The Delhi Walla in the French capital.

[Text and photos by Mayank Austen Soofi]

The Delhi Walla began the dinner with a half-dozen oysters on the half shell. Then arrived the sole meunière. It was perfectly browned in a sputtering butter sauce with a sprinkling of chopped parsley on top. Then came the salade verte with a slightly acidic vinaigrette. The meal ended with a leisurely dessert of fromage.

I then floated out of the door of S***** towards the Eiffel Tower, just a 10-minutes walk. It was close to midnight and I just had my first perfect meal in France. Suddenly as I came face-to-face with the Iron Lady, the rumblings started.

It was Paris Potty, the French equivalent of Delhi Belly.

Searching for a toilet, I crossed the Seine, and walked until Alma Marceau, stopping briefly at the tunnel where Diana died 15 years ago. But the Paris Potty would not let me focus on the princess. Instead, I was dwelling on the fact that in Paris everyday my shit was of a different colour.

A minute later, I crossed the road and entered a cafe where a steward let me use his restroom. It was a night to remember.

The iron lady

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