our own flat in a suburb of Bombay called Bandra, and each morning when we have eggs and toast, we will apply the butter, keeping Mr. Taylor in mind.
The words ring out with a thick Indian accent, as I catch, out of the corner of my eye, the figure bustling about the one room apartment. I'm bent over, still half asleep, struggling to remove my sandals before I enter the room.
"Chapatti? You want chapatti?" the over-excited voice rings out again.
At this point I've managed to make my way inside, and take a chair next to Zach. We exchange knowing smiles, happily but wearily accepting our breakfast fate.
"Toast! Have toast!" booms Mr. Taylor, smiling from ear to ear as he sets down a small metal plate piled high with whitebread toast, easily half a loaf.
Mr. Taylor must be in his late fifties, but moves like a twenty two year old office intern who's had too many cups of coffee.
"Eggs yes? Double-fry? Double-fry?"
"Yes, double-fry please, Mr. Taylor." we both say, and I recall the first day we had eggs and I had foolishly asked for single-fry, receiving two eggs that had nice crisp undersides with copious amounts of uncooked whites on top.
Mr. Taylor frenetically moves about the kitchen area, not in fact doing anything, simply hovering about his wife as she prepares the eggs. Mrs. Taylor is his opposite: quiet, calm and somewhat stoic in her manner. I sometimes think that I catch her rolling her eyes at her husband's antics, though I'm not quite sure.
"Yes yes! Have more toast! Apply the butter! Apply the butter!"
Zach and I smile at each other again, 'apply the butter' has become our signature phrase of reference when telling others about our breakfast host, or when simply joking amongst ourselves.
"Here! Yes! More chappati!" he leans, kippah almost falling off of his head, to place the pancake-shaped Indian bread on our plates.
We sigh again, lacking the energy to fend off the onslaught of food. For the first couple of weeks we tried to convey to Mr. Taylor, both verbally and non-verbally, that each of us simply can't eat five chappatis, eight slices of toast, two eggs, two cups of chai and two bananas each morning. We discovered that the best strategy is to leave things on the plate when we can't eat any more, and upon third and forth servings make the universal 'too full' motion, simultaneously leaning back and rubbing our stomachs.
Zach is convinced that Mr. Taylor is just a very well intentioned obessive compulsive Indian. Couple this with a Jewish background and you've got a killer combination. While we've been enjoying our time in the homestay, Zach and I both acknowledge how difficult it can be to deal with our overzealous host each morning. This weekend we move into our own flat in a suburb of Bombay called Bandra, and each morning when we have eggs and toast, we will apply the butter, keeping Mr. Taylor in mind.
posted by Rafi at 10:29 PM
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