[BITList] Fw: Firpo's : Jim Wood 1964

[John Davison]

  A BLAST FROM THE PAST !! ENJOY


 



 
  
   

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>>-----Subject:  Firpo's : Jim Wood 1964
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>>Those who were in Kolkatta will recollect some of the places.
>>
>>________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
>>Luncheon at  Firpo’s, written in 1964 by Jim Wood, a visiting
 American.
>>>>
>>>>A  wonderfully evocative article about
 Calcutta in the mid 60’s !! the menu is
 from 1945. Enjoy !!
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>(Lunch is a short form  of "Luncheon" that came from
"nuncheon" a reference to a snack of bread and  cheese (with or
without cold cuts) eaten any time of day: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lunch)
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>The Maitre D’ was a short man with  a thick black mustache that
curled upward to a point at each end. He  commanded the room as he walked
about, ramrod straight, in tails and a large  white bow tie on a crisply
pressed shirt with short collar tips. He glared  at the guest waiting to
be seated then escorted him to a table in the rear  of the restaurant where
he stood at attention until the guest had seated  himself and placed the
starched white napkin in his lap. The guest ordered a  gin and tonic and
watched the Maitre D’ direct the order to a tall waiter in  a turban who
saluted-his palm flat, and facing forward in the English style-  before
executing a smart about-face andmarching away toward the bar.
>>>>
>>>>There were, perhaps,  forty-five tables in three rows, each set
with crystal and silver and a  long,thin candle. It was cool, poorly lit
and a bit musty, but little of the  din from the
 Chowringhee Road ,
 Park Street intersection, except the
 distinctive honking of Calcutta 
taxis, was able to make it up the flight of  stairs and past the heavy
curtains at the door. There were thirty other  waiters, all at attention;
each dressed in a white and gold tunic, each with  the traditional double
Patti head wrapof a Punjabi Sikh, each with his  facial hair combed neatly
and rolled tightly under his chin and up his jaw  line into the turban,
each wearing a pair of white gloves. They stood at  attention, eyes
averted, seeing everything. He fiddled with his knife and  fork waiting
for the gin and tonic and as it arrived and was placed in front  of him,
previously unnoticed hands from behind placed his fork and knife  back in
their proper positions.After a while, a
>> large menu card  was brought forward carried by a small boy, too
>>young for facial hair, but  dressed identically as the others, except
>>for a less formal Keski turban.  The card was handed to the waiter
>>nearest his table, who opened and examined  it, then handed it to him
>>after which the waiter stood next to the table, at  attention, eyes
>>averted, waiting silently for an order.
>>>>He had been instructed  that Firpo’s was the one place in
 Calcutta where real beef
was served if  steak was ordered. After nine months living in a country
village 100 miles  up the Hoogly tributary of the Ganges ,
a steak was what he wanted- even if  it was only lunchtime. He closed the
menu and looked into the red rimmed  dark black eyes of the waiter,
cleared his throat and ordered a steak,  medium rare and, oh yes, could he
have a refill on the gin and tonic. The  waiter lifted the menu handed it
to the boy and both proceeded on their  missions. Again, hands previously
unseen made the table setting neat. Only  two other tables were occupied.
At one table sat a man and a woman. She was  pretty, tan, in her early
thirties, and dressed in a light summer skirt and  matching blouse. He was
probably fifty-five and wore the uniform of a  British officer. They paid
no attention to the four waiters who hovered  about them, straightening
silverware, removing
>> each and every crumb, adding  ice to a depleting drink, or
>>occasionally passing a folded note to the man.  He chained smoked
>>small cigarettes that he extracted from a silver case in  his breast
>>pocket. His mustache was full, butneatly trimmed above his lip, and
>>his white hair was combed straight back to the high military collar.
>>His tie  had a deep olive field, with the red and black rep stripes of
>>a Gurka  Regiment. Though their conversation was muted and nearly
>>without gestures,  you could hear his emphasis in an upper class
>>British accent, as he made  points about the deteriorating conditions
>>in Calcutta ,
especially the golf  course known as Tollygunge Club.
>>While the Royal Calcutta Golf Club, RCGC as  it is known locally, is
>>more famous and is the second oldest golf club in  the world after the
>>Royal and Ancient in St. Andrews , it is flat
and  uninspiring as a
>>contest. The 14th at Tollygunge requires the golfer to hit  over a
>>huge water tank filled
>> with lilies. In typical understated British  humor, it is named the
>>Hydrophobia Hole. His complaints centered on the  badly manicured
>>greens, inattentive staff, poor clubhouse food and  especially the
>>declining bar- all since Tollygunge’s ownership had passed  into local
>>control.
