Booze delivery: What else would you like to order?
Home delivery is a huge perk in an otherwise perk-less city. Please allow for a smidgen of hyperbole because I live in Mumbai, you see. But not in any of the hip southern locales like Colaba, where a rainbow of possibilities exist for restaurants and bars, entertainment and debauchery. My residence is in Andheri West, where the traffic is merciless, where the fun spots are few and far between. It's the kind of place that warm-up comics at the Blue Frog ask about at the beginning of a show – "Are there any assholes out there from Andheri tonight?"
Yes. I'm that asshole. Thank you kindly, Unfunny Sir.
But if there is any redeeming quality to living in the less desirable spots in Mumbai, it must certainly be home delivery – for just about anything. Don't feel like fighting traffic for ten minutes travelling two blocks to anally - insert yourself into a small variety store to shop for over-priced and suspect imported pasta? Call them up. Want cigarettes? Forget about a whole pack, they'll deliver two or three if they're slow and you tip. And this next home delivery option just blew me away when I discovered it because it's something that you won't see in most parts of the world, including in many regions of India.
Booze.
They will deliver booze.
Wine. Beer. Whiskey. Whatever.
The last time this happened in the United States was during Prohibition if you were prestigious enough to command a delivery option for a bottle of black market whiskey. My grandmother was nearly murdered by a bootlegger, so I have a soft place in my heart for the free and speedy flow of liquor from point A to point B without threat of prison or death somewhere between. I'm not talking about a wine club membership back in the States either, where you sign up online for a bottle or two and they're delivered in a few weeks by some clean-cut FedEx man straight out of GQ. I can place an order here in Mumbai and receive two bottles of cold beer in less than ten minutes by some sweaty guy on a bike who knows me and my flat number better than he knows English. Tips speak internationally well in such matters. Only in India.
On the other hand, home delivery has its dark side, too. McDonald's and KFC deliver. Worst idea ever for those who have seen Supersize Me (or have a functioning palate). I also had a knife-sharpening guy try to bilk me for five hundred rupees for a job typically five times less, according to my helpful neighbour. Not that I was about to shell out that kind of cash to a strange little man with a stone face buckling and close to cracking under the intensity of his greedy earthquake smile. This guy should be promoted to regional manager at Goldman Sachs.
The egg man, who stops by sometime around 7pm everyday with his eggs and cheap snacks and breads, falls into my neutral category. I typically abhor doorbells sounding, but this is one time I don't mind enduring one and ignoring it. If the craving is there, I answer and I've got eggs for my breakfast omelette. This may be the right time to consult booze in my phone's contacts. Ever try a beer omelette? Not like I need a scapegoat for justification here. Just a bad day, or a good one, or the more frequent every-day-is-exactly-the-same-one.
Living in Mumbai has turned me into a modern day shaman. I have a bag of superstitious tricks up my sleeve, in my hat, and within the folds of my cape. I conduct black magic rites to ward off traffic jams – and to inflict them upon my enemies. My gods, when they are merciful, direct me in dreams to new restaurants with great food at reasonable prices. If I offer beer to the spirits in the refrigerator, I'm granted 30 days of safe passage through the tatterdemalion streets of Mumbai without harm, horn, or heat stroke. My greatest weapon being my verbal talisman: booze delivery.
Begone, Bombay blues! Booze delivery. Booze delivery. Boooooooooze delivery.