Glenary’s in Darjeeling and (below) a view of the Kanchenjungha

Satyajit Ray’s Kanchenjungha has been one of my all-time favourite movies, and Chhabi Biswas as Rai Bahadur Indra Nath Chowdhury — “chairman of five companies” — depicted a persona I could readily empathise with. Although Darjeeling must have changed between 1962 (when Kanchenjungha was shot) and 1983, when I last visited the hill station, there was not much of a difference between the celluloid reality and my memories.

Like the Rai Bahadur, my interest in birds has principally been in the roasted form, a roast chicken forming an integral part of my childhood memories of pleasurable outings — from the carriages of the Geetanjali Express to the dining room of the BNR Hotel in Puri to the lawns of the CC&FC.

Ever since my return to Calcutta in 2007, one of my perennial joys has been to savour the khansama cooking of Mocambo, Calcutta Club and their ilk. Imagine, therefore, with what expectation I undertook the journey to Darjeeling.

Of course I knew about the defacement of the town, the political unrest, the downhill march of prominent public schools; but despite all that, the Windermere, Glenary’s, The Planter’s Club, Das Studio and Oxford Bookstore still appeared to be permanent fixtures.

When we arrived in Darjeeling, grey skies and a drizzle greeted us. A friend had booked our rooms in an unknown ‘resort’, and we were pleasantly surprised to discover that behind the new paint and the atrium, lurked the old Central Hotel, situated just below Keventer’s.

The re-christened Fortune Resort Central claimed to be one of the oldest hostelries in the town. A large board at its entrance traced the origins of the hotel to 1905 and the 1910 Bar presumably took its name from the year when the hotel was enlarged.

A place such as this, one would expect, would serve up a good roast. Rubbing our hands in glee, our travails with the Darjeeling Mail forgotten, we went down to luncheon and ordered soup, grilled fish, roast fowl and pudding.

The soup took 50 minutes to appear; the tartar sauce had too much salt and the bird that finally appeared seemed to have died of starvation, its accompanying brown sauce suffering the same malaise of excessive saltiness.

As soon as the luncheon settled in our stomachs, we set off for the Mall — to see how many of our old friends were still standing.

I tried to locate a villa on Gandhi Road where I had spent my last holiday and was saddened — but not surprised — to find that hardly any of the picturesque villas, lodges and cottages were still there in this part of town.

The Mall was pretty much as I remembered it, and going round it, we stood near Oakden, where Rai Bahadur Chowdhury had arrived on a misty afternoon to find that he was all alone.

On our way up to the Mall, we had passed Glenary’s and ascribed its closed windows to the odd hour. However, a roast at Glenary’s being one of my main attractions in making the trip, I started getting a bit apprehensive.

As we sipped our first flush on the Keventer’s terrace, I anxiously began making inquiries, only to be told that Glenary’s had closed — if not forever, at least till the political views of its owner coincided with that of the powers that be.

Although I was not born or was too young to remember the closure of Peliti’s, Firpo’s and Sky Room, I suddenly realised how staunch patrons must have felt when they heard that they would never be able to partake of the pleasures of these establishments again.

Reeling from this blow, I gazed across at the Planter’s Club, which I was told, had been refurbished, and the room tariff suggested that something must indeed have been done. A billboard proclaimed the delights of the place, including a multi-cuisine restaurant.

When a club dining room proclaims itself to be a multi-cuisine restaurant, it is a sure indicator that something is rotten within, but this is the wisdom of hindsight.

Indefatigable optimists that we were, we decided to try the club for dinner. The restaurant was uncarpeted, dusty and desolate. Empty planters (no pun intended) doubled up as garbage bins and a motley crowd of divine images stood watch over a portion of the room.

A father and son occupied one corner. The boy was in school uniform, and the father had obviously brought him out for a ‘treat’. The son, equally obviously, was dreading returning to his hostel and we had our meal to the background accompaniment of the father urging more rice, dal and fried potatoes on the son only to be met with the boy’s sullen silence.

There were two servitors in the restaurant in grubby shirt and trousers, a far cry from the uniformed retainers I was hoping for. The menu they yielded had “Indian, Chinese and Tandoori” but alas, nothing that remotely resembled a fowl, roasted, grilled or baked.

Thinking that a “Chinese” meal would entail lower risk, we ordered a plate of noodles and a dish of chicken, which were served floating in oil and generously smothered in pepper. There is a saying that fat is conducive to taste; but I suppose even that does not hold true when a club dining room is run by a second-rate canteen operator.

We stayed in Darjeeling for another day-and-a-half but did not venture out for a roast again. There was a new place recommended to us, but it definitely did not have the ambience of its distinguished predecessors. The only other place, which may have been able to satisfy our craving for a roast in civilised surroundings, was the Windermere. But after our experiences of the first day, I hesitated to risk the princely sum that was needed for a meal for two at that august establishment.

I probably belong to a rapidly receding minority who would not care for either a fish curry-rice or a vegetarian meal that the Queen of Hill Stations currently abounds with. If you do come across a good roast in Darjeeling, you will let me know, won’t you?