That praise of one friend could irk the other was unfamiliar until last weekend. My eulogic post on India Coffee House made its iconic peer on College Street haunt like the ghost of King Hamlet, and browbeat. So, here is my humble tuppence on an urban landmark as old as the hills. #uncookedwords
At Coffee house you eat good food of sorts for a pittance. Edibles play there the second fiddle with pride, lending an unbroken basenote to talks on variety of topics. I know some who even call up tables by the patterns of blotches on top. Coffee House, to them and many others, is home second to none.
My hurried repast kicked off with Cold-coffee and chicken sandwich. A drink I would otherwise have called a swill proved 'nice’ to the colonial pairing of bread-sandwiches with sides wastefully cut off. I survived them with the helpless poise of a lewd nonagenarian. What came hard on the heels was an unyielding Chicken Cutlet resembling at best a starched burlesque queen left with nothing to titillate. Pumpkin puree passed off as ketchup turned the treat worse. With a steamy cup of 'Infusion' I called it quits.
I'm unsure if it were my being alone and unfeeling that made the lacks notoriously glare, or, a fussy tongue at last getting the better of cliched nostalgia.
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