Having ordered the usual plate of chicken and rice, I noticed a pair at my local restaurant eating a chickpea curry. It looked thick and rich and tasty, scooped up with hot fresh bread. I told the chef that next time I would have that, so good did it look. He said I should come the next night. I said I would. He said he would look for me.
As I entered the restaurant he looked up and smiled, bade me sit down and went to serve up the chickpeas. As I waited, sitting on the carpeted raised floor, I watched the other staff at their evening chores. Yesterday it had been placing plastic bags inside paper bags to make waterproof takeaway bags. Tonight, it was tying knots in flimsy plastic bags and, on my other side, throwing a handful of cut raw vegetables into little bags.
My chickpeas arrived, with bread and a plate of raw vegetables. I smiled and said thanks. I tore off a piece of hot hot bread and scooped up a mouthful.
It wasn’t thick and it wasn’t rich and it wasn’t tasty. It was a watery plate of tasteless, mushy pellets. It was beyond words. I superglued my smile to my face and shoved the mouthfuls down.