>>>>
>>>>The other table was occupied by  what appeared to be three Indian
businessmen; each dressed in a khaki coat,  and open sandals. They too
paid no attention to the covey of waiters making  themselves busy as their
meal progressed. Dish after dish of pungent and  colorful food appeared
along with yogurts, dishes of seeds, plates of flat  bread, locally called
chapatti, and pitchers of fresh juices. There was no  silverware to
contend with, as all the food was consumed using the bread as  a scoop or
eating utensil. Their table talk was both loud and animated, in  the
Bengalidialect,  often with all three eating, laughing and talking at the
same  time.
>>>>His second drink arrived and was  placed in front of him in
exactly the same spot as the first  drink.
>>>>Trying to act cool, he had asked  for McDowell’s Blue Riband Gin,
which he knew had been distilled locally  since the late 1950’s. It was
sweeter than English and American gins and  later got the attention of the
Bee Gees in their song “Indian Gin &  Whiskey Dry”. The British
soldiers in the 1700’s experienced high incident  rates of malaria and
were required to consume massive amounts of quinine, a  bitterly sour
chemical. Eventually, some bright soldier mixed gin with  quinine, added a
slice of lime, and the gin and tonic was born. In late July  of 1966,
twenty-four months after graduating Clarkson College of Technology  with a
degree in chemical engineering,the mixture of chemicals in front of  him
fit the moment perfectly.
>>>>
>>>>His food  arrived.The steak looked real. Not like  the
buffalo that passed for steak in other restaurants. He cut off a piece,
 chewed and swallowed; Wonderful. Perfect. Juicy. Sweet. Almost like home.
He  tried to put the taste of the “Truck Stop” out of his mind; a small
café  near Bandel, set on the southbound side of the two lane tar and sand
highway  aptly named the Grand Trunk Road, a major artery of commerce
between Delhi  and
 Calcutta . During the monsoon season, the road
developed deep ruts that  filed with water, and traction was non-existent.
In that season, the “Truck  Stop” oftenbecame a triage center. A number
 of crude tables were randomly placed under the café roof and drivers and
 their helpers would pull off the road, grab a plate of curried chicken,
 another plate of chapatti and a glass of water then take a short nap on
one  of the twenty beds in the parking area consisting of mattresses made
with  hemp laced tightly
>> between two wooden rails. The trucks, called lorries in  most
>>Commonwealth countries, continued to idle in the nearby lot, and owing
>> to the fact the café had no sides, the diesel fumes added an
>>interesting  flavor to the curried chickenwhich was cooked 24/7 in a
>>very  large cast iron cauldron in the middle of the café, kept just
>>short of the  boil and to which water, curry, rice, bits of raw
>>chicken, vegetables and  other un-named goodies were added from time
>>to time as the level in the  cauldron was depleted by sales. Twigs and
>>other small sticks of wood were  kept in the middle of the café, near
>>the cauldron, but the fuel of choice  was the dung patty made with
>>straw and cow dung and pasted to any vertical  surface until it dried
>>sufficiently to be removed. Next to the pile of  sticks was an
>>enormous mound of “cowchips”.
>>>>The lorries were highly  decorated with Hindu Gods, chrome
accessories, tassels and bright colored  artwork. Neither the driver nor
his helpers had any other place to live, so  the lorry cab became home.
Each driver had at least two helpers who kept the  lorry clean and
maintained. Any breakdown, even a flat tire, became a crisis  because
roadside shoulders were very rare. The lorry merely stopped wherever  the
breakdown occurred, and the helpers jumped out waving towels trying to
 divert or halt oncoming traffic in both lanes after which they would
place  whatevernumber and size of rocks they  could find around the
lorry in faux protection while a jack and tools were  extracted and
repairs undertaken. If replacement parts were involved, a  helper would
bum a ride to the nearest “truck stop” where the part might be  available
or, alternatively, a phone from which an SOS could be sent. Rarely  would
police or traffic officials arrive on the scene,
>> so the jam would  expand for miles in both directions and the art of
>>dare devil passing  between oncomingdrivers would become high art; if
>>a northbound lorry was able to pass a broken lorry obstructing the
>>northbound lane, other northbound lorries behind it would ride up
>>close to  the rear, horns blaring, in an attempt to forestall
>>southbound lorries from  gaining any advantage. And so it went for
>>hours until the repaired lorry was  able to rejoin the endless caravan
>>of commerce along that narrow, but  essential backbone.
>>>>
>>>>Half way through his steak, the  British couple received another
folded note and he heard a forceful, but  guttural “bloody hell” from
under the Englishman’s breath. The four waiters  stood at attention and
motionless, surrounding the table, eyes averted from  the couple and from
each other. The Englishman put down the note and lifted  a finger. One of
the waiters immediately sped away in the direction of the  bar. The note
unfolded slightly and he could see the blue monogram and  signature logo
of the Royal Calcutta Turf Club. At 2:15 pm, it was apparent  someone had
lost a substantial wager on the first afternoon race and was  about to
drown it in a Pimm’s Number 1. The woman at the table yawned then  made a
slight move and two waiters grabbed her chair as she rose. Her  companion
rose as well; one waiter grabbed his chair as the fourth returned  with
his drink. He bowed graciously as she left, then sat down in a slouch
 that betrayed great
>> defeat.
