One of the many ‘things’ that looks mafia at Mafia Cocktail is Tony himself. This is a place where all tired, hungry and thirsty should come to when all else is shut or if you have been turned out from all the bars and restaurants but are still hungry. For years, Tony the ‘Mafia’ bozz of Mafia Cocktail has kept all his doors open to receive and embrace folks at various stages of inebriation and hunger. Once seated in the middle of a sea of madness and the bizarre – a picture of the Mahatma with a cigarette, an old telephone which never rings, but works, and a gun called Ajmal Kasab (the terrorist who attacked Mumbai and has now paid for his sins) – Tony and his sister dart into the kitchen, which is another extension of the living room where there’s a long dining table where everyone chats and eats.
The Mafia then gets to work. From the cavernous interiors of the Mafia kitchen emerge mussels with masala, prawns so thick and juicy that they feel like steaks, the curry so fine and yes there’s wine. As the clock strikes four, there’s a flood of Xacuti that emerges from the kitchen door. And more prawn and more mussel’s and more curry. Call it dinner or breakfast, a snack or a meal, this is the mafia. This is how it feels.
It isn’t fancy and that why it’s so comforting. At the crossroads of Pilerne and Saipem, it’s a blink and you miss little home, a cross between a taverna and a roadside dhaba but with the spirit of an underground bar in Chicago. At times, soft strains of jazz, a distant sound of a flute or a rhythm of notes from a piano are heard through the system but more often than not, someone picks up an instrument and just plays. In the quiet of the night, every sound is clear, including that of a crack on the glass, of a gentle touch of the spoon on a plate and while the din of laughter drowns it at times, the fusion of soothing music, plentiful food and a cesspool of tired merrymaking after a long night tells you why the Mafia always gets it right. When you say all this to Godfather Tony, he doesn’t get most of it but realises that we all love him, so he grins, lighting up the dark.
It was a night of remembrances, renewals and re-bonding all happening completely by chance as old friends happened to be in the same place and then decided to meet the Mafia. Lloyd, a fellow companion in my Goa journey for years, Rajesh and Sangeeta, whose souls were born in Goa and never quite left and Pawan and Sonia, wanderers with stories to tell who live here because they live elsewhere, like all of us.
As the night eased into dawn and I drove back along the river watching the sun rise, there were so many little tavernas, café’s and food places along the road from Pilerne and Betim, all of which have a huge challenge to remain there, amidst a changing Goa. They were the fulcrum of community life in villages. They preserved people’s sanity, gave them what is fashionably now called ‘me time’, which actually was everyone’s common time, and at the end of the day were places where you could be you. I remember I once asked my dear departed kindred, Dinito, (Bernadine Da Costa) why his favourite restaurant and bar meant so much. “Is it like home?” I asked. He looked back disgustingly and said, “You will never understand. This IS home”. And come to think of it, drink is just a background score. The real deal is conversations and heartfelt arguments. After all, what’s life without good fights?
Of late, the need to go back to Goa’s simple ways is a crying need. The smell of rain, the honk of a podder, the shout of a fisherwoman and the ultimate joy of an under-two-year-old baby girl hearing the raindrops fall, rushing out to the balcao with her arms stretched, screaming at her mother, “Mamma have you seen the rain?”
Can any development, or growth or modernity beat this?