For the love of food

Mellow yellow

2012-02-03T18:14:00.003+05:30

To borrow from Donovan, the Scottish singer songwriter who so influenced Lennon and McCartney with his style of guitar playing.

In my case, the yellow were the lovely garden fresh tomatoes I picked up from the market.

As opposed to the uniform sized, slightly oblong, cold storage vintage, tasteless red things we otherwise get, these had vine attached to them. Looked gorgeous in the late morning sun, sitting innocuously at one corner of the sheet on which the vegetable seller was displaying her wares. Wish I had taken a picture of that!

And as is wont, they have been sitting in my fridge, waiting for an opportune moment to be done justice to.

The moment was ripe on a Saturday. Usually, Saturdays are my experimenting days. Also, my uncle was in town. A good chance to practice the old cooking skills.

At the same time, I did not want to exert too much and turn my passion into tiredness.

So I decided to make spaghetti pomodoro and a grilled chicken.

While the boneless legs of chicken got the usual honey, balsamic, olive oil, red chili rub, the pasta was in for some special loving.

Pomodoro sauce from the yellow tomatoes and fresh basil from the balcony.

Doesn’t get better than this.

Tomatoes were chopped, blitzed with a handful of basil to make a thick puree.

I stole a slice of tomato and ate it.

Tasted like naturally packaged sunshine.

Bright, sweet, warm, juicy, fresh and deep.

Nothing like the artificially grown supermarket variety that gives colour and zero taste.

Crushed garlic went into the pan in a drizzle of olive oil, followed closely by the puree. A handful of sliced black olive went in for contrast and a lot of torn fresh basil added flavour. Seasoning rounded amped up the natural sweetness of the tomatoes.

The grill pan was also working overtime turning the chicken pieces into bronze abstract pieces. They glistened thanks to the honey, soft from the oil rub and mildly spicy from the chunky chili flakes.

Spaghetti got prepared “as per instructions on the packet”.

And then the spaghetti went into the sauce (never the sauce in pasta, always pasta in sauce).

We sat down to eat.

My world travelled uncle, my mother, my wife (my biggest fan and biggest critic) and yours truly.

I was waiting for my uncle’s reaction. Uncle who have had pasta in Napoli and Turin. Uncle who have had pasta in Rome and Florence. Uncle who have had pasta in Venice and Milan.

He took the first forkful.

And nodded with his mouth full.

Yellow tomatoes did not fail me.

Happy Birthday, Ma

2012-01-30T17:11:00.003+05:30

Her 74th. Every year she pleads with me not to make a big fuss. Every year I do not listen to her.

Not that we make a big fuss. Friends and well-wishers come over, relatives call and she gets embarrassed.

For the last few years, her birthday fell on weekdays, which meant all we could do was pick up a cake and wish her.

This year, it was a Sunday of a three-day weekend.

I wanted to bake a cake for her.

She does not like ornate cakes with cream filling. Nor is she fond of the butter icing variety.

Basically, all these years, we have been getting her cakes that she has not liked too much.

Time to fix that.

Off I went to New Market to buy the key ingredients – the syrup soaked little red fruits that masquerade as cherries, the candied ginger pieces, the sweet pickled citrus peels, the little black raisins that are called currants (they are not), the cashew nuts, the brown sugar (not the organic kind, the caramelized version) and the eggs.

Buying eggs in New Market is an experience in itself. Each egg is inspected against a lit bulb which has a kind of shade created by foil. Unlike in other markets where dud eggs are thrown away, here they make their way into the kitchens of unscrupulous eateries and bakeries.

My Aunt from Pondicherry was in town and she pitched in by slicing and dicing the cherries (?) and the peels et al.

Once that was done, they got a soak for about 6 hours in couple of shots of rum.

Sifted flour with baking powder, cocoa powder and spice mix (mostly cinnamon with a hint of coraiander, clove and allspice).

Creamed butter with browned sugar and eggs.

Mixed everything together and dumped in the soaked goodies. In six hours, they had swollen and became extremely aromatic.

Already, the apartment smelled festive.

An hour of slow baking and the cake was ready to be had.

All this happened the night before.

We let the cake settle in overnight.

Next day, with her brothers and immediate family in tow, she, very bashfully, cut her cake.

There were no candles, a feeble rendition of happy birthday to you and a lot of warm smiles. The brightest of those belonged to her.

Happy birthday, Ma.

