Yesterday, I teased myself into savouring a bite of pickle. When it appeared on my table, alongside a jhatak-green chutney and an overly sweet mango chutney, I wondered how long it had been since I last encountered the expected sourness. When the flavours finally sat on my tongue, I felt so oddly comforted. It tasted exactly like generic mixed pickle; the kind that is ubiquitous in dhabas across India, that orange-red combination of sun-dried mango, lime, carrot and karvanda with a smacking of synthetic flavour. It doesn’t remotely resemble home-made variations, but it always manages to do the trick when paired with a paratha or a papad, which is what also lay on my table.

It was on a whim that I decided to finally ‘bite the bullet’ and eat at an ‘Indian’ restaurant in Bozen. I have long-since been extremely judgemental not only of the fare served in places like these, usually named some version of Taj Mahal or Jaipur, or some such, but also of people who frequent such establishments. Yesterday, I swallowed my snobbish pride and simply sat down at a table overlooking one of the streets in the historical centre and allowed myself to be served.