No Topping Him

‘‘A pizza delivery boy only needs a two-wheeler licence, that’s all,’’ Sayed Iqbal, the genial manager at a Smokin’ Joe’s suburban Mumbai outlet, assures me amidst bemused grins from the staff.

It’s 2.45 pm, way past lunch time and obviously not rush hour at a pizza joint. Roopesh, 22, my colleague for the afternoon, is glued to a Sunny Deol flick on TV. ‘‘This is what we do when we wait for orders. Total timepass!’’ he says.

Like most in the profession, Roopesh is a student. However, I learn that unlike most students, he has classes only on Sunday.
Fifteen minutes later, the phone rings. A delivery! Finally.

Suddenly, nobody’s interested in Sunny Deol anymore. Iqbal tells me that it takes 12 minutes max to get a pizza with toppings ready. In this case, Avantika wants only an eight-inch cheese pizza, no toppings.

Back in the kitchen at the joint, chef Murugan (I had imagined a more glam name) spreads a layer of tomato purée and mozzarella cheese on the pizza base before pushing it into the oven.

I look for advice now. ‘‘Remember to wish,’’ says Iqbal. ‘‘In case, the pizza is delivered later than 30 minutes, you can give them a 10 per cent discount. If they are mad at you, ask them to call the outlet,’’ he says, and hands me an orange-coloured uniform shirt. A childhood tantrum I had thrown when my dad got me an orange T-shirt returns to haunt me. ‘‘I can be seen from the moon if I wear something this bright,’’ I had complained to my mom.

Anyway, six minutes and the pizza was ready. Slipping the pizza carton into a thermal case I know have 24 minutes to deliver the pizza to Avantika’s fourth floor flat at Saraf Apartments, Malad, a distance which, given my riding skills, would have taken about 20 minutes.

‘‘Don’t worry, you can make it in about 10 minutes,’’ Roopesh tells me as he escorts me to a blue Vespa scooter with a compartment behind. I have no idea how to get there, but I know I’ll find my way.

As I struggle with the kickstart, Roopesh decides he has to accompany me.

I have been told that pizza delivery boys are daredevil riders. Roopesh is proof enough. We practically slice through the suburban traffic and soon, I am standing in front of the lift. ‘‘Sometimes they tip, sometimes they don’t,’’ Roopesh tells me.

The doorbell rings and an expressionless sari-clad lady in her 50s, opens the door. ‘‘Good afternoon,’’ I begin. The thermal case swiftly changes hands and she disappears.

Must be Avantika’s mom, I tell myself. A-v-a-n-t-i-k-a… the name has a nice ring to it. Naah, can’t be Avantika. A little boy returns with a 100-rupee note. Avantika’s brother? To my horror, I realise I have no idea how much the bill is. ‘‘Eighty bucks,’’ Roopesh moves in quickly. I return the change and the little boy disappears. The door shuts. Not a word is spoken. Where is Avantika? Where’s my tip?!

A wry smile appears on Roopesh’s face as I turn grinning. ‘‘Sometimes they don’t,’’ he says.