17th February - Mumbai Local

As responsible Senior Citizens we have learned the need to pace ourselves and not have too much fun all at once. Today's forecast predicts 37 degrees C , that's 98 F. No exotic train rides or country pursuits for us today, just a little gentle shopping and a nice lunch, followed by some architecture and a beer. We take a very leisurely breakfast before setting out for the markets. One piece of admin is to put our washing in for laundry. There is a small shop just along the street from the hotel who takes our two bags and says "Today evening sir". We walk round the corner to find an honest cabbie, who gets a decent tip for taking us the half mile or so to Crawford Market, the true home of the Floozy in the Jacuzzi. It is quite early but the market is definitely awake. 

As we enter an elderly, one armed man appoints himself as our guide. He shows a very battered photo ID card and claims to have been a market employee for the last 41 years. He tells us that the market is still owned by the British Government,  which might explain the general air of dilapidation. We do our best to shake him off but he has seen it all before. He is very keen to show us a spice stall and we follow with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. The place he takes us to is quite a smart set up with a huge range of spices, including one masala (mixture) that is claimed to contain 96 different spices. R explains that we are not in the market as we have too much travelling left to do, but the stall holder presents us with a small booklet that is his card cum catalogue and we part with smiles. The old chap wants to take us to another spice place but we spot stalls selling boiled sweeties, called chocolate by many Indians. Our supply of Orange Bites has run out and we have not seen them since we left Odisha. We find a non branded equivalent and buy a Rs 20 bag. Mr Self Appointed Guide realises that he is dealing with cheapskates and cannot wait to be rid of us, walking us briskly to the nearest exit. We make a small donation, thank him and turn back inside to explore at our own pace.

Trade is slack and people have time to talk. We pause at one stall selling packets of Kulfi mixes, just add boiling milk and hope. The chap asks us where we are from and, hearing Scotland,  he waxes eloquent on the subject of bagpipes. Now we know of two bagpipe fans in India. We explain that we are music lovers but he is not at all deterred. A chai walla is passing with a tray of full glasses and we are invited to partake. It is really excellent chai and it provokes us into spending Rs 62 on a packet of pistachio kulfi mix. We take our leave and move on towards the Mangaldas Market, a big centre for fabrics and ladies clothing. It is obvious that we are too early as only about 10% of stores are open. We review the plan and decide to walk up to Chor Bazaar (thieves market) where there is a shop we are interested in seeing. It is warming up but there is still shade on the sides of the streets. 

We locate Mutton Street, the heart of the market, without too much difficulty and head on in. Legend says that if you lose something in Mumbai you can buy it back here. Another version says that Chor is a mispronunciation of the local word for noisy. This seems very plausible to us, as it is very crowded and noisy, not helped by the inevitable motorbikes trying to force a way through the crowds. A lot of shops have notices saying closed Friday and the pavements in front resemble a huge car boot sale. We fight our way through to our target to discover that they do not open on Friday either. Bum! Finding our way out is not totally straightforward but eventually we reach a busy road under a flyover and flag a taxi. In fact we do this twice as a bloke cuts in on the first one that stops. The next cabbie has trouble with D's pronunciation of Mangaldas Market, but gets Crawford Market which is just across the street. A hundred yards short there is gridlock at traffic lights so we pay up and get out to walk.

We have seen a recommendation for a market stall called DD Dupatawalla and R wants to replace her very first Indian scarf that has seen her through six and a half trips but is now looking a bit worn. We arrive just when the team of three are starting to set up the stall, and we watch,  fascinated, as the tightly packed secure back room is emptied and turned into a colourful display of scarves, dupattas and bolts of cloth. We explain that we are in no hurry and are invited to take a seat from where we watch the dressing of the stall. Once that bit of the job is complete the senior chap asks R what she requires. In no time the mattress covered floor of the stall is covered in different scarves. When R gets her choice down to one of two he very elegantly models the two side by side for comparison purposes. Once again we are invited to have chai and a man with a tray is summoned.  This time it is in small metal tumblers rather than glasses. A decision is made and the loot handed over. Everybody is happy.

