Ye olde grogg shoppe...

A wine shop in Ooty

I’m sitting in room 414 of the Legends Inn hotel in Coimbatore.  The fan is going—no A.C.—and I’m pulling on a lukewarm bottle of Kingfisher premium select beer.  We’re sitting in our underwear, taking turns standing under a wash of cold water; through the flimsy window glass come the sounds of horns, motorcycles, people talking, and dogs fighting.
To the untrained eye, this scene might seem, well, a little sad.  But peel back the tawdry veneer and witness the beauty of small victories.  Which is to say, there’s a story here.
Our train to Cochin leaves in the morning.  This town, dubbed the Manchester of India, is something of a commercial and industrial hub, smack dab between where we were –Ooty--and where we’re headed-Cochin.  Fair enough.  Our time in Ooty was lovely: bracing and cold and pure.  We had a fine homestay, walked through incredible villages where we were welcomed into people’s homes, and simply had an upright and sober time of it.  But now we are back on the plains.  And as the sweat buds on my brow, so, too, buds the taste for a cold lager.  As in beer.  Enter my foray into the streets of Coimbatore.
But first, this:  buying alcohol in India can be a rather clandestine/guilty/seedy experience.  Which is still not quite saying it just right.  Let’s start with this:  to get alcohol to go, one need find a government-sponsored wine shop.  That is, I assume they’re government sponsored.  The thing is, especially in the south, these places are, to put it mildly, rough.  There’s typically a wire mesh through which one passes their money and receives their product (at least here in the state of Tamil Nadu.)  Actually, it’s a bit different in the north, and even in Mumbai there was no wire mesh.   But still, there’s this feel of something naughty going on.  Like you want to hide your purchase in something more substantial than the flimsy clear plastic bag they sometimes provide. And, invariably, there are people—guys—hanging around.  A bit buzzed.  And they’re typically excited to see me enter their world.  The more the merrier.  Plus, this kind of validates their outsider status.  Yeah…I spent money on booze, but all the guys were doing it…even foreigners!  The whole thing brings to mind my mornings spent smoking cigarettes in the woods behind Berkshire junior high school with Mike Babb and Kevin Rice.  Chewing gum when we finished to cover the smell. But back to the story.
We got off the train from Ooty and had no trouble finding our hotel across from the train station.  It was still early-ish, and I thought we might go out for a beer.
“Looks to be a bar next door…”  But Rebecca was having none of it—which is not to say she’s turned anything like a new leaf when it comes to alcohol consumption.  No, indeed.  But she has learned these places, unless very top end, are not places at which one finds women.  Again, especially here in the south.  In short, it would take a lot of beer for her to feel comfortable in such a place.  And we were tired.  So…
“I’ll see if I can find something to take away…bring back to the room.”
“You do that.  I’m taking a shower.” 
On the elevator down to the street I asked the bellhop for advice.  “You wish beer sir?  I can get.  Your room number, sir?”
“Cold?”  This was all feeling entirely too easy.  Cold beer delivered?  C’mon.
“Not cold, sir.  But not warm…”  Ahhh.  I see. 
“How much?” 
“Two-thirty.” (Roughly four dollars the bottle.  Yikes.)
“Big bottle?  Kingfisher?  Seems a bit steep…”
“Beer very expensive in Coimbatore, sir.  Your room number?”
“I think I’ll just have a look around.  I’ll let you know.”
“Maybe I get for one-fifty, sir.”  There it was.  I reckoned if he could get it for one-fifty, I could probably find it for something closer to the manufacturer’s suggested retail price (MSRP)-which in this state comes in at something around one hundred rupees.
“I think I’ll just have a look around.”  I immediately entered the bar next door, which had a plastic red cut-out on the door of a girl sitting provocatively, back arched, bosoms thrown out.  Hard to see why Rebecca might take offense.  I was met on entry to two waiters.
“Yes, sir?  You wish drink?”
“Well, yes.  I do.  But I’d like to take it back to my hotel.  Can I get it to go?”
“No sir.”
“Alright, then.  See you later, I guess.”
“You have back-pack, sir?  To put it in?”  There are many reasons to like this country, not the least of which is how its good people manage to find a way around life’s little difficulties.
“OK.  I bring a pack, you sell me beer.  Fair enough.  How much?”
“Two-thirty, sir.”  I was beginning to feel like a little figure on a game board having a hard time passing GO!
“Is there a wine shop in the neighborhood?  Someplace to buy it for less?”  With this, the fellow led me out the door and pointed down the street.
“Just there, sir.  One hundred meters.”  I squinted in the general direction he indicated.  I saw cows, goats, neon signs, motorcycles neatly slicing through it all; people walking, talking together and laughing, and even one fellow peeing on the side of a building….but no wine shop.
“You sure?”
“Yes, sir!  Just there!”  Again, the forward gesture.  Thirst being the powerful motivator it is, I bent into the fray.
About half a kilometer later, I figured I must have missed it.  Indeed, a group of young men I stopped to ask came to the consensus that it was tucked between two buildings.  Easy to miss. 
“You must be diligent, sir!  Look closely!”  Trust me, boys.  Diligence is a skill I’m honing in your dear country.   I thanked them and set off. 
And sure enough, back two or three hundred meters it sort of shimmered into existence.  Though shimmered is perhaps too strong a word.  A sure tell-tale is the gathering of young souls with a rather conspiratorial air about them.  They immediately recognized me for a drinking man, and welcomed me into their midst.
“Whiskey, sir?  Rum?  Which country, sir?” 
“Cold beer?  Can I get a beer to go here?”  The shop was situated in a crevice between two buildings, set back a good twenty feet from the street.  It couldn’t have been more than six feet wide, and was a simple enclosure with bottles and small paper cartons of various spirits lining the walls.  There was a counter, of sorts, and the obligatory wire mesh.  A gaggle of young men crowded the opening, thrusting crumpled rupee notes and barking out requests.  It was enough to give a fellow a thirst.
Rather miraculously, the group parted, and the man behind the mesh held my gaze.  “Yes?  You wish?”
“Do you have Kingfisher?  In a bottle? Cold?”  Without a word, he turned to a cooler (an entirely too-generous term, I soon learned, for the place where the beer was kept) and pulled forth a bottle.  I flashed on the scene in Pulp Fiction where Samuel Jackson and John Travolta open a briefcase, the contents of which they have just killed a bunch of guys to get.  Tarantino does a nice job of not allowing the camera access to its cargo; only a golden light reflected in our hero’s faces.  The cooler full of Kingfisher might-in an alternate reality-cast just such a light.
“Give me three.”  I paid him three hundred thirty rupees and, beer in tow (he managed to find a small plastic bag) made my way past the various disapproving glances to my hotel castle-home, where the lovely Miss Rebecca welcomed me as a queen might welcome home her warrior husband, bloodied, scarred, and laden with the treasure necessary to replenish the castle stores.

“Not very cold, is it?”