>>>>The three at the other  table paid their bill with a very large
wad of rupees, rose and left without  glancing about. He noticed two of
the men wore dhotis, a sarong-like skirt  that reached to the ankles,
rather than western trousers. The third wore  pleated khaki pants creased
sharply in the front: Western and eastern,  cultures now mixing as
memories of the British Raj continued to fade twenty  years into
Independence.
>>>>While the soldier at  the table near him sipped on the Pimm’s
Number 1, he finished the last of  the steak and his dish was removed and
his table straightened before he had  finished chewing. “Would sahib
prefer coffee?” spoke the waiter, looking  straight ahead. Coffee would be
fine, and might there be ice cream? “Yes,  sahib. Right away.” For the
first time, he noticed the framed photographs on  the wall near the
entrance. He moved to stand, and two waiters grabbed his  chair. As he
walked to the wall, his table was completely bussed. He didn’t  turn to
look. Though the bussing was silent, he could feel motion. The  photos were
of young men, all white, each in some sort of flight uniform. In  the
early stages of World War II, Claire L. Chennault formed the First
 American Volunteer Group. These were ex-military, civilian Americans who
 fought side by side with the RAF defending Burma- 
and the Rangoon , Burma 
to   Kunming ,
 China road, often
>> just called the Burma Road . They were
 skilledpilots who flew P-40
>>aircraft and  whose kill ratio was 15:1, many times higher than the
>>RAF kill ratio. The  famous tiger tooth design on the front of their
>>planes had been copied from  an illustration in the India Illustrated
>>Weekly: The Chinese simply called  them the Flying Tigers.They were
>>disbanded on July 4,  1942, after the fall of Burma 
and Thailand 
and
>>some of those pilots as well  as pilots from the 10th Air Force
>>stationed in India 
joined the Air  Transportation Command and flew
>>transports over the Himalayan 
 Mountains to
 provide the Chinese with
>>supplies needed to defeat the Japanese. These were  the famous Hump
>>Pilots. He stared at the young, smiling faces of these  pilots, most
>>of them about his age, wearing short leather jackets and long  silk
>>scarves, and thought of their skill and bravery and their commitment..
>>Visible in the background were patrons- formally attired, a dance band
>>and  the
>> perfectly set tables of Firpo’s of the 1940’s and in his mind he
>>could  hear Glen Miller, Dorsey and Sinatra, and thought of Bogart and
>>Casablanca ,
 as he wondered about each man’s personal story. He turned
>>to return to his  table but the English soldier was standing directly
>>behind him.. Close now,  he could smell cigarettes, gin and see deep
>>lines on the man’s permanently  tanned face. He looked directly into
>>the clear, grey eyes and was about to  excuse himself and step aside,
>>when the Englishman said, “Jolly good boys,  those Yanks, what! They
>>could bloody well fly  airplanes.Knew many of  them.”
>>>>They shook hands, and  Major John W. Heath (retired), invited him
to take coffee at the Major’s  table. Before he could nod either way, and
probably before they had stopped  shaking hands, a pot of coffee appeared
at the Major’s table, and his former  corner table looked as if it hadn’t
even been used. The Major’s retirement  had been effective in 1954 and he
had decided to continue living in
 India ,  where his pension
would go much farther and last longer. His wife, however,  had decided
otherwise and had returned to Staffordshire in 1960. He  remembered many
of the HumpPilots and often was present when  their cargo planes were
being loaded at Calcutta ’s
Dum Dum airport, 20 miles  north east of town. Often a pilot would
instruct the cargo officer to add  more crates, knowing he might have to
alter course and fly a lower altitude  over the hump between Himalayan
peaks. Dum Dum was the site of the British  Royal Artillery Armory in the
early
>> 1890’s where Captain Bertie Clay removed  the steel jacket of a
>>bullet exposing the soft lead interior, thus inventing  the dum dum,
>>or hollow point, bullet. A wonderful hour of conversation  passed too
>>quickly during which the Firpo’s of the 1940’s and 1950’s was  fully
>>divulged including how arestaurant, owned and operated by  an Italian
>>family, in the midst of a very Hindu city could consistently find  and
>>serve excellent beef to its western clientele. After the war, business
>> declined, hence the new upstairs location, with no dance floor or
>>band.
