The Punjabi Pappadum

by Robert Newton

  Being the son of an army officer, Robert Newton spent his childhood moving to different postings around Australia, finally settling in Melbourne. After finishing school Robert spent the next few years studying at university, travelling and trying his hand at various jobs. Thirteen years ago he decided to join the Metropolitan Fire Brigade as a full-time fire-fighter. When he’s not putting out fires he likes to surf and write. He has a Black Belt in Karate and now lives in bayside Melbourne with his wife, Alannah, and daughter, Molly. Robert has written two other critically acclaimed novels, My Name Is Will Thompson and The Khaki Kid.

  Also by Robert Newton

  My Name Is Will Thompson

  The Khaki Kid

  For Molly

  Contents

  The Punjabi Pappadum Indian Restaurant

  Samosa

  Onion Bhajia

  Shahi Paneer

  Malai Kofta

  Chicken Tikka

  Gost Rogan Josh

  Tandoori Chicken

  Gulnar-E-Daryai

  Gosht Nawabi Biryani

  Shai Baingan Bharta

  Lamb Vindaloo

  Dal Maharani

  Haryana Subji

  Shahi Korma

  Barra Kebab

  Pumpkin Bhaji

  Green Chicken Curry

  Punjabi Lamb Curry

  Fish Masala

  Maharaja’s Banquet

  Imprint Page

  SAMOSA .......... $5.50

  A turnover made with tender light flaky pastry filled with seasoned potatoes and green peas.

  It was Saturday night, mid December and business at the Punjabi Pappadum was slow. At a table near the rear, Dexter Macallister bit into a samosa dripping with mint sauce. Thousands of dozing tastebuds jumped to attention, popping off in his mouth like a kid let loose on bubble wrap. For the last year, Dexter and his pals, Veejay Singh and Travis Turnbull, had sat down together for dinner after choir practice. It was a Saturday night tradition, compliments of Mr and Mrs Singh, the proud owners of the Punjabi Pappadum.

  From the glassed-in kitchen area Mr Singh waved to the boys then slid a chicken breast along a skewer ready for the tandoori oven.

  “Practice was pretty good today,” chortled Veejay.

  “What was so good about it?” asked Dexter gloomily.

  “Have you had a look at the list of Christmas carols we’re doing this year?” asked Travis.

  “Yeah,” said Dexter, “they’re exactly the same as last year.”

  “What’s up with you anyway?”

  Dexter shrugged. “I’m bored with the choir. We never do anything different. ‘Ding Dong Merrily on High’ isn’t doing it for me any more.”

  “You’re not going to leave, are you?” asked Veejay.

  “All I’m saying is that we’ve been in the Regional Boys Choir now for two years. We’re fourteen. I don’t know, it’s just a bit … you know?”

  “No, I don’t know,” said Veejay. “It’s a bit what?”

  “It’s a bit daggy now, that’s all. I want to do something different, something, you know, cool. Don’t you?”

  “My dad says that the choir is where you get the best voice training,” said Veejay. “Look at Tom Jones.”

  “Who?” asked Travis.

  “Tom Jones,” explained Veejay. “He’s a Welsh singer. They call him ‘The Voice’.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He started off in a Welsh boys choir and look at him now. At his concerts women throw their undies at him, straight onto the stage. Tell me that’s not cool.”

  “That’s pretty cool, Dexter,” admitted Travis.

  Dexter had visions of himself singing in front of a crowd of hysterical girls, the stage littered with thousands of different coloured underpants. Down on one knee he was, working them into a frenzy at the front of the stage. He took a girl’s hand in his and kissed it.

  “Are you all right, Dexter?” asked Travis.

  “Yeah why?” he answered dreamily.

  “It’s just that you’re slobbering all over my hand. I know we’re good mates and everything, but I need it to eat with.”

  “Sorry.”

  Suddenly a mighty crash exploded behind the kitchen window. Mr Singh cowered against the wall as his wife stormed out the door.

  “Anyone want the last pappadum?” asked Dexter.

  Veejay picked it up and smashed it with his right fist.

