Theme: Meet Cute
Genre: Romance

Meet Cute At Dinner

The restaurant occupied the entire seventh floor of the building, its open-air section overlooking a city that glittered beneath the night sky. A warm breeze drifted through the space, carrying the scent of charcoal, spices and grilled food from the buffet area. Around her, clusters of employees occupied tables scattered across the terrace, their conversations blending into a pleasant background hum.

The annual dinner was in full swing.

Sana barely noticed any of it.

She had spent the last ten minutes thinking about the buffet.

The meeting had run late, traffic had been awful, and she had skipped her evening tea. At this point, her patience was hanging by a thread, and the only thing keeping her civilised was the promise of food.

Before returning to her table, she had made a quick detour to the washroom.

Some habits were impossible to break.

She couldn’t eat without washing her hands. It didn’t matter whether she was at home, a wedding, a roadside dhaba or the fanciest restaurant in the city. Her mother had drilled the habit into her as a child, and thirty years later it still held absolute authority over her life.

Hands first.

Food later.

Emerging from the washroom, she slipped her phone into her handbag and headed back toward her team’s table. Waiters moved between tables balancing trays of drinks, laughter erupted from somewhere near the railing, and someone in the distance was attempting to sing along with the restaurant’s music.

Sana paid attention to none of it.

Her gaze had already found the buffet.

As she approached what she assumed was her table, she paused beside her manager’s chair, preparing to make a quick stop before helping herself to dinner.

And then she saw it.

Paneer tikka.

Beautifully charred around the edges, still glistening from the grill.

Beside it sat a bowl of bright green chutney.

Her face immediately brightened.

“Oh, paneer tikka with green chutney. I love it.”

Without thinking, she reached down, picked up a piece between two fingers and popped it into her mouth.

The flavour hit instantly. Smoky. Spicy. Perfect.

For a brief moment, all felt right with the world.

Then she noticed something strange.

The conversation around her had died.

Not completely.

Just enough.

Enough that the sudden absence registered.

Still chewing, she glanced up.

Several people were staring at her.

Sana froze.

One woman looked bewildered. Another appeared fascinated. A young man across the table seemed to be fighting for his life not to laugh.

She swallowed.

Slowly.

Why are they staring?

Her gaze moved around the table.

Have they never seen someone eating with their hands before?

No, that couldn’t be it.

This was India. Half the restaurant was probably doing exactly that.

Maybe they objected to her eating from someone else’s plate?

The thought arrived so suddenly that she nearly dismissed it.

Surely not.

Nobody would care about a single piece of paneer tikka.

Would they?

Trying not to appear alarmed, she studied the faces around her, hoping to catch someone’s eye. Perhaps one of her teammates would explain what was happening.

Instead, an entirely different thought crept into her mind.

The people around her looked… different.

Sana blinked.

Then looked again.

The woman seated across from her wasn’t from her team.

Neither was the man trying not to laugh.

The older gentleman checking his phone wasn’t familiar either.

Neither was the woman wearing a blue scarf.

Or the man beside her.

Or the woman next to him.

A cold sensation travelled down her spine.

No.

No, no, no.

That wasn’t possible.

She turned her head slightly, taking a longer look around the table.

Not one face was familiar.

Not one.

Suddenly the restaurant seemed much larger than it had a moment ago.

And her confidence considerably smaller.

Very slowly, with the growing dread of someone opening an exam paper and realising she’d studied the wrong subject, Sana lowered her gaze to the person sitting beside her.

The person whose chair she had casually stopped next to.

The person she had automatically assumed was her manager.

The person whose plate she had apparently just stolen food from.

No.

That wasn’t her manager.

That wasn’t the man she had worked with for four years. That wasn’t the man who approved her leave applications, forgot attachments in emails and somehow managed to survive entirely on tea and complaints.

This was somebody else.

Entirely somebody else.

Someone with wavy dark hair.

Someone with an unusually fair complexion.

Someone currently wearing a scowl that suggested he was deeply unimpressed by both her existence and her life choices.

Sana stared.

The man stared back.

And despite the scowl, despite the mortifying situation, despite the fact that she had just stolen food from his plate in front of an audience…

Wow.

He was handsome.

Sana’s brain finally restarted.

Her gaze darted across the restaurant, desperately searching for a familiar face.

And there they were.

Her table.

Her actual table.

Barely ten feet away.

Every single member of her team was watching the spectacle unfold with varying levels of enjoyment.

