Here’s How the Story Ends

We had turkey.

I hate to reveal how a story ends before it’s even begun, but keeping you in suspense would be cruel. Cruel like the season 2 finale of “Grey’s Anatomy.” That kind of cruelty has no place on Thanksgiving. So I’m telling you now: We had turkey.

I like Thanksgiving. I look forward to it the way I look forward to birthdays, and anyone who knows me knows that’s a pathological level of looking forward. I started bugging my American friends in Chennai -- all two of them -- at least three weeks ago. “What are we gonna do for Thanksgiving? What are we gonna do?”

I don’t have Thanksgiving traditions. My family immigrated to the U.S. when I was 5, and Thanksgiving didn’t immediately translate. We were eaters of borscht and baklava. Squash soup and pumpkin pie seemed … mushy. I embraced them in time, though not as quickly as I embraced Barbie, Boy George and all things jelly: jelly shoes, jelly bracelets, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

We were guests, never hosts, and I witnessed a dozen Thanksgiving traditions. There was the family that watched football. The family that played touch football. The family with the Thanksgiving-off: a potluck meal at which every dish was critiqued and scored, a winner crowned.

The common denominator was turkey.

Turkeys aren’t indigenous to India, and they’re far more expensive than chickens. You don’t see turkey on menus or in stores. Which is why no one had an easy answer for my question: “What are we gonna do?”

Scott knew of a turkey. Kidnapping schemes were discussed. The plot fizzled when we spoke of feathers and butchers.

We got our first major lead on Monday, when we went to a Harlem Globetrotters game. On their third and last night in Chennai, the Globetrotters played to an almost empty stadium. Basketball, like turkey, doesn’t suit the Indian palate. My crowd of eight cheered as loudly as possible for a game whose outcome is rigged. The vendors hawked samosas and masala popcorn; we wished for beer.


At halftime, Scott, his wife, Padma, and I “snuck” into the VIP section. Nobody tried to stop us as we crawled through barriers and hopped over railings. Maybe it’s because Tamil Nadu’s turbaned governor left with his posse shortly after the halftime photo op. Maybe it’s because Scott and I are white, and in India that means VIP.

We arrived on the podium several minutes before the third quarter and made a beeline for David Hopper. Mr. Hopper is the U.S. consul general in Chennai. We introduced ourselves and made small talk. Then we got to the meat of the matter (pun totally intended).

“We were wondering where we could get a turkey for Thanksgiving,” Scott said.

The next day, the diplomat e-mailed me a name: “Tamil Nadu Veterinary & Animal Sciences University, Poultry Research Station.” I didn’t like the sound of it, but we were short on options. Padma volunteered to make the call.

“They asked if I wanted it alive or dressed,” she told me Wednesday morning.

“Dressed?”

“As in deprived of feathers.”

Dressed sounded like a good idea. And the price was right: 120 rupees a kilo. Translated into American, that’s about $18 for a 15-pound bird.

We had another problem: I don’t have an oven. Scott and Padma don’t have an oven. No one we know has an oven. That’s because Indians aren’t bakers. They fry, sauté, steam, fry, simmer and fry. Also, they fry. Their breads are flatbreads, and their desserts are sugary, no-bake confections. That left one cooking option for our gobbler: deep fry.

Wednesday night brought a new lead in the form of a text message: “My friend can deliver u a turkey 2morro if u want.”

Several minutes later, another text message: “It is already cooked. Honey roasted in fact!”

Touchdown. The third message from my flatmate Nathan said “Harry,” followed by a phone number. I called Harry right away.

Harry is an Anglo-Indian who works at the American International School. Harry has a contact at a food-processing plant outside Chennai.

“They are raising all the fowls,” he told me. “They cook the whole thing and give it. It comes nicely packed.”

I imagined a turkey-shaped insulated delivery bag. It would probably need reheating, I thought. No matter. We have a toaster oven.

“I’ll take one,” I told him.

Thursday morning, a flurry of activity. A driver was sent to fetch the turkey from the school. He carried 2,200 rupees, or about $48, to pay for a 10-pound bird. (Cooked turkeys don’t come cheap.) Scott and I sketched out a menu over Skype. Stuffing sounded like a tricky affair. A call was placed to Chennai’s recently opened KFC. Stuffing? Negative. Invitations were extended to half a dozen non-Americans. Shopping lists were drafted. I made a preemptive trip to the gym.

The turkey was waiting when I walked in my door around 4:30 p.m. It was roasted, alright. Roasted, wrapped in plastic and frozen -- solid. Date of packing: 15 Nov.

“Harry, the bird is frozen solid.”

“Yes?”

“Harry, it’s 5 o’clock on Thanksgiving Day. What am I supposed to do with a block of turkey?”

Harry’s plan involved a bucket of hot water. My Thanksgiving plan didn’t involve a cold, barely thawed bird. He promised a refund. I called off dinner. The 16 chocolate croissants Padma had ordered for dessert arrived. She, Scott and I munched on them as we mulled our options.

In the end, we three piled on Scott’s motorcycle and went to the only place we knew we’d find turkey: the Taj, a five-star hotel popular with business travelers. Its all-you-can-eat Thanksgiving feast was expensive, but it was the only game in town. We loaded our plates with turkey and trimmings. The house band, a Colombian foursome, belted “Baby One More Time” and other karaoke staples between Spanish numbers. Football played on a flatscreen TV behind the band. It might have made me nostalgic for Thanksgivings past, except it wasn’t American football. Mid-meal, it was replaced by pro wrestling.

“This is kinda depressing,” Padma noted.

I felt awfully grateful nonetheless.