Park Street, Calcutta. The only comparisons that I can think of is the Champs Elysess in Paris and maybe Park Avenue in New York. Not in size but in soul.
The oldest tree lined avenue in Calcutta is also home to the finest eateries in the city, that have stood the test of time from the days of the Raj. Each one is distinct in style, flavour and ambience and every true blue Calcuttan will tell you what is the one item on the menu that is to die for.
If you want Lobster or Crab Thermidor, get to Blue Fox. Fried Fish with Tartar Sauce, Mocambo is the place to be in. Chelo Kebabs? Peter Cat. Moulin Rouge for coq au vin. Similarly, Beef Steak with Pepper Sauce is like synonymous with Olypub.
Technically called Olympia Bar and Restaurant, Olypub is one of the best watering holes in Calcutta. It definitely isn’t a ’’pub’’ in any sense of the word. More like an old fashioned restaurant who specialise in serving alcohol at prices that are affordable.
Many people have superb memories. There are some who at a snap can recall what exactly happened in the summer of their 14th birthday. I, unfortunately am not one of them. I do not have a particularly good memory (though I attribute that to an existence that’s completely devoid of action of any kind). I cant recall when I walked into Olypub for the first time. I must have been 16 or 17 then, looked younger and went with friends after watching a film maybe. The objective being to eat.
The fact that it was a full-fledged ’’bar’’ did not bother us at all. There are, in every group, a boisterous few who pooh-pooh all such social sanctions. (Singularly, these are the people who are most likely to succeed as CEOs of major companies, irrespective of their academic non-brilliance.)
Getting back to the incident, all we did was order a few beers, didn’t finish them and also ordered a lot of french fries which gave me a very, very bad case of the tummies the next day.
That’s how it started. The bad experience was quickly attributed to an inept stomach and soon it became a favourite haunt. We stopped ordering french fries though, but the beer kept flowing. Many a sultry, despondent Calcutta evening we spent there, thinking about life, occassionally talking about it. Conversations shifted from women to Sartre to Woody Allen and then to women again. It was time to refill glasses. The beef steak, was possibly the best item on the menu and I am pretty sure at one point in time we collectively kept the butchers of Calcutta happy.
It isn’t a hip place, by no means. But that doesn’t stop the women from getting there. After a particularly harrowing day in office, working, talking about football or politics, (sometimes both) - it is the place to unwind. You are likely to find an interesting cross-section of society once you are there.
A few oldish gentlemen in crisp white ’’dhutis’’ dunking whisky after whisky, their voices quavering, but rising with every peg consumed.
Youngsters with nervous laughter nursing mugs of beer.
Loud executives exchanging toilet humour.
Intellectuals with hazy, despondent eyes, lost in their small pints.
Lovers, trying to read thoughts over small vodkas.
Silent bearers watching every move, stealthily moving from table to table filling glasses.
Years have passed. I do not stay in Calcutta any more. But I do get back there often, sometimes on work, sometimes to meet family. A customary trip to Olypub is always on the cards, beer is always on the menu and an empty steak platter always in front of us.