We used to book a banda every Saturday afternoon. It was always sunny. I don't know if the weather actually cooperated every weekend or if nostalgia has edited out the clouds.
There was always an air of bonhomie about this haunt in South C. Different groups held court in different bandas. The Asian community would be out in force, doing their usual koroga, music spilling from open car doors. The amiable manager dropped in frequently, asking if all was kosher. The waiters knew our order. Chicken poussin. Wet fry. Naan. Spinach. Ugali.
