As B Merwan opposite Grant Road Station (East) downs it shutters, a flood of memories takes over the locals and regulars at Merwans, as it was commonly referred to. Minoo Shroff, who stayed in Dadar and worked in the Tata Share Department, stopped by Merwan’s every Friday evening to pick up their famed mawa cakes and macroon tarts. Weekend tea at the Shroffs wasn’t complete without B Merwan’s fare. Sometimes, Ila Dubey would get off the crowded local train, when she remembered freshly baked cakes and headed for Merwans. Sure you do get mawa cakes elsewhere, but to take a leaf out of Amitabh Bachchan’s dialogue in Sharabi — Mawa cake ho toh B Merwan jaise, varna na ho.

A visitor from Pakistan landed in Mumbai, and rushed off to A 1 Restaurant near Grant Road Bridge for Chicken Makhanwalla, she drooled with memories of it. Not chicken makhanwalla I remonstrated, “A 1 is best known for dhansak.” She was back home in a trice. “A1 has closed down. Why?” She moaned. I commiserated with her. A1 was my pit stop for its famed dhansak. I went for Maths and French tuitions to my aunt at Khetwadi. One Saturday of the month, a few us would get off the trolley bus at Grant Road Bridge and head for AI Restaurant. The aroma was irresistible, as we scanned the menu on the wall and the day’s special. But single mindedly we would order our fix of dhansak. None of the family understood my penchant for dhansak at A1, when we could have huge quantities of the same at home. My mother was the only one who understood, as she taught in a school nearby and she and her colleagues would send for it at school; and as she would say “it’s different.” As I pass over the Grant Road Bridge, I glance at the crumbling board Bombay A1 as it had been called in its last takeover, the dhansak and the aromas are a memory.

“Is Brabourne still around?” queried a Toronto based friend (meaning Brabourne Restaurant and Stores at Dhobi Talao and not the stadium). He had just heard of Bastani closing down, and when it downed its shutters, not just the residents of Dhobi Talao, but even others across Bombay and the Parsi Diaspora got misty eyed. When the NRIs visit Bombay, they try to connect with their familiar landmarks, especially the local Irani joints and carry back a few photos. The said Brabourne too has downed shutters.

Bastani which was across the road from Kayani (another landmark and it still stands), had quite a selection of biscuits and crust patties. But since my peer group from St Xavier’s College was loathe to frequent ‘the Irani place’, a friend from Elphinstone College would join me late afternoons for a cup of chai and biscoot at Bastani or Kayani, and whatever else we could wolf down. A periodic visit to a grand aunt who lived nearby always ended with a perfunctory stop over at Bastani for their patties and biscuits to take home. An old timer from Pune, a hockey coach would take his team to Bastani for breakfast and Sassanian for dinner as the team stayed above the latter restaurant. Kayani has a special place in memory of Zarin Patel, a retired school teacher. As a student of St Zaviers College, she spent the long breaks between lectures and tutorials in Kayani, occupying a corner table refreshing her notes over a cup of tea and a plate of wafers. You can imagine the warmth of the owner who willingly passed on phone messages from the family in an emergency!

When my octogenarian uncle from Canada visited India in 2006, he asked: Where’s Rustom? Looking quizzically at Gowalia Tank Road. He meant Oriental Restaurant and Stores run by the two Khaverian brothers – Rustam and Kaikushru. Our family lived in a building across the road and my father and his cousins frequented Rustom’s, as they called it. My uncle reminisced, that when they played cards, the loser bought everyone a Raspberry sherbet from Oriental and the order was placed with a shout across the road! When we went cycling round the Gowalia Tank (now August Kranti) maidan on the weekends and holidays we always headed for Rustoms for a Raspberry or a Coke or ice candy. Rustom’s had two entrances at right angles. We made it a point to go through one and exit from the other and greet whichever brother was manning the galla. Reason: we got sweets, toffees or chocolates as we passed by. As the proprietors’ sons pursued their academic dreams, the older men with failing health sold the place. Oriental was replaced by a late night open bar and restaurant.

After college, I started frequenting the Irani restaurants in the Fort area. Light of Asia near Handloom House was a quintessential experience. The walls were cluttered with the house rules: Don’t ask for newspaper, Don’t talk politics, All meat is goat, If you break a glass you pay, Don’t talk to waiter…. And so forth. It was airy and well lit, and was always crowded. Light of Asia is where I acquired spent many an evening after work over the fabled paani kum chai and bun maska. The late Nissim Ezekiel dedicated a poem to the Irani Restaurant, and maybe Light of Asia could have been his muse.

Diagonally across from Bombay House was Parisian Restaurant. I worked in the Fort area for as many as 10 years. And in that period I got so accustomed to eating at Parisian that when it closed down, I felt a part of me was missing. The owner and his daughter knew most of the customers if not by name at least by their food preferences. Often my uncle and my mother joined me for breakfast or high tea. Though the quintessential bun maska and paani cum chai wasn’t their forte, their sandwiches and falooda certainly were.

Victims of the ravages of urban development, many more Irani restaurants have downed their shutters, giving way to Udipi or fast food outlets or MNC branded eateries. The ones which have survived are few, and retain their original ambience — mirrored walls with large portraits of Zarathustra in glass or mirror, bent wood chairs and marble top tables. The menu chalked up. Some have retained the ambience, but given the menu a makeover.

An Irani restaurant is the only place where you can ask for a glass of half lemonade and half soda (maara-maaari), or half coffee and half tea (fifty fifty or market), and the waiter won’t glare at you. It’s also the place where you can drink your piping hot tea out of the saucer and no one will give a second glance. As for the jargon, it’s so typically the Irani place, that you simply cannot have the Café Coffee Day/MacDonalds’ attendants addressing their customers or referring to them as: Woh lal khameeswalla apna paper saath mein le jayega. Dekho apna glass todnewalla aa gayaa!