How to cook in a jiffy: My story

I: My Story—Why I Had to Learn How to Boil an Egg and Do Much More

I was 20 years old and was literally on cloud nine. I had an offer for admission into the prestigious BA (LLB) Honours course of the University College London (UCL), one of the top most Universities in the world. For studying my dream course of Law, with a degree that is “recognized” in India, there just couldn’t be a greater place.

Like any other happy go lucky man, I didn’t know cooking. This is not considered a “life threatening disease” because at home, in India, cooking is mostly done by domestic help. They were generally trained by my mother into churning out the kind of dishes that we liked. My mother had learnt some cooking from her mother. But she loved reading cookbooks, downloading recipes from various websites, and experimenting with various cuisines. Many times she would even experiment with nouvelle cuisine that she would come across in a fancy restaurant abroad.

UCL had a wide variety of accommodation. Most of them were self-catered and only two were catered halls. Since I didn’t know any cooking, I exercised extraordinary care to opt for only catered halls in the application form and crossed out all the non-catered or self-catered options. After a couple of months, I was informed, to my great relief, that my application for a catered hall was SUCCESSFUL. I was allocated Ifor Evans, a Hall Of Residence, located in Camden Town.

Came 20 September 2005 and I landed at London Heathrow after a gruelling nine-hour non-stop flight from India. Immediately I had to get into an extremely long queue for immigration. It was 6:00 in the evening (which was 11.30 pm by Indian Standard time).

My turn at the immigration counter came after about an hour. I handed over my passport and caught a furtive glance at the form that the Immigration Officer was scribbling on. My heart did skip a beat or two because the form had such ominous choices as “Arrest Him”; “Deport Him” and so on. The officer, however, had just a cursory look at my documents and instead of asking any tricky questions, congratulated me for doing such a great job by gaining admission at UCL. Then he remarked that since this meant that I would be spending more than six months in the UK, I needed to see a doctor. I was puzzled. After all, it did sound like that if you planned to be spending more than six months in the UK, and that too during the winters, you certainly needed to get your head examined by a doctor at the Heathrow airport!!!

Anyway, I had no option but to join another long queue, this time outside the Heathrow Medical Services office. I saw students, mostly from countries in the Far East, India, Africa and South American countries, waiting patiently for their turn. I soon learnt that it was not my head but my chest that interested them. This was going to be x-rayed to diagnose whether any of us students from the developing part of the world was suffering from tuberculosis!

It was then that I suddenly remembered the advice of one of my friends, who had studied in London before, to bring along a recent chest x-ray. This seemed strange to me but nevertheless, I had got my chest x-rayed in India. As I was unaware of what was going to happen to me at London Heathrow airport, I had packed that x-ray carefully in my checked-in baggage. That was certainly a BIG mistake.

I soon learnt with trepidation that if you didn’t have an x-ray of your chest when you arrived in the United Kingdom, you had to be x-rayed right there and then at the Airport. And this process could take up to 5-7 hours as the queue would be very long. I really cursed myself for not having kept the chest x-ray readily accessible in my hand baggage.

Anyway, when my turn came and that too after an hour and a half, I was asked by the Medical Services officer whether I ever had a chest x-ray done. I told her that I was carrying a chest x-ray from my home country but that was unfortunately in my checked-in baggage. Instead of scowling or scolding, the Doctor to my relief was actually very helpful. She immediately gave me a card, so that I could access my checked-in baggage at the Baggage Reclaim. I quickly ran to that area and located my baggage.

It appeared to be in a reasonably good condition, except for the very strong tape all-around it that the Indian airport security had put in routine to probably dissuade anyone planning to slip in a bomb or two in my luggage. The problem was that you needed something sharp like a knife to cut through that tape, and you can’t carry any such sharp instrument in your hand baggage. Quite a Catch-22 situation, I must say. The only “sharp” thing I appeared to have in my possession were my luggage keys. So I had no option but to use those suitcase keys to patiently saw through the tape to reach my x-ray. I then rushed back to the Medical officer who after seeing my x-ray finally let me go. I later learnt that the British Government was, on an average, spending GBP 100 on each such x-ray at Heathrow, and was mighty pleased to save that much expenditure of the Government right after my arrival.

A friend had already come to pick me up from the airport. He too had been patiently waiting for nearly three hours. I was constantly in touch with him (thanks to the wonders of mobile telephony), as well as with my parents in India who just couldn’t sleep with tension. Ifor Evans was another 45 minutes’ drive from the London Heathrow airport.

When I checked in at Ifor Evans, the security guard (there was no reception at 10 o’ clock in the night in any case, plus it was also a Sunday) just handed me the keys to my room with a catalogue of information (such as life at UCL or living in London). I was so exhausted that I could barely make it to my bed and crashed.

The next morning, still groggy and jet lagged, I couldn’t first recall why I was in such a strange and unfamiliar place. After taking a shower and changing into fresh clothes, I decided to look for the Dining Room but didn’t know where it was. I had only seen the building during night time and knew that I was on the third floor. Now I had to figure a way out, quite like the way prisoners try to escape from medieval dungeons in Hollywood movies.

I finally managed to get out of the building and followed my nose to the wafting smell of frying eggs to the Dining Room. And then my world, along with all my “due diligence” in finding me a catered Hall of Residence came crashing down. Yes, I had come to the right Dining Room, in the Ifor Evans Hall. Yes, breakfast was still being served. But, no, I couldn’t have it. Why??? God, I had already passed my immigration and x-ray tests and was willing to get my head examined too. But no, the kind souls in the Dining Room were not willing to relent. The dining room was open at Ifor Evans only for tourists, and NOT for lowly creatures like students. Why? Because the UCL Autumn Term had officially not begun. Ok, charge me extra, I pleaded. No, I was told very clearly that students were not allowed to eat at the dining room even if they were willing to pay extra. Why? Because the caterers had not planned for that exigency.

But as international students, I tried to resubmit my case, we were specifically asked to arrive a week in advance before the commencement of the First Term which was at the end of September. This was meant to settle international students well before the start of their respective courses. That may be fine, I was answered. However, no meals were to be served during that one week period because the Hall of Residence staff was technically on leave as the term had not begun.

As a budding lawyer, I had just lost my first case.

And with this my rites of passage in the Find Me a Meal ritual in the Wonderland of Cooking had just begun.

This story forms part of the Author’s e-book titled: “How to cook in a jiffy: even if you have never boiled an egg before”. Read here for more.

Now Available on Amazon US  and  Amazon India

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