Chicken Lollipop - A Father's Day Story

The clock would read after 9:30 pm. Some chatter would be going on the television. A Friday special movie, it could have been I don’t know. I must have been 8 or maybe 9. It was a routine which I was used to. No sign of my father anywhere. He would normally arrive by 7 when he worked in the Headoffice, earlier if he was nearby. But on certain days, on those days, when my mother would prepare fish or eggs for dinner, he would come later than his usual hour. After an evening out with the boys, as if it were. He would arrive post 9, sometimes around 10. That is how life was back then. 

But I waited in anticipation when he would be delayed. He would not come empty handed. He would carry home a parcel. A parcel is what we now call a takeaway. A tandoori chicken - half or sometimes nothing but a Calcutta paan with a cherry in the middle, which we would refrigerate and savour after dinner. We would often wait for him to arrive, even though we knew he would have had something at the bar. But he would never disappoint, he would sit down with us and eat like he was famished. Praising my mother’s cooking, much to her delight and dismay. His praise was always lavish. 

On one such evening he brought home a packet of goodness. An item of such culinary perfection which turned all of us into immediate, lifelong fans. It was a plate of Chicken Lollipop. Hot, crisp, deep fried globs of chicken on a nice little bone. An innovation of the Indo-Chinese variety served with a blood red schezwan sauce with enough garlic minced in to scare away vampires of Poinsur. This was the beginning of a lifelong tradition. It would be our staple usual, a standing order -- the crunchy delight which we would order at every restaurant that served Chinese food. Six pieces would be divided between three of us, later it became 2 each for my brother and I, while my parents ate one each. It always baffled me, how they could be satiated with only one. I on the other hand always dreamt of more. I never understood the sacrifices that my parents made for our happiness but having only one lollipop was inconceivable to me. 

Years later as I type this sitting in this cold Bangalore apartment, 800 miles away from Sahyadri - Restaurant and Bar (where he would normally pack a plate of chicken lollipop from) I feel myself drowning in nostalgia. Three years after his death, I am painfully aware of the many things that I did not thank him enough for. But most importantly I did not thank him for introducing me to this amazing dish, which he would taste so little of, only so that I could enjoy one more piece.

Photo Courtesy: magic pin