  “Guess not.”

  “What’s up with the olds?” asked Travis.

  “It’s Burger Barn,” explained Veejay. “The new restaurant down the road. They’ve been packing them in ever since they opened. It’s killing us. Even our regulars have jumped ship.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “I wish I was.”

  Mr Singh straightened up and wiped a napkin across his forehead. He waved to the few customers in the restaurant then lifted up two fingers to give everyone an idea just how close the pot had come to his head.

  “Mum gets a little fiery sometimes,” said Veejay uncomfortably. “Dad reckons that’s why her curries are so good.”

  It was strange to see Mrs Singh lose her cool. Braining people with saucepans wasn’t her style. She was more the quiet, gentle type. It was the same with Mr Singh too. They weren’t like other kids’ parents. They had something between them — something special and unspoken. After all those years, you could still see the twinkle in their eyes. Captivated they were, like newlyweds. Sometimes when Mrs Singh passed the glass window, she’d throw a subtle wink at her husband, who in turn would let his eyes linger until she looked back. People wanted to be around them, and that was part of the Pappadum’s charm. But all this agro, it didn’t make sense. Something was horribly wrong. That much was obvious.

  ONION BHAJIA .......... $5.95

  Savoury fritter made with thin sliced onions and bell pepper in a chickpea flour batter.

  Some said that there were only two things that kept Longwood on the map — The Punjabi Pappadum and oranges. They were right about the oranges because Longwood was famous for them. Not just any oranges, mind you, but big, sweet, juicy Valencias that thrived in the rich soil of the region.

  Although it could never hope to enjoy the same high profile as the beloved Valencia, The Punjabi Pappadum was an institution in Longwood and had a reputation second to none.

  Word of mouth spread the secrets of Mrs Singh’s eye-watering curries to neighbouring towns until it was strictly reservation only. Locals included. People would pre-plan special occasions, like birthdays or anniversaries, months before by booking a table at the Pappadum. But now it had competition — a restaurant called Burger Barn with glitzy gimmicks, lightning service and cheap prices. Customers, believe it or not, were greeted at the door by a masked superhero called Burger Man, suited up in red tights, white skivvy and blue cape. It was Longwood’s very own version of Hollyood and the locals, it seemed, couldn’t get enough. The only solution, Veejay decided, was to get gung-ho and serious.

  Belly-down in Mort Drysdale’s paddock was not what Dexter and Travis had in mind for some summer holiday activities. But Veejay was insistent.

  “I’ve copied some notes from the Commando Manual off the internet,” he said, clicking a torch into action, “and I’d like to draw your attention to Chapter Four — ‘Reconnaissance — Simulated Exercises for Beginners’. You see that building at eleven o’clock?”

  “It’s a hay shed,” said Dexter.

  “That’s the target. Pretend it’s Burger Barn. Our objective is to get inside without being seen.”

  “It’s night-time,” yawned Travis. “Except for a few cows, there’s no one about.”

  “Use your imagination then,” said Veejay, killing the to
rch. “Right, let’s move out.”

  Slowly the boys dragged themselves painfully towards the hay shed under the light of a full moon. They were dressed more for the beach than a military exercise, so their stomachs copped the worst of it, scraping over dead branches and thick tufts of grass. Up ahead, Veejay was unstoppable. He moved through the rugged terrain, half-boy, half-lizard, slithering forward on his elbows and toes. Ten metres in, Dexter and Travis lost interest and called it quits. They rose to their feet, very quietly, and followed Veejay on foot. He was flying now, huffing and puffing towards a fence. Suddenly the thrashing stopped and Veejay lay very still. Untangling himself from the undergrowth, he propped on all fours then turned, his face smeared with a foul-smelling brown mush.

  “What’s the Commando Manual say about manure?” laughed Dexter.

  “Very funny,” replied Veejay, wiping his face on a tuft of long grass. “C’mon, let’s take this fence.”

