Scene: A hot, smoky kitchen. Subject is vigorously stirring something in a vessel, lit atop a stove. The James Bond theme is playing in the background. Zoom into the vessel which shows a semi-solid substance, slowly turning black. Subject is frantically trying to get it off the pan.

The door bursts open and Bond stands in the most alluring, sleuth like pose, with a gun in one hand and another on the door.

Subject : Aah! Who are you?

James Bond: The name is Bond, James Bond.

Subject : Hey Bond? Can you taste these brinjals first?

And the world heard of Bond no more.

This is what would have happened had Bond flown down to Chennai this Monday. And to start with, let me tell you I am quite a passable cook. Nobody has ever died after eating whatever I make. And I have survived for days with what I cook.

And I love to cook. Not very elaborate cuisines but even simple roti, idli and dosa will suffice. But of late, I have discovered and suffered from a new phenomenon that should, probably, be called “Chef’s block”.

Anything that I cooked, stirred or fried suddenly didn’t taste so good to me. The family’s reactions were also not very encouraging. New ways were found to keep me ‘joyfully occupied’, read as two feet away from the pots and pans while there was buzzing activity in the kitchen.

I mention the matter to a friend while on a telephonic conversation. And I realize that the effort is futile as friend-in-question is a bachelor whose idea of cooking is spraying sauce and chilly flakes on readymade pizza. He says the spraying should be officially termed as cooking. Why? Cause no two sauce or chilly patterns ever in the history of the delicious pizza are the same and that makes all the difference in the taste. I am buying him cookbooks for his birthday. ‘The mysterious science of sauce pattens’ should be more interesting.

I remember one of the more philosophical conversations on cooking that I once had at office. Food on the terrace is very entertaining. Flying pappads, paper plates, aalu chips and splattered sauce have been the foundation for many a strong relationship. My friend, J had a very heavy heart when he mused on why Gulab Jamuns had not yet evolved to flying consistency. His ultimate fantasy would be Catherine Zeta Jones running frantically after a flying Gulab Jamun that found its way to J’s mouth ultimately. Jamun in the mouth and Jones at hand is J’s idea of nirvana.

Anways, coming back to the cooking, V announced that he had cooked on the weekend. The subtle remark had the other of us choking or in a state of shock. Of course, J recovered first. One cannot remain in shock when there are gulab jamuns waiting to be stolen from other plates.

Now V is the perfect stereotype for an IT bachelor. He works for 14 hours, 8 hours of which are spent at the coffee machine, elevator inside and outside the lunch area. The remaining are spent in his apartment calling for pizza or roti or whatever is available at the dead of the night and waiting for them to arrive in an edible state. J also belongs to the same category thoughr his kitchen is actually used for cooking, unlike V’s where microorganisms from a two month old slice of bread are planning the destruction of mankind. J even claims to cook fabulously. But I remember that his roommate ate outside and his pet cat finally divorced him and has taken shelter outside Saravana Bhavan.

V claimed that he had made ‘mind-blowing’ carrot sandwiches for breakfast. Carrot sandwiches? The cook in me stirred on hearing a potential new recipe.

Me: Seriously? How did you make it?

V: Oh you mix carrot pulp with chilli flakes and tomato sauce and spread them on bread.

Me: Blech!! Is it the new Dog food variant?

V: I knew you would say that. But trust me, it tasted heavenly.

Me: But why carrot pulp? Grated carrot makes more sense.

V: Oh that is because I was trying to make carrot juice initially and the damn mixer would not grind the carrots properly. So I made sandwiches.

Me: But it should…You must have had some patience.

V: Patience? I ran the Mixer for half an hour….Funny how the carrots seemed soft at first…

Me: Soft? Wait, when did you buy these carrots?

V: Mom got it for me…

Me: Your Mom left three weeks ago!

V: Yeah…I think it must have been because I didn’t cut the damn thing first. Anyways was too zonked to do that.

Me: Listen.

V: Yeah…

Me: Feed me those sandwiches the next time I ask you for a recipe.

V gets a call. It is his roommate who is using the latest swear words in the bachelor market for good use. We can only hear damn, carrot, Digene, Eno, water in the loo and Doctor punctuated with expletives. V never replies and gets back to lunch.

Somehow I am thinking I might be able to take cookery classes afterall!