“Me, too. That’s settled then. Let’s finish our drinks then head over under cover of darkness. No rush, and no pressure tonight. Just the two of us.”
“Just the two of us. Sounds perfect,” said Spencer.
* * * *
On the busy lane, the entrance to Dhaka Street Food appeared daunting and very public, announced by neon lights in vibrant colours and bright illumination from inside. Walking next to each other, Spencer faltered a step. Marshall must have sensed his hesitation, because he linked arms with Spencer and leant into him.
“Don’t worry. We’ll be using the side door. I phoned ahead and they’re waiting for us.”
Without hesitating, Marshall pushed open the door to the side of the entrance and entered, letting Spencer slip in behind him. Immediately, pungent spices hit Spencer’s senses, making his mouth water. A man introduced himself as Arnab, the owner, and led them upstairs to a simple but comfortable room with four small tables of four seats.
“Just you in here tonight, Mr Highlander. Another small party had booked, but they cancelled because of the lockdown next week.”
“Must be playing havoc with your business.”
Arnab shrugged, the resigned gesture of a man who had no control over external circumstances.
“What can you do? I am fortunate to have a very busy delivery service. But many other people in the food industry are having difficult times. Can I get you anything to start?”
“We’ll have a couple of beers.”
“Kingfisher?”
“Perfect.”
After Spencer had taken a seat opposite Marshall, he relaxed and peered around the room. Pictures he assumed to be of famous sites in Bangladesh lined the walls—a lush green tea plantation, distinctive fishing boats like Aladdin’s lamp lined up along a wide beach, an impressive stepped Buddhist monastery of red bricks, a floating market of hundreds of boats on a busy river selling all manner of produce, a red-brick mosque.
“Thank you for this,” he said, noticing Marshall grinning at him.
“That’s okay. You can make it up to me later.”
Spencer grinned, his cheeks growing hot.
“Arnab will serve us whatever he thinks is good today. But I usually start withhaleem, a type of lentil soup, andfuchka, a street food in Bangladesh. Arnab’s version is a hollowed-out crispy puri filled with tamarind chutney, chilli, chaat masala, potato, onion or chickpeas. Delicious. And I also love hishilshacurry.Hilshais a fish, a type of herring that’s used in Bangladeshi cuisine. It’s marinated in chilli paste and turmeric and then fried and served with vegetables and spices.”
“Sounds wonderful. I’m in your hands, Marshall, and happy to let you order.”
“To be honest, Arnab does the ordering. Him and his family do the cooking. We just have to do the eating and paying.”
If Spencer was honest, he worried about having spicy food, in case things got more intimate later on. Spicy food and lovemaking had never worked well together in the past. But Marshall appeared so chilled and happy to share his favourite place with Spencer that he stopped worrying and relaxed into the evening.
“You know, I always thought Bangladeshi cuisine was the same as Indian.”
“India alone is a huge country with regional variations in cuisine. It would be like using the term Southern European cuisine to sum up Portuguese, Italian and Spanish food. They’re each very different. And although you might recognise some of the names of Bangladeshi dishes, there are many you won’t.”
“I suppose you’ve visited Bangladesh.”
“Many times. A beautiful country. I was there most recently for the general election. Not sure if you’re familiar with Bangladeshi politics, but the election saw a landslide victory for the ruling party. Except there were doubts about the legitimacy of the result and claims the elections were not free and fair.”
“You do like your hotspots, don’t you?”
“It’s my job.”
“And you clearly love what you do. I really admire that about you.”
Marshall reached across the table and took Spencer’s hand in his own.
“You’ll get there one day, Spence. Just be patient.”
