At Koshy’s, Even Kafka Comes with Fries 

Koshy’s on St. Mark’s Road, Bengaluru, has been around for ever. Various theories abound. The more popular ones are that it was established when Moses parted the Red Sea. Or when Babar first showed up at the borders of India. Or when the Portuguese first docked their colonising ships in the coasts of Kerala. Age though, is not Koshy’s enemy, it is what makes it more than a restaurant, an institution. 

One thing about Koshy’s is a complete mystery. People are constantly talking in the place and this causes the place to be inhabited by a constant, loud, confounding din. The question is, how do people hear each other over the din? 

Of course, over the incessant noise, everyone hears each other perfectly and converses animatedly. 

Script writers discuss their new plays, ad people bitch about their recently rejected ads, actors talk of the latest role they’ve won or lost, and everybody else is discussing the latest book or movie they haven’t read or seen. 

Koshy’s is a pretty arty place. If you ever eavesdrop on the next table, you’ll be a very surprised, not to mention, enlightened person.

 “I read Toynbee last night, my dear.” “Oh, Toynbee’s such a sniveling bore darling, you should read Kafka, he’s so soul-freezingly….” “Your sole fry is here, Sir,” “Oh, thank you, like I was saying, Kafka romanticises bureaucratic oppression, and bring some fries too, please.”

Years ago, Koshy’s used to be a favourite watering hole of  mine and my colleagues at McCann Erickson. My Boss, an astute Bengali, knew this. So every time I had grievances and wanted to resign from the agency, he’d say let’s discuss this over lunch at Koshy’s. So innocent me and manipulative Boss would trot off to Koshy’s and before I could list out my problems with the agency, he’d first make sure I had two, three large bottles of beer. Now beer may be a great thing to have if you want to grow a belly, but it’s terrible if you want to stay sharp, coherent and focused.  By the time my Boss would finally say – Now tell me why do you want to leave, I’d have forgotten what my problems were. And all I could say was – Umm, ahh, err, let’s have another beer. And I’d be stuck in the agency for another six months. After which it’d be time for another trip with Boss to Koshy’s.

Koshy’s has always had sweet, polite waiters. Some of these waiters have been around since the time sandwiches were invented, yet they’re as fit as any gym-hitting GenZ-er. Like the place, the waiters are preserved immaculately.

Except for the foreigners, most of the crowd in Koshy’s is made up of regulars. Ancient lawyers, actors who look like they are starved for both roles and rolls, misfits from the advertising industry, budding photographers, established photographers, frustrated artists, frustrated wives- you can see them all in Koshy’s. And, of course, you can also see the Schwarzenegger-like form of Koshy’s owner and host, Prem Koshy, whose biceps are bigger than most people’s heads. Apart from being Bangalore’s most famous restaurateur,  Prem is also a famous theatrical auteur, with many plays under his belt. 

Some intellectuals come to Koshy’s and say, “Screw talking about Toynbee, today I’m just going to eat,” and gorge their way through Koshy’s delicious fish curry, pappadams and rice. Or pasta, or shaslik, or chicken biryani. The snacks here are pretty awesome too. Thanks to the fact that Koshy’s liver on toast, fried chicken and cutlets taste the way they do, hundreds of grateful people have been able to survive conversations on topics like ‘Kafka’s nihilistic counterintuitive literary 3d chess playing left-leaning proclivities….’