We head out to find a taxi. No visit to Mumbai can be complete without lunch at the Britannia Restaurant,  one of the last surviving Parsi cafes in the city. The first cab we find has an older driver who nods when D says "Britannia Restaurant". He promptly does a u-turn and races off towards Chowpatty Beach, 180 degrees in the wrong direction.  D manages to attract the driver's attention and we have one of those wonderful interludes where he slowly cruises the street looking for a pedestrian who might speak English. The chap he picks has decent English but no idea where the Britannia is. D eventually works out a recognisable landmark in the right direction,  Horniman Circle. The driver recognises the name and we are off, taking no prisoners. It is fairly easy to direct him from there on. When we pull up outside he says "That is Beer Pull" or something phonetically similar. Our scenic tour of South Mumbai has probably doubled the cab fare but is still only about a pound. 

Inside the Britannia has not changed since our last visit in 2015. It is quite busy but they have a table for us. We order the house speciality, berry pulav, with eggs and a veg curry. The prices explain why they only need to open for four hours, six days per week. There is a legion of staff and the whole operation is very slick. The owner, 94 year old Mr Kohinoor, is eating lunch at a table at the back of the restaurant.  He looks a little frail these days. A life size cardboard cut out of Kate and Wills gazes down from the balustrade above. The berry pulav is a secret recipe that features a berry imported from Iran. R says they are fruity, almost sweet while D describes them as tart, as in sweet and sour. What we can agree on is that the food is simply splendid. Diners are not encouraged to linger unnecessarily and the bill arrives just after the plates are cleared.  We settle up and, after a brief altercation with an over ambitious taxi driver, walk back to the hotel, hugging the shade as far as possible.  

A cup of tea and an hour out of the sun revive us and we set out a few minutes before three to CST for the behind the scenes tour. R missed this a couple of years back and D needs no excuses for doing the tour again. Today we are the only takers and are shown round by a young man who seems knowledgeable about CST but a bit hazy about the rest of Indian Railways. He walks us round the small museum and then into the main lobby of the Central Railway offices with its grand cantilevered staircase and octagonal dome, unique in ondia when it was built in the 1880s. He points out some of the intricate detail of the freizes which feature all sorts of birds and animals. Upstairs we are shown the Heritage Lounge where visitors are normally entertained with chai and biscuits.  Today is a big retirement party and everybody is busy with that so we dip out. Our guide points out the minarets and grand dome of the General Post Office building, including a recommendation that we visit. D suspects that the young man is from an architectural background rather than a railway one. Our tour finishes in the garden at the front of the offices where he points out the niche where the statue of Queen Victoria used to stand and the individually carved heads of the Directors of the Great Indian Peninsular Railway Company. A policewoman armed with an ancient Sterling sub machine gun sees us out through the gate.

A short walk round the corner takes us to the GPO, another vast building with a rather more austere style than CST. It is too big to photograph properly and there is no doubt some sort of ban on internal photos so D only takes a couple. As it is Friday it is time for our weekly pub photo and we know a place nearby, the Cafe Universal. The book says that this has a French style but all we can spot is that it does not feel very Indian. Two cold ones go down very well. We find our way back to the hotel without getting very lost. We enquire about our laundry and are told 15 minutes. When D goes to collect it is beautifully parcelled up in clean brown paper and string. Each item is neatly folded and has a small cloth tag with our room number and some sort of code to identify the outlet.

It is still very warm and definitely two showers a day weather. After our substantial lunch it is quite late when we head out for supper. We have decided on Bademiya, described as the grown up version of one of Colaba's famous street food stalls. This is a proper restaurant but with some street food dishes on the menu. We order a chicken baida roti and mutton biryani, D has been missing goat in his diet. Like all of the food we have had in Mumbai it is very, very good.