The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Art of Purring (19 page)

“Who would have thought that my two kitchen hands would do so well for themselves, eh? The Dalai Lama’s translator. A high-flying chef from Europe. Everything changes.”

“Impermanence,” agreed Lobsang.

“Well, not
everything
has changed,” said Serena. “We’re all a bit older; we’ve seen a bit of the world. But we’re still the same people. Especially the way we feel about important things.” She gazed at Lobsang. “That hasn’t changed.”

Lobsang stared into mid space contemplatively for a few moments before replying. “True. I still think your mother’s coconut slice is the best of all confectionary.”

As they laughed, he met Serena’s eyes with a twinkle. “For example.”

“For example,” she repeated.

“I suppose that’s why it’s so difficult”—his expression suddenly became serious—“to change direction once you have set yourself on a particular course.” The aura of tranquility that usually emanated from Lobsang had been replaced by uncertainty.

Mrs. Trinci gave Serena a meaningful glance. The two of them had evidently discussed whatever Lobsang was referring to. Unable to bear the change that had come over him, Mrs. Trinci got off her seat, walked over to him, and with a clash of bracelets, put her arms around him.

“Of course, this is a difficult time for you, my dear Lobsang,” she said. “But you must know that whatever decision you come to, you will have my full support!”

Only a short while later, there was a polite knock on the kitchen door, then Lama Tsering stepped inside. Tall, thin, and with the most ascetic of faces, Lama Tsering was the disciplinarian of Namgyal Monastery—the one responsible for overseeing the behavior of the monks at temple services and as they were engaged in other practices. As soon as he appeared, Lobsang got off his stool, put down his mug, and brought his palms together at his heart.

Lama Tsering bowed deeply. “Good morning to you.”

“Good morning, Lama.” Mrs. Trinci seemed flustered by his presence.

“Tenzin told me you were here today,” he said, meeting her eyes with an earnest expression. “I have come to ask, most sincerely, for your advice.”

“
My
advice?” Mrs. Trinci squeaked, smiling nervously.

“On matters of nutrition,” he continued.

“
Mama Mia!
I thought I had done something wrong!”

Lama Tsering tilted his head and with the tiniest hint of humor about his mouth said, “Why would you think that?”

Mrs. Trinci shook her head vigorously before passing him the tray of coconut slice. “Have a piece,” she offered. “Cup of tea?”

Lama Tsering studied the tray with interest. “It looks very nice,” he observed. “But first I need to know something.” Retrieving a small notebook from the pocket of his robe, he flicked it open to a page on which he had taken notes. “Is this”—he consulted his writing—“low Glycemic Index? Low GI?”

“Pretty low,” she assured him.

“Mum!” Serena rebuked her as Lama Tsering helped himself to a piece.

Mrs. Trinci shrugged. “Everything’s relative.”

Lama Tsering took an appreciative bite before observing, “Perhaps moderately low, then?”

“To extremely high,” suggested Serena, before all of them, even Lama Tsering, burst out laughing.

“Why the interest in GI?” Mrs. Trinci asked the lama after a moment.

“As disciplinarian at the monastery,” he replied, “it is my duty to ensure that all the monks are practicing well, are exercising self-control, and, above all, are content.” He patted his heart. “But I have only recently discovered how important nutrition is to this.”

“A balanced diet,” offered Serena.

“Glucose, in particular,” Lama Tsering said with such authority that it was evident he had done his homework—just as it was evident to Lama Tsering that we had never given one moment’s thought to the subject.

“Our monks need two things to enjoy fulfillment and success: intelligence and self-control. Of these two, there is no known method to increase intelligence. But self-control—willpower—this is something different. Even in the West, scientists are discovering the importance of emotional intelligence.”

Lobsang nodded. He was very well acquainted with the work of Daniel Goleman, who had spent much time with His Holiness and whose books on emotional intelligence and social intelligence were known worldwide.

“The marshmallow experiment at Stanford University,” Lobsang said.

“A highly effective predictor of success,” confirmed Lama Tsering. Then glancing at the looks of puzzlement on the faces of Mrs. Trinci and Serena, he went on. “In the 1960s, young children were shown into a room, one at a time, and researchers made a deal with them. Each child was given a marshmallow and told that they could eat it right away if they liked, but if they waited for the researchers to return after stepping out for a bit, they could have an additional marshmallow. The researchers left the room for fifteen minutes. Some children ate the sweet immediately. Others were able to restrain themselves and ended up with two marshmallows.

“Those children who had more self-control when they were young went on to achieve higher grades, have fewer problems with drink or drugs, and earn more money. Scientists are showing that self-control is a better indicator of future success than even intelligence.”

“Oh dear,” murmured Mrs. Trinci. “I would have eaten the marshmallow straight away!”

Lama Tsering ignored the interjection. “The same thing has been observed over many years with our monks. It is not always the most intelligent who attain realization. It is those who are willing to apply themselves.”

“But how does glucose affect this?” asked Serena.

“I have learned recently that one of the main factors affecting willpower is how much glucose we have in our system,” Lama Tsering said. “Low levels of glucose lead to less self-regulation, less ability to control thoughts, emotions, impulses, and behavior. When it is a long time since they have eaten, most people feel stressed and can’t think as clearly.”

“Yes, I’ve heard something about this,” Lobsang said, animated by a recollection. “A study about whether or not prisoners would be granted parole.”

