by phileasfogg

New Delhi, India

October 29, 2012

Best of IgoUgo Back in the 1950s and 60s, a Goan jazz trumpeter became a name to reckon with in the Hindi film industry. His original name had been Antonio Xavier Vaz; but, as a musician—both a player and a composer—he chose to call himself Chic Chocolate. Some of ...Read more Back in the 1950s and 60s, a Goan jazz trumpeter became a name to reckon with in the Hindi film industry. His original name had been Antonio Xavier Vaz; but, as a musician—both a player and a composer—he chose to call himself Chic Chocolate. Some of Hindi cinema’s greatest songs from that era had Chic Chocolate playing in them, but invariably in the background. Even back in those days, few people knew of Chic Chocolate; today, even among knowledgeable fans of old Hindi film music, this man’s name is little-known.

I was therefore very intrigued when, walking along the Mall, we chanced upon an eatery named Chick Chocolate. My husband, who hadn’t heard of the musician, was equally puzzled when I told him. Puzzled enough to suggest that we check it out. It was late afternoon, and I was craving a cup of coffee anyway, so we stepped in.

Chick Chocolate has a large open front onto the road outside. You step in, and it’s all rather cluttered. Everywhere, there are signs—blackboards with chalk letters, printed boards, even scribblings on thick paper—advertising Chick Chocolate’s menu. Sandwiches, pasta, pizzas, cakes, pies, desserts, shakes, smoothies, coffee, tea, hot dogs: these are the main items on the menu. There’s a display counter (with trays of Chick Chocolate’s own moulded chocolates), practical but unfussy tables and chairs, little bits of uncoordinated bric-a-brac (a painting of a chef, for example) here and there. On the walls are framed posters, mostly from 60s’ and 70s’ Hollywood: Brando in Julius Caesar, Marilyn, the poster of Ben Hur. No sign of any Hindi film memorabilia, though, which I’d have expected if this was, indeed, named after the Chic Chocolate.

We had a look at the menu (no menu cards here; all the items are listed on the board behind the counter). I picked an apple pie with a cup of mocha, while my husband settled for a lemon and ginger tea, and waffles with blueberries. We placed the order at the counter and were told that our order would be called out when it was ready; we could then pick it up.

Next to the table we chose were a series of posters, on all of which had been stuck paper napkins, post-its, and other scraps of paper on which satisfied patrons had written messages in praise of Chick Chocolate. ‘The best coffee in India’ said Andy (from Mexico), after having specified that he’d travelled all over India. ‘Some Americans’ said Chick Chocolate served the best pasta they’d ever had in India. We, sitting in the shadow of such exuberant praise, began to get impatient for our food to arrive.

The beverages and pie were ready within about five minutes; the waffles took a couple of minutes more. And, sadly, except for the lemon and ginger tea that my husband had ordered, nothing merited a rave review. My mocha was far too milky, with insufficient coffee and almost non-existent chocolate. The waffles, while they had a very generous topping of blueberries (canned? Frozen and thawed? We couldn’t tell), were not crisp enough on the outside, and were just a little soggy on the inside. A not-hot-enough waffle iron?

Worst of all was the apple pie and ice cream. On its own, the apple pie may not have been too bad; the problem was, I couldn’t tell—because it had been completely drowned in too much vanilla ice cream (three scoops on a not-very-large wedge of pie). Much of the ice cream had melted and soaked right through the pie, leaving the pastry soggy. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the ice cream had been topped off with lots of chocolate sauce, which dominated the relatively mild flavour of the pie. In essence, my pie tasted of chocolate. And this, when I hadn’t even been asked if I wanted chocolate sauce with my pie!

Our bill amount was Rs 540, pretty steep for something that wasn’t too good. I wouldn’t go back here, not even for the quaint name of the place.

Post-script: After our Mussoorie vacation was over, I happened to be doing a little research on the musician, Chic Chocolate. When we’d visited Chick Chocolate, my husband had asked the elderly owner-manager if he’d named the restaurant after the musician. The man had said that he didn’t know, because the restaurant had been opened by his father in 1940. He didn’t know why his father had named the place Chick Chocolate; until we’d told him, he hadn’t even known about Chic Chocolate.

The interesting bit? My research revealed a telling fact: that Chic Chocolate, before he arrived in Bombay in the early 1940s, had done a very successful set of concerts, in Rangoon—and Mussoorie.

I can well imagine that a jazz-loving restaurateur would decide to name his new eatery after a musician who’d performed in town.

 Close