What I did on my holidays: an incident in the high Himalayas

Making my way through India's frozen north I arrive at length in the backpacker's paradise of Manali. On the drive up from the bus station I notice that several of the eateries spread along the winding mountain path have 'trout fish' advertised on handpainted signs outside. 'A pan fried trout, drawn freshly from the glacial streams, is just what I fancy after the grindingly relentless diet of dal, paratha and momo, enlivened only with the occasional gnasher crumbling piece of grit, which I have enjoyed up till now' I thought to myself. That very evening I dressed in my finest threads and sauntered down to the nearest cafe.
'Trout please' I say to the smiling waiter. He disappears, only to re-emerge with what apears to to be a large piece of hashish, which he places on the table in front of me.
'No, no, I want trout.'
He gestures to the narcotics.
'Ne, ne. Charas ne. Trout hai. Trout fish.'
He must be simple, for he cannot understand my flawless hindi. He just pushes the drugs a little closer to me.
'Trout. Trout. In pani hai. Ribe da. Ribe.' I realise I have lapsed into bastardised pan-slavic. I have little option but to leave fishless and forlorn. I have similar experiences at all the subsequent eating places. Perhaps 'trout' is some sort of code word. It looks like it's dal for supper again.