The Eskimo in Madras

I have always wondered how owners choose the names for their shops, restaurants and other business establishments . Some simple and uncomplicated folks just a pick a god's name while others make do with the names of their mother/wife / kids- so we have Geetha cafes , Vijaya tea stalls and Murugan stores in almost every locality in Chennai . Some who do not want their fathers long name on the shop board (who probably funded the whole enterprise anyway ) call it SM stores or PK textiles or by some other initials. I guess the guy who calls his bakery Chicago Bakery has several reasons - he could be an Al Capone fan , an automobile aficionado or probably thinking it is pronounced as chickago (a common mistake ) thought it sounded tres chic or chick. There was a chicken stall owner in my locality(euphemistically called protein shop , so as to not offend the vegans) who obviously cherished his kindergarten days enough to call it Chubby Chicks. Frankly i thought it was droll flippancy but some others didn't find it funny and he was soon persuaded to change to a staid local name.Among all these exotic names the one i remember with great fondness is the one that flashes in all its neon glory against my mental firmament : The Eskimo Restaurant.

Ethereal food it was that drew my friend and me here regularly. We had finished our final Boards and as convent schools worked on a Jan- Dec schedule and colleges opened in May , we were totally footloose. Our parents were not particularly worried about the six month loss of scholastic pursuit because Senior Cambridge students ( as we snobbishly called ourselves while in reality our Board was actually called ICSE ) we were permitted to skip the Pre Univ course (P.U.C.)and would be admitted by the college directly into first year of the Bachelor course if you got a First Class. My friend and I ( rather tiring to keep saying that so i will choose the alphabet S for her identity) had decided the two courses to take for our future - if we got first class we would do B.A. and if we didn't we would run away to Auroville. We were not driven by any esoteric needs ; it was just that the fear of facing the wrath of our parents put the idea into our heads. Besides on our budget, Pondicherry was the farthest we could run ! Our parents in their wisdom and like Indian parents everywhere decided we should not waste our time while waiting for our results and admission to college. Cookery classes were an anathema to us and doll making would have have been a disaster so after much pondering and protest we were packed of for typewriting and short hand classes. My father located an institute on Wallajah Road which would serve both of us located mid way between my friends house which was off Mount road behind Amalgamations office and mine in Fort St.George. The classes were from 7a.m to 9a.am - so we had lost the battle for independence but won the war for freedom. While our fathers got ready for office we would be out of their way ( and any smart kid will tell you that those are crucial minutes when fathers can issue edicts that can ruin your whole day or even life ) and the rest of the day they would be out of our way !!
Seven in the morning i would be the only one solemnly standing in the bus stop out side the Fort St.George staring at the rampart walls till the old bus trundled along with only the driver and the conductor in it. The driver would stop rather reluctantly to pick up the lone teenage passenger . He often gave me the life-is-so- unfair-kiddo look feeling sorry for someone forced out of bed so early for considerations other than livelihood. I put on an appropriate look of martyrdom - would never let him know that it was actually a wonderful start to the day . S would turn up more often later than sooner and we would enter the shorthand class as late as possible raising thereby our chances of getting thrown out. Typewriting classes followed and while we typed exciting things about brown dogs and quick foxes for a week we soon decided to enliven our lives and developed ingenuous methods to amuse ourselves. Our master tried hard to train us but gave up on us the day he discovered us using three fingers to type the height of height jokes - some were bawdy so i shall not repeat them here.
Classes over we would jauntily walk from Wallajah Road past the red brick Police Asst. Commissioners office and past the Chellaram store. We would stroll along Mount Road fantasizing over the Eskimos menu and discuss as if our lives depended on it what we would order once we got there. S and I had sold our Mothers the sob story of how hungry we were after our class and the buses were too crowded for us to get home for breakfast, that we needed to eat somewhere and eat on time. The somewhere was, of course, Eskimos. We walked on past the Central Telegraph Office and suddenly before us would be Eskimos.
Eskimos as it was fondly called by its ardent fans was located in Dhun Building on Mount Road diagonally opposite Buhari Hotel (which has survived like , some lucky women , the ravages of Time) .The entrance to Eskimos was located next to a textile shop that had in its windows diaphanous sarees in pastel shades draped through hoops. I obviously do not remember the name ( Khatau/Mafatlal/ Cali-cloth ??)as i had absolutely no interest in sarees : fitted out as i was in the accepted outfit of the youth - denims , cotton smocks and with the ubiquitous Kholapuris on my feet. The other side of Eskimos entrance, in sharp contrast had dazzling silks in jewel tones shimmering in the window of Radha Silks.The glass door of Eskimos flaunted its status with the announcement A/C in gold letters which basically meant that all and sundry were not expected to enter its hallowed premises. In keeping with the fashion of the times not much attention was paid to the decor. To ensure that the plaster of Paris curling clouds on the ceiling didn't offend you , the whole restaurant was plunged in semi darkness. When you stepped in from the harsh and bright sunlight of a normal Madras mid-morn you would get the experience of groping in a dark Italian grotto right here and for free. Once the vision adjusted itself you would see functional tables and chairs strewn around casually .There was a semi spiral staircase that took you upstairs where there were sofa seats. At the entrance downstairs behind a tiny counter sat a cashier and if you were not careful in the dark you would have mistaken him for a fixture - for most days he just sat and glowered at the irreverent teenagers who dared to enter his sacrosanct chambers. We, of course, just swished our long plaits bravely and walked in secure for we knew we had enough to pay for our food.
S and i always went upstairs so we could place our mirror work cloth bags bulging with reams of typed gibberish and the shorthand notebook plus Mr.Pitman's tome on the sofa and pore over the menu with great diligence . My favourite, i never got tired of it - was the club sandwich. Statutory warning before you proceed : you may drool so you are cautioned! The club sandwich was layers and layers of Heaven in food form.There were two layer of lavish filling between three thick slices of fresh bread. There was bacon, ham, cheese, eggs, crisp lettuce and oodles of fresh vegetables all exotically dressed in freshly made mayonnaise. The cutlets ( not pre-cooked, dehydrated and frozen and micro waved like today) were scrumptious with real breadcrumbs rubbed all over that crumbled as you bit into it. It was not a place where you ordered your food and drummed your fingers to hurry the waiter - it was a place where you entreated for food and waited for it to be bestowed on you. While we waited, like a devotee reading the prayer book we diligently pored over the menu excitedly deciding what we would eat the next day. There were variations of sandwiches , combinations of burgers and juicy hot dogs . Indigenous samosas had been modified with interesting stuffing and there were crisp patties just waiting to be devoured by rapacious teenagers. There were several alluring flavours of milkshakes to slurp it all down with. We had never heard of calories or dieting and never cared about a pimple or two that threatened to pop up due to licentious eating - our mantra was not so much about looking good but feeling good. We felt so GOOD with all that food in our bellies that we lingered on the sofa just lifting our hearts and thanking God for his bounty.
Exiting Eskimos reluctantly we had to make a difficult decision turn right or left - to the right lay the Sapphire movie complex and the left Casino Theatre. It would be a throw up between the irresistible French charm of Alain Delon in Farewell Friend or Paul Newman ( may he rest in peace) and his blue eyes.So while we debated over the difficult choices in life , we never asked one nagging question for it really didn't matter anyway - why Eskimo?