Mrs. Trinci and Serena looked at him with interest. “In the end,” Lobsang told them, “it had nothing to do with what crime the prisoners had committed, or their behavior in jail, or their race, or any other variable you might suspect. It had to do with the time of day they appeared before the parole board and how tired or hungry the board members were. The sooner it was after breakfast or lunch, the more likely prisoners were to be granted parole. But as the morning or afternoon wore on, members of the parole board grew increasingly tired and hungry and were more likely to deny parole.”

“That’s a very good example,” Lama Tsering said, making a note of it. “And I think we have all experienced this. When we are tired and hungry everything becomes a big effort.”

“Which is exactly why we are enjoying our coconut slice,” chimed in Mrs. Trinci. “And why I always make sure His Holiness’s little Snow Lion never suffers from …” She trailed off, searching for the right term.

“Decision-fatigue?” suggested Lobsang.

As long as my belly was full of goulash, he could make as many jokes at my expense as he liked, I thought, licking the last vestiges of rich gravy from the bowl.

“So, Mrs. Trinci,” Lama Tsering said, waving a sheaf of papers in his right hand. “I have with me here the official menu from the monastery kitchens. I wonder if you can advise how it might be improved.”

“To make the meals lower GI?” she asked.

“Exactly.”

“You need to go for the slow burn,” she said, reaching for the papers. “Nuts, vegetables, raw fruits, cheese, oils, and other good fats. Foods that lead to better blood sugar balance.” Scanning the list, she started shaking her head. “White rice? White bread? Every day? Oh, no, this is too much!”

Lama Tsering watched her scrutinize the list with an approving air. “It will be interesting,” he said, “to observe what a difference a few simple changes in the kitchen may make.”

As it happened, new menu items were also being keenly discussed at the Himalaya Book Café. In particular, an intriguing new opportunity had presented itself since Serena’s inaugural Indian banquet.

As the date of the second banquet drew closer, there was a steady stream of bookings from local residents who had attended the first one and friends who had heard their rave reviews, as well as hotel managers whose visitors could be guaranteed a memorable night out. Without the need for so much as a poster in the window, a week before the second Indian banquet, the café was fully booked.

What’s more, some of those who had come to the first banquet had asked Serena, as a special favor, for the recipe for their favorite dish. For some it had been vegetable
pakoras.
For others the Malabar fish curry. Ever generous, Serena had obliged, happily giving them the recipes that she and the Dragpa brothers had spent so much time refining, adjusting, and perfecting.

But to no avail.

It was Helen Cartwright, Serena’s friend from school days, who was the first to complain. She and Serena were having a mid-morning cappuccino about a week after Serena had given her the mango chicken recipe. From the magazine rack I overheard Helen saying she had set about preparing it as a special treat for the family, only to end up with a bland imitation of Serena’s gastronomic triumph.

Had she followed every step of the instructions? a puzzled Serena wanted to know. Had the chicken been left to marinate? And for how long? It was only after quite some discussion that Serena identified the real reason for Helen’s disappointment.

That conversation was followed by a similar one just a few days later. Merrilee from yoga class had attempted Serena’s
rogan josh
recipe with equally lackluster results. On this occasion, Serena had gone straight to the heart of the matter. Had Merrilee included all the spices on the list? We-e-ell, most of them, Merrilee told her. In some cases, where she didn’t have the right spice—there were so many of them, after all—Merrilee had tried a substitute. How fresh were the spices? demanded Serena. Merrilee had been forced to confess that at least one of the seasonings had been sitting at the back of her spice rack for nearly ten years. Maybe more.

After Serena pointed out the obvious reason for her culinary flop, Merrilee looked abashed for a moment before she proposed—only half-jokingly—that if Serena would provide her not just with the recipe but also with the correct blend of fresh spices, then she would be assured success in the kitchen.

A less compassionate person might have dismissed this request without a second thought. But reflecting on her friends’ disappointment and the unlikelihood they would ever have easy access to the array of fresh, quality spices she kept in the storeroom, Serena decided to oblige. At her request, the Dragpa brothers made up sealed sachets of blended spices for the mango chicken and
rogan josh
recipes. Serena gave one of each to Helen and Merrilee.

She didn’t have long to wait for their response. Within days they had returned, ecstatic over the deliciousness of their meals and the rave reviews of family and friends. Both of them also confessed to feeling unworthy of the praise. Helen summed it up: “I didn’t actually
do
anything. Anyone can sprinkle stuff on a piece of chicken and then grill it half an hour later. It’s the spices that make the dish.”

It was Merrilee who suggested a commercial angle. “Why don’t you put the blended spices on sale?” she proposed. “I’d be your first customer.”

Serena had taken her suggestion, combining the spice sachet with rice and nuts so that the only things left to buy were fresh vegetables or meat. Using his computer, Sam designed and printed up the recipe on amber-colored paper under the Himalaya Book Café logo.

Spice packs were soon flying out the door to Serena’s circle of friends, as well as to café regulars and students from the yoga studio. Once word got out, the small display box on the counter was soon replaced by a bigger box. And the day after Sam sent out a notice about the spice packs to everyone who had attended the first Indian banquet, orders came in for ten times the quantities made so far. There were even requests from as far afield as Seoul, Krakow, Miami, and Prague, from travelers who had dined at the café while visiting Dharamsala. People were very willing to pay for the convenience of being able to make an amazing meal with minimal thought or preparation time.