Ashche bochor abar hobe (we will do it again next year).

(The kitten just happened to be there where I was buying the stuff)

Boombat biriyani

2012-01-19T14:19:00.004+05:30

Sorry. I am stealing a word from the iconic hit The Dirty Picture. I do not know the exact meaning, but it loosely translates to “Wow”.

But it is so appropriate in this case.

Trying to find an apt adjective for the biriyani I have had in Dhaka over the years is no easy task.

The biriyani varies from incredible to sublime.

My journey started with the venerable Fakhruddin, then with his only outlet at Shantinagar. My first kacchi biriyani encounter. I sold my soul with the first bite.

The discovery continued. From Fakhruddin I moved on to Star in old Dhaka. A really long restaurant, where the waiter disappears in the horizon after taking the order and reappears as if by magic with laden plates. Went on to meet Nanna’s Morog Pulao, not to be confused with chicken biriyani. A piece of well cooked free range rooster nestled in a fragrant bed of rice, perfumed with chicken broth. And from there on, the brilliant chicken biriyani of my super talented Mother in Law.

Weaned on a diet of Calcutta biriyani, which is again, tremendous, I expected something similar. Spicy, heavy, fragrant, comfort food. Mutton biriyani to be eaten with chicken chaap had been the formula for me.

I never knew biriyani could be so delicate. Such individual grains of rice hiding a luscious hunk of meat and a tantalizingly yellow chunk of potato. Not heavily spiced, yet fragrant. The rice partly white. And the killer app – the meat and rice cooked together. Unlike in Calcutta where meat and rice are cooked separately and mixed later.

And I am told goat meat is ideal for this dish as the cooking time depends on the tenderness of the meat. Too heavy meat (read beef) and it ends up undercooked. Too soft a meat (read chicken) and the meat disintegrate.

This trip, we decided to go back to Star. I gathered Fakhruddin has fallen from grace and Nanna Miah was too far away given the traffic.

As the four of us and the baby walked in, the manager beamed a broad smile and ushered us to a table. Apparently, the manager knew Hasan from his many trips there.

Then tragedy struck. We ordered our usual, three kacchi biriyanis, and for the only non-biriyani person, a leg roast (goat meat) with their version of naan. The waiter came back in two minutes and declared that they were all out of kacchi!!!

That is when our very resourceful Shomo swung into action. Balancing the baby on her lithe shoulder, she pleaded with the waiter to find at least one for the guest who after all is a mehmaan. Her puppy face worked like a charm. Soon we were served three steaming plates of kacchi.

Glistening pile of rice, succulent meat peeking out, a lump in the pile promising a perfectly cooked large potato, a boiled egg fried and a shammi kabab. That was the full platter. To wash down, some of the best borhani Dhaka has to offer.

The leg roast was a whole leg of a kid goat, simmered for god knows how many hours. The meat was spoon tender, fall off the bone. The naan was the only low point, rubbery, unnecessarily sweet and very chewy. But who’s complaining?

Forty minutes later, with meat sweat on our brows, we were four very happy souls, licking off the last of the firni that we ordered for dessert. And Shomo’s son, having eaten a bit of the naan and a bit of the firni, was happy to fill his diaper.

Boombat indeed…

Bhorta bhorti Dhaka (Dhaka full of bhorta)

2012-01-18T10:46:00.002+05:30

Those mashed goodies. Any veggies, most meat and fish. Some condiments.

A large part of Bangladesh culinary culture can be understood through these bhortas.

Food in Bangladesh is all about love. Every food that you eat bears the unmistakable touch of love of whoever is cooking it. Be it the doting mother of the professional cook. Cooking and feeding are two activities that also evoke high pride.

And bhortas are the ultimate alchemic product. It has to be done by hand. It physically carries the touch of the cook. How else do you say, “I love you”?

I went to Dhaka for a dear friend’s wedding. That is a separate story where the universe stood still for a moment when they were declared man and wife.

I stayed with a couple who are not just close friends, they are family. A lovely couple with a lovely house and a lovely kid. They gave me their room, fed me, and took care of my every need. They called people over to meet me. I was overwhelmed, overjoyed and touched.

To chronicle every meal that I had with them will take several blog entries to do justice.

So in this one, I will talk about one dinner where bhorta played the lead, and the only role.

Shomo and Hasan had called their immediate family members to have dinner and meet me as well.