Traitors.

Her manager, Amir, wasn’t even trying to hide his amusement. His shoulders were shaking. The man had spent four years preaching professionalism and workplace conduct, yet here he sat, thoroughly entertained while one of his team members died a slow public death.

A few others were laughing openly.

Some were covering their mouths.

One woman had already pulled out her phone.

Sana pointed a finger at her.

“Don’t you dare.”

The woman lowered the phone, still laughing.

Even Amir looked away for a second, pretending to compose himself.

Only Zohan seemed unaffected.

He had joined the company two months ago and barely knew Sana beyond a few polite greetings in the corridor. He looked less amused and more confused, as though he had arrived midway through an episode and was trying to understand the plot.

Unfortunately for him, so was Sana.

Heat rushed to her face.

She turned back toward the stranger’s table.

Every eye was still on her.

Wonderful.

Absolutely wonderful.

Of all the restaurants in the city, of all the tables on this floor, of all the plates containing paneer tikka, she had somehow selected the wrong one with the confidence of a woman who paid rent there.

“I’m so sorry.”

Nobody replied.

A few people smiled politely.

Others seemed eager for the situation to end.

The handsome stranger continued looking at her.

Not angry.

Not amused.

Just watching.

Which somehow made everything worse.

“I genuinely thought this was my table.”

Silence.

Sana wished for the terrace railing to open and swallow her whole.

“And I thought…” She gestured vaguely between the tables. “I thought that was my manager.”

Her explanation sounded ridiculous the moment it left her mouth.

The woman sitting opposite the stranger bit her lip.

A man near the end of the table looked away quickly, clearly losing a battle against laughter.

Sana pressed a hand to her forehead.

Why was she still talking?

People who survived embarrassing situations walked away.

They didn’t provide PowerPoint presentations.

“I’m really, really sorry.”

Before anyone could respond, she spotted a waiter passing nearby.

“You!”

The waiter stopped immediately.

Sana had never been happier to see another human being.

“Could you please bring another plate of paneer tikka for him?”

The waiter blinked.

“For sir?”

“Yes, for sir.”

She pointed toward the stranger as though identifying a victim in a police lineup.

“I stole his food.”

The waiter looked from Sana to the plate and then back to Sana.

For one terrible moment, she thought he might ask for details.

Thankfully, he simply nodded.

“Certainly, ma’am.”

“Extra chutney,” Sana added.

Then, because apparently humiliation had become a hobby, she turned to the stranger again.

“I’m sorry. I honestly thought it was my table and my friend’s plate.”

A few people smiled.

A few looked mildly entertained.

The rest had expressions that translated quite clearly into:

Please leave now.

Please stop talking.

Please allow us to continue our dinner.

Sana understood the message.

Loud and clear.

With one final muttered apology, she took a step backwards.

Then another.

Then immediately turned and walked away before her mouth could volunteer any additional information.

Behind her, conversation slowly resumed.

Ahead of her, her team was waiting.

Waiting to ensure she never forgot this moment for the rest of her natural life.

The moment Sana reached her table, the laughter began.

Not loud, uncontrolled laughter. That would have been easier to tolerate.

No, this was worse.

This was the laughter of people who had just witnessed something entertaining and intended to cherish the memory for years.

Amir was the first to surrender.

The moment she pulled out her chair, he dropped his head into one hand and laughed.

“I’m sorry,” he managed between chuckles. “I really am. But I’ve never seen anyone steal food with that much confidence.”

“I didn’t steal it.”

“You took it from his plate.”

“I borrowed it accidentally.”

“Ah yes,” said someone from across the table. “The accidental paneer theft.”

The table erupted again.

Sana glared at all of them before sinking into her chair. “You people are terrible. Do you know how embarrassing that was?”

“You walked up to a complete stranger,” another colleague said, “complimented his paneer tikka, and ate it before introducing yourself.”

“When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”

A woman beside Amir nearly choked on her drink.

“When I say it exactly as it happened?”

Sana buried her face in her hands.

The worst part was that she genuinely couldn’t understand how it had happened. The stranger’s table wasn’t even close to theirs. Looking back, the entire thing felt like one of those dreams where you confidently walk into the wrong classroom and don’t realise until halfway through the exam.

“I thought it was Amir’s chair,” she explained for what felt like the tenth time. “I came back from the washroom, saw the buffet, saw paneer tikka, and my brain connected the dots incorrectly.”

