would not should good

SOME DAYS THINGS JUST WORK OUT THE WAY THEY SHOULD. I am not a relgious man, but there are miraculous little moments that make you smile, laugh, and sometimes cry. A snow storm that leaves you mesmerized by the snowflakes in the the early morning light of a street lamp in Seattle. The whole in the wall restaurant that is a last resort, a moment of desperation and hunger that turns out to be your favorite restaurant for years to come. Finding out a new group on a blog and having just enough eMusic credits to download their first EP. Some people might refer to that as fate, or as God, or whatever, but to me that is besides the point.

This morning I finished listening to The White Tiger: A Novel as part of my Man Booker Shortlist reading frenzy (if you can call one of six books a frenzy). Aravind Adiga finds the right voice to tell the story a young poor boy, the son of a rickshaw driver, who learns from his rich masters and becomes rich at the end of the novel. The majority of the book centers around his work as a driver for his wealthier master, who comes from the same small town. The novel swings from my moments of greatly detailed pathos and black, richly mined humor about the current state of India. I found it reminiscent of Vonnegut. One of the better novels I have read or listened to in the last couple of years.

I had the day off, so I decided to hit the Kebab Factory for the all you can eat lunch buffet. It is the best value at the Kebab factory to hit the buffet on a week day - all you can eat, really good Indian food for $8 or 9$. As I was off today to attend the New England Independent Booksellers Associations trade show and the food discritiptions from The White Tiger: A Novel weighing on my mind, I decided I couldn’t pass up some good curry, rice, naan and other good nibbly bits

I got there just as they opened, so I got first pick of all their dishes on offer and fresh naan. A mother and daughter spoke spanish with somebody from the kitchen to help them pick out the right food for their takeaway. A man came in and instead of grabbing the buffet he spoke in Hindu, Urdu or other Indian language, and studied at the regular menu with great interest. He spent a lot of effort trying to talk to the wait staff.

As I finished my second plate of rice, curry and vegetables, slopping up the curry with the last of my naan, he mentioned that he was a driver. He pointed to a white taxi cab parked all by its lonesome that I had noticed in the wine store parking lot across the intersection. A driver? Really? A driver? No freaking way! A driver like the character in The White Tiger: A Novel. Really? A drive?

He spoke with great pride about this taxi cab, but I had stopped listening. I knew that coming to the Kebab Factory had been the right call for lunch. I had been thinking about pho, but now I had made the right decision. It made my heart good feel good (my privileged white, Westerner heart nonethelss, and in the parlance of Adiga’s novel, a master’s heart). Some days things just work out the way they should.