  Again, Dexter and Travis were more than happy to let Veejay lead the way. Carefully he straddled the wire fence, helping himself over with the aid of a wooden post. Just as it looked as if he was over, his hand slipped and up came the wire between his legs — twelve volts — ZAP!

  The surge of electricity shot him upwards like a trampolinist, and he landed with a dull thud on the other side. Slowly he rolled onto his back and lifted his hand.

  “Stretcher bearer, man down!”

  This time, it was no simulation.

  “Okay,” said Veejay. “Follow me and remember the hand signals we talked about.”

  Bent low, he shimmied across the road commando style, ducked in behind some bushes then raised a clenched fist in the air. Dexter and Travis crashed in behind, pinning Veejay up against the sharp undergrowth.

  “What did I say about the clenched fist?” demanded Veejay, pulling a thorn from the side of his face.

  “Haul arse?” asked Dexter, scratching his head.

  “It means stop.” Veejay squirmed free. “How many times do I have to tell you — clenched fist means stop.”

  “Sorry.”

  With his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, Veejay pointed to his eyes then signalled to a postbox on the footpath.

  “You want to get a closer look, right?” asked Travis.

  “Yeah, but there’s no point having hand signals if you’re going to keep talking.”

  Huddled behind the postbox, they were now only ten metres from the action. Veejay lifted his index finger and made a slashing sign across his throat.

  Like lightning, Dexter and Travis began retreating.

  “Where are you going?” screamed Veejay.

  “We’re retreating,” explained Dexter, halfway across the road.

  Around the corner swung a car, its horn blaring as it motored past. The large crowd outside Burger Barn turned to see what the fuss was about.

  “Retreat, right?” yelled Travis from the opposite footpath.

  Veejay felt a rush of blood to his head as he straightened up.

  “No, no, no, no, no!” he roared. “It means maintain silence and stay out of sight.”

  Leaning on the postbox, Veejay waved the others back. You’re flying solo next time, he told himself.

  “I can’t believe they’ve got a mascot,” said Dexter.

  “What’s he doing now?”

  “Looks like cartwheels,” said Veejay.

  A flash of colour somersaulted along the footpath in front of the people lined up at the door. Burger Man was tall and lightning fast. He pulled up after a series of back flips, flexed, then bowed to the cheering crowd.

  “Who’s he kidding?” asked Travis. “Does he expect people to believe they’re real muscles under that skivvy. He’s packing stuffing under there.”

  “You wanna piff a few stones at him?” asked Dexter.

  “Too many people around,” said Veejay. “Anyway, we’ve got work to do. Let’s go.”

  With the backpack secured, the boys shuffled over to the end of the line.

  “Now remember what we’re here for,” said Veejay. “The future of the Pappadum is in our hands. We need to get as much information as possible. Dexter, you’re in charge of food. Might be an idea to flog a menu if you get the chance. Travis, you’ve got customer service and ambience. I’ll take entertainment and hygiene. Now don’t forget that they’re the competition. Find out what makes ’em tick. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  The boys tried their best not to look like they were on a secret mission to infiltrate the enemy, as Burger Man strutted along the footpath high-fiving customers. He stopped at a couple of girls lined up in front of them.

  “Glad youse could make it, girls,” he puffed. “Did youse cop the backflips? I’ve got these losers on a string tonight.”

  “It was brilliant, Daryl,” said the blond.

  “I don’t wanna have to tell you again, Charlene. When I’m working, it’s Burger Man, remember?”

  “Ooops. Sorry Burger Man.”

  Veejay, being in charge of entertainment, took some mental notes.

  “Hey Daryl,” said Dexter, “are you going to do some more backflips or what. We’re getting bored over here.”

  Burger Man leered. “Watch it, smart arse.”

  “A super hero with a bad attitude,” said Travis. “That’s different.”

  Slowly, the line shuffled forward as another family was escorted through the red doors to the dining area. Burger Man stumbled through a few well-rehearsed pick-up lines then delivered his knockout punch.

  “So, Maxene, do you mind if I borrow Charlene for a second?”

  Burger Man made a “T” with his hands.

  “Time out, people,” he roared.

