The Rotten Egg

Adrian de la Cruz for The Rotten Egg
1st May, 2010

Reporting from,

Andheri West, Bombay.

It’s been a week since a twenty-something wild haired man downed the shutters on what used to be Bewakuf Restaurant – a fine establishment located in west Bombay. This reporter stood witness (as did a couple of goats on the pavement) as the man, with something close to a tear in his eye, stared at the shutters, kicked the heavy lock, broke several toenails and hopped on the spot howling several expletives in the angered state that TRE refuses to publish.

Bewakuf (translates as stupid in English, believe me) opened for business six months ago, hoping to establish itself as the ‘only’ eating joint for 500 meters in any direction. Whatever the idea, it must applauded for trying to fight stiff competition from popular teen hangout Café Kino (wait that’s closed too) and the stately Banana Leaf. Perhaps it wished to establish itself as the next best “cool place to hangout in” as the popular phrase goes.

However, TRE has been unable to identify the owner of the late restaurant. Well placed sources have narrowed to field down to *two individuals, both displaying varying degrees of eccentricity. Suspect number one is a potbellied tobacco-chewing nutter with his head stuck to a skull cap and ass to a bike or chair depending on the hour. He’s known to take the neighbourhood children on joyrides and harass old women while astride his bike. He owns a Beauty Parlour (that specializes in Steem Bath) across the road and can be seen camping outside it with his friends 7 pm onwards doling out free booze and food.

Suspect number two seems like your average street side hunk, (heck, if I were a girl I’d call him a knockout) until you see him walk, which seems to do 24 hours a day. No one knows when and how his habit of walking around in a dress shirt that mananges to cover him from stonmach downwards, leaning his upper body back and shoulders snapped to tight to his sides really began. But such is the elegance of his gait that he’s become a local attraction. That’s not to say that there isn’t anyone who can ouch for his sanity, at least not the buddy who joins him in chasing and stoning cats at night while slurping on vanilla ice-cream.

While still operational, the restaurant was managed by a Mr. B. Not much is known about him as he always refused interviews. Regrettably, TRE is also unable to bring you any photos of the erstwhile restaurant due to the very real danger of being mobbed by a frenzied gang of street-dwelling tribals, (including at least five women who give the impression of being perennially knocked up, a fierce albino great-great-grand-granny, and beastly naked children with claws of steel, not to mention of hordes of evil-eyed unemployed boys) so you’ll kindly excuse TRE for not providing you any material evidence of the restaurant’s existence once you’ve appreciated the difficulties of reporting from a such a sensitive region.

Mr. B had obviously no idea of what a restaurant should look like. For starters, there was a fence surrounding the entire structure, but given the riff-raff that occupied the pavement at any given time of the day, this was a very logical move. However, it cannot be argued that the fence certainly acted as a deterrent for customers. Space was also another issue he had to contend with. To get around this he added a few more tables on the pavement and protected them in a similar manner. The interiors were done up in garish blue to resemble a beach in Rio, with all manner of dolphins and jellyfish populating the walls. After bribing municipal authorities that mattered and taking over the adjacent plot, Mr. B’s expansion plans really got going. With construction completed, the place looked real swanky with music blaring all day long and Christmas decorations sparkling in the February sun.

Bewakuf also hired ten previously unemployed youths into its waiting staff. With the help of haircuts on the house (that enabled them to re-enter society), piercings removed, a painful process of being de-blinged and wearing well-fitting red t-shirts and black trousers they sure looked professional. There was only one problem. Even the transformation couldn’t hide that the fact hey were just a bunch of illiterate hoods out to beat the shit out of you if you said you didn’t understand their accents. All of their victims and potential customers were simply too scared to eat at Bewakuf. Their over-friendly attitude didn’t help either, “Come in Sir”, one of the slurred when this correspondent got too close to the fence. “Are you from Japan Sir?” It was only this very grave accusation that hurt this reporter and knocked enough sense into him scoot before muscles and his pals began really displaying their hospitality.

Despite the gaping holes in TRE’s investigations, it can now exclusively reveal that during its ill-fated run, Bewakuf received not a single customer. The source of this information has also disappeared. The only incident of importance in regard to the restaurant was the hoax order they received in March. Right from the time that Mr. B (who doubled up as cashier) set down his phone that afternoon, one could sense that something grave was afoot. From the silence he maintained for the next two minutes he had either received news of the Indian hockey team winning a match in the World Cup or unbelievably, an order. A lot of incoherent shouting followed and judging by the ceaseless banging of pots and pans and the continual hiss of smoke either of the two was possible. Then, one of the waiters emerged with a bulging bag. He threw him himself on his bike and rode away into the dust. He was going to make his first delivery.

He returned amidst cheers with his head bowed down and the zipper on the food bag open. Just as he was about to deliver news of his failure, twenty or so hairy heads emerged from out of nowhere and knocking this reporter aside launched themselves onto the hapless delivery boy. He stood no chance as did any chance of the reporter to capture award-winning photos by the appearance of albino woman; it meant that the mob wasn’t far away. Sources state that the assault continued for a full twenty minutes, kept alive by the patrons of the whiskey shop next door. In the end, every crumb was cleaned, bottles were broken and the muscle-heads suffered another setback.

Scarcely a month after this came news of the closing, confirmed when a team of carpenters arrived to tear the place down.

It’s hard to point out what went wrong with Bewakuf, but the name itself is a good place to start. In case they’d distributed leaflets with the morning papers, it would be dismissed as a joke and the leaflets would end up in cat litters as leaflets here normally do. More importantly why christen your investment ‘Stupid’? It beats all established logic. Was it launched as a practical joke? Or did the owner really expect people to throng to an eatery just because it was different? These are some of many questions that will be answered as TRE continues to unravel this Bewakufi. (stupidity)


*names withheld

TRE wishes to congratulate the residents of the lovely state of Maharashtra, India on the 50th anniversary of its formation and the world in particular a Happy May Day or Labour Day, whatever you call wherever you live and calls on them to remember to feel good about the work they do, no matter how insignificant it might seem in the larger scheme of things, which is to earn more than your neighbour.

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