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Journalism of Courage
When faced with Delhi summer,one tends to wilt like a week-old cabbage leaf,preferring the air-conditioned somnolence of the great indoors. It is these times,which try the soul and antiperspirants of man,that juice sales shoot up. For real.
In Kailash Colony,attempting our best lilies of the sun-baked field impersonation,we espied a bright neon sign inscribed with the words Juiced Up,referring,either to a juice bar or a place dispensing lurid literature,a win-win either way. Finding it to be the former,we gratefully sank into bright pink beanbags,glad to be ensconced away from the sun. The outlet is tiny,the size of your average Baskin Robbins dispensary,without the calories. The menu,an entirely liquid one (of the non-fermented variety),is divided into three sections: eponymous juices,smoothies,and shakes. Fully aware of our bias,we concentrate on the smoothie and shake sections. After much musing and drumming of fingers (while the patient server smilingly waits) we decide to go with the Spicy Banana and Tutti Frutti smoothies for our main course,and the Cheeseberry shake (of the strawberry cheesecake persuasion) for dessert.
It is only when we reach the bottom of the barrel,er,the transparent plastic glass,of the banana shake we notice a human hair,seductively curved around the bottom rim,like a Bollywood vamp of yore. Extra fiber,anyone?
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