>>>>Yes, also the country  now was adjusting away from western to the
more traditional subcontinent  culture, and
 Calcutta was caught in the throes of a very
serious Communist  insurgency. The union movement was gaining strength,
and was pushing for  less reliance on the
 United States . The USSR-India
Summit took place in  January 1966, during which Prime Ministers Shastri
and Kosygin met in   Tashkent 
after Shastri had made such a mess of domestic politics during the
 Indo-Pakistani conflict. Shastri had died at the Summit :
He told the Major  how lucky he had been to book the last seat on a
Calcutta-Delhi flight in  time to witness Shastri’s enormous funeral pyre
along the banks of the   Yamuna 
 River . To the Major’s
great joy, he explained that he had arrived  
 India in the fall of 1965 to
blackout curtains, and air raid warnings in the  Bandel area.
“Bloodycrazy, what! Did you see any  action? What were you doing in the
jungle anyway? You a CIA
>> chap?”
>>>>CIA chap? No, his job  was to help the West Bengal State
Electricity Board commission India ’s
 newest power station. He stood the 8 pm to 8 am shift, and the only
action  he had seen was a WW II Pakistani P-36 Hawk fly out of the eastern
sunrise,  across the half-mile wide
 Hoogly River ,
toward the power plant. He was on  the roof of the plant, about 200 feet
above grade. The plane was about 1000  feet above him as it passed over
the chimneys and he could see a bomb tucked  under the plane’s belly. The
Pakistani pilot make one pass then banked north  and flew toward Tribini,
the next upstream village. At 5:30 am, people were  standing waist-deep in
the river,washing hands and faces and  scrubbing teeth. Farm animals were
walking along the riverbank chewing on  soft green morsels and taking a
morning drink of water. Women would  carefully balance large ceramic jars
full of water on their head and walk  back to their kitchen to prepare the
day’s
>> meal. Cow chip smoke could be  seen rising from the town center as
>>the new day began.
>>>>The pilot flew parallel  to the riverbank for a short distance,
finally banking again toward East  Pakistan .
As he did, the bomb dropped in mid river and exploded with a  crushing
boom and tower of water. The Major roared in delight. “Originally,  P-36’s
were fighters. The Paks retrofitted them with a single bomb rack and  a
mechanical release,” he said. “I bet the Pak was pushing on it hard as he
 flew over your plant: Jammed, what! Bloody lucky for you: The series of
 banking maneuvers probably caused it to release over the river.
Otherwise,  he would have bloody circled back and tried again.” The Major
roared  thinking about the whole scene: animals
>>>>scurrying in all directions, men  and women running to the river
to see what had occurred and the buzz of the  plane, now distant and
hidden in the morning  sun.
>>>>He had to leave to catch the 6:00  pm train from
 Howrah back to Bandel. Names, addresses and
phone information  were exchanged, with the usual disparaging remarks
about the local phone  system. At the base of the stairs, he looked for a
taxi or a rickshaw. The  heat was oppressive, and immediately his upper
lip and forehead grew beads  of moisture. People and machines were
everywhere. The noise was loud and  confusing. Several beggars moved in
his direction, one touching his arm,  another pleading for money. He saw
the taxi just as its driver saw him  andhonked awareness, so he made his
 way to the curb and got in. He looked back to the  sidewalk:
>>>>The beggars had moved  on. The cab driver was a Sikh who drove
madly through boiling afternoon  streets swarming with smoking
diesel-trucks, cars, taxis, carts pulled by  oxen and piled high with all
sorts of cans, sacks, wood logs, rags, and  newspapers; busses that leaned
as the driver turned a corner with people  sitting on the roof or hanging
on the sides and back; rickshaws pulled by  rail-thin bare-footed men
wearing only T-shirts and shorts, and all manner  of animals .They crossed
the Hoogly River Bridge and arrived at the thick  taxi stand alongside the
red brickfacade known as Howrah station at  5:50 pm. Howrah station was
built by the British in the 1850’s to gain  access to the coal mines of
eastern India, but restored in the early 1900’s  now was home to 5,000
indigent living in makeshift tents or cardboard  shanties tucked into
nooks and crannies as well as the main waiting rooms.  He jumped out of
the cab and dashed to the window to
>> buy a ticket: Train on  time, track 4. Remembering he hadn’t had the
>>ice cream, he stopped and  bought an ice cream bar from a vendor near
>>the track entrance, throwing the  wrapper in the trash bin and
>>>>ran to track 4 to find his  compartment. As he boarded the train,
he turned to see a large commotion at  the trash bin. Small children
dressed only in loincloths were fighting for a  taste of his ice cream
wrapper and more were running toward them. A little  girl with short,
matted hair and saucer shaped eyes stood next to the train  looking up at
him. She was shoeless and wore a torn and soiled jumper with a  ripped
breast pocket and shoulder straps held in place with  rustedsafety
 pins.
>>>>“Baksheesh,” she said, touching  her outstretched hand to her
forehead. He handed her the ice cream  bar.The train pulled away at 6:01
 pm.
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>
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