The Dalai Lama's Cat (17 page)

All of this would have been enough—some would say more than enough—to satisfy the most discerning feline palate. But to repeat that question to which both philosophers and financial advisers devote so much of their energy: how much is enough?

This brings me to the day that I began down the slippery slope from gourmet to gourmand.

I was making my way up the hill from Café Franc, where I had indulged in a particularly generous serving of roast duck à l’orange. Almost certainly because of this, climbing the hill was more of a struggle than usual, and, for the first time, I paused on the pavement outside Cut Price Bazaar.

It so happened that Mrs. Patel, proprietor of the establishment, was sitting on a stool by the door and immediately recognized me as His Holiness’s Cat. In a state of high excitement, she ordered her daughter to fetch me a saucer of milk from the back of the shop and urged me not to continue until I’d lapped up enough to gather my strength. Not wishing to cause offense, I indulged her.

As I did, Mrs. Patel sent her daughter to the grocer next door for a small tin of tuna, which she tipped onto a saucer as a further offering. I am not in the habit of accepting food from complete strangers, but I had observed Mrs. Patel many times before. A stout matriarch who spent a lot of time talking to passersby, she seemed a kind-hearted and gentle woman. As she set the saucer down, the delicious, briny tang of tuna made my nostrils flare.

Just a couple of mouthfuls
, I thought,
to show I was willing
.

The following afternoon on my way up the hill, even before I’d reached Cut Price Bazaar, Mrs. Patel had milk and tuna waiting. A one-off indulgence began to take the form of a more insidious habit.

Worse was to follow.

Only days later, a benevolent Mrs. Patel intercepted me on my way down to Café Franc. Munching on a piece of naan bread stuffed with chicken, she extracted a few choice pieces for me—a midmorning snack that soon became routine.

“Cats know what’s good for them” is a phrase I sometimes hear. “A cat will only eat when it’s hungry” is another. Sadly, dear reader, this simply isn’t true! Although I didn’t realize it at the time, I had started on a perilous road to unhappiness.

Up at Jokhang, the stream of visitors seemed to be increasing. Last-minute schedule changes and long-distance telephone calls from the four corners of the world led to even more guests making the journey from Indira Gandhi Airport to McLeod Ganj. As always, Mrs. Trinci was diligent in matching cuisine to clients. Whether it was
krasnye blini
for the Russian guests or
dulce de leche
for the Argentineans, nothing was spared to surprise and delight His Holiness’s visitors.

But who would ever forget the raspberry sorbet she planned for the extremely famous Indian medical doctor, public speaker, and writer who was visiting from California? Not any of the Dalai Lama’s staff. Certainly not Mrs. Trinci herself.

The visitor was the third high-profile visitor in a week, after two kitchen experiences that had sorely tried Mrs. Trinci’s limited patience. The first had involved an overnight refrigeration failure in the main kitchen—an inexplicable but disastrously timed event. Half the produce in the fridge had been ruined, demanding frantic last-minute visits to the market, grocers, and specialty shops to find replacements. To say that Mrs. Trinci was in a state of nervous decline by the end of the afternoon would not be going too far.

Two days later, no sooner had the main course gone on the gas rings than the fuel cut out. The tanks supplying the kitchen had emptied. There were no replacements. Runners were sent to the Namgyal Monastery kitchen to round up all available electric cookers, creating a hiatus that was, as far as the head chef was concerned, unforgivable.

Could it happen a third time in a row? Mrs. Trinci had done her utmost to make sure not. This time the gas was checked. The staff fridge upstairs, temporarily used while a replacement was on its way, had been thoroughly examined, its contents checked and double-checked. Every ingredient and utensil in the kitchen had been subjected to a rigor never before seen. Nothing was going to make this lunch go wrong.

And it didn't.

At least, not to begin with. Well ahead of schedule, Mrs. Trinci brought out the chocolate zucchini cake and carob nut balls that she’d prepared overnight for dessert. Anxious, drawn, and laboring under the superstition that bad things always came in threes, Mrs. Trinci arrived soon after His Holiness had gone to a midmorning appointment in the temple. She was leaving nothing to chance.

The asparagus niçoise was soon plated, the basmati safely consigned to the rice cooker and the vegetables to the grill. It was time to begin the coconut green beans.

But on opening bags of beans from the fridge upstairs, Mrs. Trinci discovered that they had spoiled. Somehow, as they were transferred from kitchen fridge to staff fridge, they hadn’t been thoroughly checked. While the top layer was all right, beneath it many of the beans were limp and slimy. They simply wouldn’t do.

Mrs. Trinci’s features became more foreboding than the monsoon clouds that rolled across the Kangra Valley. Barking at the three hapless monks who’d been assigned to kitchen duty that day, she sent two to the market to find replacement beans, the other to Namgyal Monastery for emergency staff. Stressed, snapping, gold bracelets clashing every time she shook her arms, Mrs. Trinci took the bean oversight as a bad omen of worse to come.

Which it surely was.

The two assistants still hadn’t returned from the market with replacement beans. The clock was ticking. The third assistant had failed to find any replacement helpers at Namgyal. Mrs. Trinci roared at him to ask upstairs. This is how His Holiness’s executive assistant Chogyal found himself in the unlikely role of
sous chef
for as long as it took for Mrs. Trinci’s full complement of staff to be restored.