  Veejay sidled up to Dexter, close to his ear.

  “Not a word,” he whispered. “I’m in charge of entertainment, remember?”

  Mouth shut tight, Dexter closed a pretend zipper across his lips.

  “His lips are sealed,” explained Travis.

  “I know what it means,” said Veejay, “but I’d prefer it if you could try and stick to the signals in the Commando Manual. It’s more professional.”

  Charlene took Burger Man’s hand and led him towards the alley.

  “That must be Burger Girl,” said Dexter.

  The three of them stood in silence, Dexter and Travis glancing over their shoulders towards the alley.

  “Remember what we’re here for, fellas,” barked Veejay, eyes forward.

  “Come on, Veejay,” pleaded Travis. “I’ve never seen a superhero get it on.”

  A large group spilled out of the red doors. Among them were Mr and Mrs Mortlock, two original members of the Pappadum’s exclusive Curry Club. Their happy and contented smiles made Veejay feel sick. He wanted to scream out and tell them they were ship-jumpers but he knew that wouldn’t be fair. What he had to do was get inside and dig around. There had to be something bringing in the crowds, some secret his mum and dad must have missed. It was possible. After all, his parents were traditionalists, firm believers in everything old-school. When words like “innovation” and “change” were mentioned they broke into a cold sweat and launched into song.

  Finally the boys were standing in front of the bright red door.

  “I don’t know about you guys,” said Dexter, “but lining up to get something to eat is completely bogus. I’m starving.”

  Slowly the door opened. A middle-aged woman with a hamburger hat broke into a fake smile.

  “Hi, I’m Wendy and I’ll be your burger babe for this evening. Follow me, boys.”

  “Burger babe?” said Dexter quietly. “Who’s she kidding.”

  At once the three infiltrators went to work.

  Travis checked the ambience. It was noisy and brightly lit.

  Veejay ran his finger along a table — spotless.

  “Do you reckon we could swap burger babes?” whispered Dexter.

  Sliding them into a comfortable booth, Wendy handed them three huge menus.


  “Hope you’re hungry, boys. There’s plenty to choose from. Our specials tonight include the Longwood Beef Burger and the Jumbuck Stew. And I’d like to draw your attention to the bandstand over to your right. The lads should be starting up any minute now.

  “Let me guess,” said Dexter. “The Burger Band?”

  “How’d you know?” said Wendy.

  “Just a hunch.”

  Judging from the menu, Burger Barn was a meat-lover’s paradise. Dexter went for the meat platter which included select cuts of beef, lamb, kangaroo, emu and venison with a side order of fries. Veejay chose the Jumbuck Stew and Travis the Longwood Beef Burger. While they were waiting for their meals the Burger Band took up position on the stage. A four-piece outfit, the members wore bright red shirts with a blue “BB” embroided on the shirt pocket.

  “Hang about,” said Travis, “that’s Mum’s new boyfriend.”

  “Where?” asked Dexter.

  “The lead singer,” said Travis. “It’s Theo Ryan.”

  “You didn’t tell us your mum had another boyfriend,” said Veejay. “What happened to … what’s his name, the footy guy?”

  “Bulldog,” answered Travis. “Mum gave him an ultimatum. Made him choose between her and footy.”

  “And?”

  “He’s playing fullback for the Devil’s thirds.”

  “So what’s the go with Theo?” asked Dexter. “Have we sussed him yet?”

  “Negative.”

  Theo Ryan was short. Under the dazzling spotlights, you could make out the shiny bald patch on top of his head. A dodgy fringe suggested he’d dabbled in some form of hair replacement and run out of money mid-treatment. He was an accessoriser — a gold chain kind of guy. Chunky style only. And if you had to have a stab at his occupation, you’d have, quite rightly, “used car salesman” at number one.

  “What do you think?” asked Travis, worried. “Any potential?”

  ”I’d be throwing in a few ultimatums if I was your mum,” said Dexter.

  After a crisp four-beat drum intro, the band launched into a familiar soul standard. They kept it low-key, like a reception band during the main course.