If a pig loses its voice, is it disgruntled?

A giggling gaggle headed to the Persian Room last weekend to spend some quality gossip-time together.

The grand staircase, whispering fountains, well-heeled patrons, a one-hour wait and a ceiling painted to resemble the night sky had charmed mom on her first visit to the restaurant three years ago. Naïvely equating a decadent ambience with good food, she was sorely disappointed to discover that despite sharing a continent, Iranian cuisine bore no resemblance to Indian cuisine, and the vegetarian dishes on the red meat-dominated menu were clearly an afterthought.

Mom headed out with the girls in a spirit of camaraderie despite a severe bout of laryngitis; she figured she wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgeways, anyway.

The evening started out pleasantly enough. The group was led to a semi-private room where they presumed they could prate in peace while delicately sipping on water with no ice and chewing on complimentary Iranian nan.

As soon as the women warmed their seats, however, about 25 raucous Iranian men, ranging in looks from ugly to ugliest, occupied the table opposite and proceeded to sing and chant Masha Allah, rather loudly, every time they tired of leering at the women.

To make matters worse, the dimwitted Iranian waiter messed up their order.
“Um…, excuse me, we ordered the eggplant with no meat,” said the women.
“But this is no. 36,” he insisted.
“But it said no meat on the menu,” returned the women.
“Well, then, you should’ve asked for 36-A,” he replied sulkily, before taking the dish back to the kitchen.

After 10 minutes of eating tasteless skewered vegetables served on a bed of bland basmati rice, somebody flagged down Mr. Tube Light to ask him when the dish would be ready.
“What dish?” he asked, with a blank stare.

When the eggplant finally did arrive, it tasted as though it had been simmering all day long in a pot with an old leather boot thrown in for seasoning. (Either that, or the broth had been laced with a sizable quart of cow's urine.)

The table was quick to refuse when the waiter returned to inquire about dessert. The women did, however, dip into the candy bowl at the counter on the way out. Sucking on the hard, sticky sweets loosened a few tongues and the ride back to their sleepy suburb was peppered with salacious stories and risqué revelations.

If only mom could talk – what tales she’d tell.