His first task was to fetch the raspberries from the staff fridge, to begin preparation of an Ayurvedic raspberry sorbet.

“There are no raspberries,” he reported, when he returned to the kitchen after a few minutes.

“Not possible. I checked last night. The red bag in the freezer.” Mrs. Trinci jangled percussively as she gestured for him to return upstairs. “The red bag.
SACCHETTO ROSSO
!”

But it was no good.

“They’re definitely not there,” he confirmed on his return a short while later. “No red bag.”

“Merda
!” Mrs. Trinci slammed a drawer she had open back into its cabinet, unleashing a jangle of cutlery before storming upstairs. “Watch the vegetables under the grill!”

No one in the kitchen could avoid the heavy footfall on the staircase, or the staccato of her heels as she strode across the staff kitchen, or her howl of exasperation as she confirmed the terrible truth for herself.

“What’s happened?” she demanded on her return. Face flushed to puce and eyes blazing, she poured the collective frustrations of the past week into this particular moment, a sabotage so shocking that she was still reeling from disbelief.

“They were there last night. I made sure. Now,
nulla, niente
—nothing! Where are they?”

“I’m sorry.” Chogyal shook his head. “I have no idea.”

His relaxed shrug did nothing to placate her.

“You work up there. You
must
know.”

“The staff kitchen—”

“I had strict instructions: they mustn’t be touched. They can’t be replaced. I ordered them especially from Delhi. Not like that,
stupido
!” Mrs. Trinci pushed Chogyal away from the grill, where he was turning the zucchini too slowly for her liking and grabbed the tongs from his hand. “I don’t have all day!”

She seized each vegetable, flipping it over and slapping it on the grill. “What must I do? Send out the monks of Namgyal to look for raspberries?”

Chogyal wisely decided to keep quiet.

“Phone every restaurant in town?” she continued, fury building. “Ask our VIP guest to buy some on his way through Delhi?”

Finished at the grill, Mrs. Trinci turned. “I am asking”—she brandished the tongs threateningly in Chogyal’s face—“what am I to do?”

Chogyal knew that whatever he said would be wrong. Cornered and compliant, he opted for the obvious: “Not worry about the raspberry sorbet.”

“Not worry?!” It was as though he had thrown high-octane fuel on a barely contained fire. “
Incredibile
! Whenever I try to do something really special, something above the mediocre, you people sabotage it.”

Her back to the door, Mrs. Trinci couldn’t see what caused Chogyal sudden concern. Far greater concern than the missing raspberries. “Mrs. Trinci—” he tried to interject.

But she was in full, Wagnerian flow. “First, it’s the unreliable facilities—the fridge. Then it’s the gas supply. How am I supposed to cook without a stove? Now,
porca miseria
—damn it—I have people stealing my ingredients!”

“Mrs. Trinci, please!” Chogyal pleaded, a half smile accompanied by an anxious frown. “Harsh speech!”

“Don’t you ‘harsh speech’ me!” The ride of the Valkyries was nothing compared to Mrs. Trinci in full flight. “What kind of idiot would use the only bag of raspberries in the whole of Jokhang the day before a VIP lunch?” White flecks appeared at the sides of her mouth. “What selfish fool, what
imbecile,
would do such a thing?!”

Venting her fury on the unfortunate Chogyal, she didn’t expect an answer. But through the maelstrom, a reply came nevertheless.

“It was me,” a voice said softly behind her.

Mrs. Trinci wheeled around to find the Dalai Lama looking at her with immense compassion.

“I am sorry. I didn’t know they were not to be used,” he apologized. “We will have to do without them. Come and see me after lunch.”

In the middle of the kitchen, the deep, red color in Mrs. Trinci’s face rapidly drained away. She gaped like a fish, her mouth moving but no sound coming out.

Bringing his palms together at his heart, His Holiness bowed briefly. As Mrs. Trinci convulsed in the kitchen, he turned to Tenzin, who was accompanying him.

“This … sorbet, what is it exactly?” he asked, after they’d left the kitchen.

“A dessert, usually,” said Tenzin.

“Made from raspberries?”

“You can make it in a variety of flavors,” Tenzin explained. After they had walked a little farther, he added, “Actually, I think Mrs. Trinci was planning to offer it as a palate cleanser, between courses.”

“A palate cleanser.” Was that a glint of amusement in the Dalai Lama’s eyes as he mulled over the concept? “The mind of anger is a strange thing, is it not, Tenzin?”

Later that afternoon Mrs. Trinci presented herself in His Holiness’s room. From the cushioned comfort of my sill, I watched as she arrived, distraught and apologetic, awash in tears within moments of arrival.

His Holiness began by reassuring her that the guest had been highly complimentary about the lunch, especially the carob nut balls, which had reminded him of a family recipe.

But Mrs. Trinci knew that the Dalai Lama hadn’t asked her up there to talk about carob nut balls. Tears pouring from her amber eyes and mascara running, she confessed to having a bad temper, saying unforgivable things, lashing out at Chogyal and anyone else who was there at the time. As she stood there sobbing, His Holiness held her hand for a long while before saying, “You know, my dear, crying isn’t necessary.”