“Your brain skipped several dots,” Amir said.

“Thank you for your support.”

“Always.”

The traitor even raised his glass.

More laughter followed.

Sana was preparing a particularly cutting response when she noticed Zohan watching the exchange with an expression that was halfway between amusement and confusion.

Unlike everyone else, he hadn’t spent years working with her. He’d joined the team only two months earlier and was still learning who everyone was. Most of their interactions so far had been limited to polite greetings and the occasional work-related question.

He waited until the laughter died down before speaking.

“Even if you thought it was Amir’s plate, you shouldn’t have done that.”

The table quietened.

Sana turned toward him.

“What?”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

His tone wasn’t judgmental. If anything, it sounded genuinely puzzled.

“Done what?”

“Eaten from someone else’s plate.”

Several people immediately looked interested.

A debate.

Excellent.

Sana straightened in her chair.

“If it’s Amir’s plate, it’s different.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It is.”

“How?”

She blinked.

The answer seemed obvious.

“Because I’ve known him for four years.”

“So?”

“So…” Sana searched for words. “We’re comfortable with each other.”

Amir looked alarmed.

“We are?”

“Not like that, Amir.”

“Good.”

The table laughed again.

Sana pointed accusingly at him.

“You are not helping.”

“I haven’t helped once this evening.”

“That’s true.”

She turned back to Zohan.

“My point is that friends do that.”

“They do?”

“Yes.”

“They just take food from each other’s plates?”

“Sometimes.”

“Without asking?”

“Sometimes.”

Zohan looked genuinely horrified.

Sana stared at him.

“How do you have friends?”

That earned a few snorts around the table.

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but only for a second.

“I have friends.”

“Apparently not close enough friends.”

“Or maybe they’re safe around me because I don’t randomly steal their dinner.”

The table exploded again.

Sana gasped.

“First of all, it was one piece.”

“One piece too many.”

“It was paneer tikka.”

“As if that somehow helps your defence.”

“It absolutely helps my defence.”

“No court in the world would accept that defence.”

“Then those courts are wrong.”

Even Amir nodded solemnly.

“She does have a point. Paneer tikka creates special circumstances.”

The conversation dissolved into laughter once more, and Sana found herself laughing too despite her embarrassment.

Then Zohan spoke again.

“Honestly, if you wanted paneer tikka that badly, you could’ve just brought your own plate, piled it with paneer tikka, sat down, and eaten properly.”

Sana’s eyes widened.

The audacity.

This man.

This man who had been part of the team for approximately seven minutes.

This man who probably still got lost looking for meeting rooms.

This man was lecturing her about eating properly.

She opened her mouth immediately.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying.”

“No, you’re judging.”

“I’m offering a solution.”

“A solution nobody asked for.”

“It seems relevant.”

“It is not relevant.”

“It would’ve prevented the entire incident.”

Sana folded her arms.

“Some of us believe in moderation.”

“You ate food directly from a stranger’s plate.”

“That was an accident.”

“But now we’re discussing ideal paneer-tikka acquisition strategies.”

The traitor actually sounded serious.

Several colleagues were openly grinning.

Sana was about to deliver a devastating rebuttal when Zohan added casually, “And for the record, if someone likes paneer tikka that much, I don’t see why they’d pretend otherwise. Just take a plate and fill it. At least everyone knows where they stand.”

“Why are you so offended?” Sana asked.

“I’m not offended.”

“You sound offended.”

“I just think it was embarrassing.”

“For me.”

“Obviously.”

“So why does it bother you?”

“Because I care what people think of…” He stopped abruptly. For the first time that evening, he looked caught off guard by his own words. The table fell silent. “…people on my team,” he finished.

Nobody looked convinced.

Least of all Sana.

Something about the comment made her pause. Not the paneer tikka part. The way he’d said it.

Matter-of-fact.

Without embarrassment.

Without the usual corporate dance people did around personal preferences.

As though liking something openly wasn’t something that needed defending. Or hiding. For a fleeting second, she wondered whether he was still talking about paneer tikka.

And then, entirely uninvited, another thought appeared.

Oh. And this is the moment he chose to announce that he kinda likes me.

The idea was so ridiculous that she almost laughed. Almost.

Before that thought could settle in properly, she pushed back her chair.

“Fine. I’ll just go bring my own plate and pile it with paneer tikka.”

~~~

Shabana Mukhtar