Shomo asked me what would I like to have. I had a one-word answer for her. Bhorta.

Hasan went to the market and came back with bagful of goodies.

There was the taki mach (a kind of eel), little prawns, large eggplants, beautiful new potatoes, and shutki (dried fish). There were ruby red tomatoes and emerald green coriander leaves as well. All looked very promising.

Shomo worked her magic. Taki was beheaded, cooked and made bhorta ready. Prawns were cooked to perfection. Potatoes were boiled, peeled. Tomatoes cooked, coriander leaves pureed. Eggplant was charred and peeled. And the dried fish was cooked and flaked.

Loads of onion and garlic were fried and roasted red chilies added.

Each bhorta got a different treatment. While the potato was evenly mashed with the onion, garlic and red chilies, the coriander leaf purees got the green chili loving. Prawns went pungent and fiery and finely shredded. The eggplant was a pleasant surprise with a dash of tamarind along with the customary onion garlic. A tang you could not ignore.

But the star of the show, to me, was the shutki. Normally, whenever I had shutki bhorta, it is usually made into a delicious, unctuous, smooth, fiery red paste, redolent of garlic and chili as well as the dried fish. Agreed, it is an acquired taste, but trust me, once you acquire it, heaven awaits.

This shutki was not a paste. This shutki was a great presentation of texture and taste. Shredded dried fish (mango fish/Bombay duck/loitta) deftly mixed with sliced onion, green chili and coriander leaves with an undertone of mustard oil and lime. The bite of the fibrous fish, the crunch of the sliced onion, the sharp of the chili, the mellow of coriander leaves. Amazing.

It was all served with plain rice. There also was a very good beef curry but no one really paid much attention to that.

And by the time we were done, I was secretly hoping there would be some leftover for lunch next day.

Then there was none.

Lunch learnings

2012-01-02T16:24:00.002+05:30

Masala dosa. Idly. Utthapam. Sada Vada. Sambhar. Coconut chutney.

And then we run out of items that we can name from South India.

Thanks to the efforts of a few restaurateurs, we are getting to know about the extremely spicy Chettinad cuisine. Thanks to TV and other media, we are getting accustomed to meen moilee and neer dosa. Frequent travellers to Hyderabad have always talked about the fiery biriyani.

But the collective knowledge of us common people about South Indian cuisine pretty much stops there.

So when my dear school friend Ramana, over a very non vegetarian lunch at a new eatery asked me if I would like to have lunch made by his mother, I jumped at the opportunity. It was to be a pure vegetarian home cooked Tamil lunch.

On the said day, my wife and I, went to Ramana’s old place. None of the modern looking high-rise apartments. A single house that wears the signs of time proudly on its sleeves.

We went up stairway that had concrete balustrade. The floor was red cement. The ceilings high. The doors at an abgle to maximize space. Pure time travel.

Up two floors, the beaming face of Ramana greeted us. We walked in a house that has seen very little change over the last forty odd years. Except for the odd microwave here and the air conditioning there.

Ramana’s mother was there; smile as broad as daylight, busy in the kitchen with two skillets of dosa (to the untrained eye) sizzling. I do not know her name. I call her Auntie. Very maternal, very affectionate. Loved the interaction with her son. All through our stay, we found ourselves getting more and more attached to her. Soon, we were interjecting about her health issues and her lifestyle. Us Bangalis, I tell you!

We were ushered straight to the dining table. The table was set with dazzling stainless steel stuff. Another throwback to our childhood. When did we exactly make the journey from stainless steel to ceramics and china again?

In the middle of the table stood three very full bowls. One of which I could recognize as sambhar, the indispensible lentil soup. I have had many a sambhar, but none could protect the integrity of vegetables as well as this one. It was brimming with cubed veggies, each retaining their colour and shape. Each distinct in their texture and taste. And all, backed up by the mild spices of sambhar.

Explanations and descriptions came thick and fast. Another bowl had gossu, Tamil Nadu’s answer to baingan bharta. Creamy, tart and not too spicy. It brought out the best of winter eggplants. Coriander leaves were the only nod to the more famous cousin, baingan bharta.

There was pristine white chutney, made from fresh grated coconut. It was almost like having a cold coconut soufflé. Such was the delicate balance of, well seasoning, but more appropriately ying and yang.

Another bowl had a curry made of winter gourd and mung lentil. Spiked with curry leaves and punctuated with grated coconut, it was a study in serenity.

And all these were accompanied by two kinds of pancakes. One, a crisp, paper thin dosai made with rice flour. Hot off the skillet, it flew of, wrapped around curries and chutney. Then there was the adai. A thickish pancake made from lentil flour. And apparently the traditional way to eat this is with, wait for it, fresh butter. No exceptions here. Only that the butter was not hand crancked but store bought. But white and saltless. Again, a nod to the more elite northern cousin, aloo paratha.

The meal ended on a high with Auntie’s special kesari. Semolina slow cooked in ghee, mildly perfumed with cardamom and hued with saffron. The sweetness was not cloying, neither did it leave me disappointed. And the clincher was the molten ghee that was poured over it just before we had it. Sweet, soft, succulent, classy.

And how can I not mention the humble coffee of Auntie. This will beat most cafes in the city hands down. Do you know why? It was made with love and affection. No single origin, hand roasted coffee stands a chance.

Thoroughly satiated and happy, we had to get back to our respective work.

But the lunch to me stands as a lesson in Tamil cuisine and affection and sincerity.

Thank you , Auntie.

Thai tonight

2011-12-29T12:19:00.003+05:30

I did a day travel to Shantiniketan to see Poush Mela on Friday.

Went off very early in the morning with every intention to come back by 10 at night.

Finally made home well past midnight thanks to a gridlock just outside Calcutta.

Next day was Christmas Eve, so no work.

Except for the fact that we had called some very close friends for dinner and a tired me would not be the best thing to cooking.

We had planned a Thai dinner, a basic one with three kinds of curries, one obligatory veggie and rice.

And the helping hand was absconding for three days.

So you can imagine my restlessness at unnecessarily being delayed and sleep deprived.

Thankfully, my aunt was in town. The aunt under whose tutelage I practically learned to cook. The aunt who taught me to create lunch out of odds and ends. The aunt who taught me the finer points of ground turkey vis-à-vis ground chicken. The aunt who took me to my first Thai meal. The gawky, uninitiated, callow youth that I was, staring at the bowl of lime scented soup wondering at the sea of difference between that and my then favourite, sweet corn soup.

She had a cache of lovely curry pastes. The very ethereal green curry, the robust red curry, the exotic Panang curry, the rich Massaman curry, the mellow yellow curry. All in nicely packaged form. Ready to use. Ready to rescue me.

I had in mind a mutton (read goat meat) Massaman curry, a chicken and eggplant green curry and a fish in tamarind sauce. With it, a stir-fried kang kong (kolmi shaak for all of us Bangalis). And the ubiquitous fried rice.

The magic of supermarket shopping ensured I had ready to cook boneless, hassle free meat and fish.

While the rest of it was opening a packet and mixing together, some amount of real cooking was involved in the fish. I had to make the tamarind sauce.

I took tamarind paste and put nam pla (fish sauce), palm sugar (gur) and soy sauce and thinned it down with water. Tasted till the umami hit me.

Then I hit the wok with a little oil and a lot of garlic and green chilies. Nutty, fragrant, the kitchen smelled divine in no time. Diffused the sizzle in the wok with my tamarind mixture and slid in lightly fried fish pieces. Grated lots of fresh ginger and scattered chopped scallion. A few minutes later, I had this dark, inviting, almost sticky dish. The sauce was clinging to the fish pieces. The emerald green of scallion illuminating the sauce in slices.

The mutton took the most time but the end result was most satisfactory. Massaman curry is subcontinent’s gift to Thailand. Instead of an onion, ginger and garlic sauce, they use coconut cream as the base. And then the flavours are layered with spices that we are very used to. A rich brown concoction, that looks like a great mangshor jhol.

Green curry is the lightest of them all. Fresh basil leaves and kaffir lime leaves perked up the otherwise sedate curry. Chicken, cut in strips, soaked in all the goodness and became slightly plump and juicy. The cubed eggplants a perfect textural foil to the creamy sauce.

But the coup d’état was the dessert. Christmas pudding. Rum soaked dried fruits in a honey scented spice spiked batter, steamed for an hour to tenderness. I even flambéed it for maximum effect.

Dinner was an unmitigated success. The cuisine, appreciated. The dessert, swooned over.

I was drunk. Part from the cooking. Part from all that rum.

Hope you had a great Christmas too.

Darling Darjeeling

2011-12-22T17:32:00.003+05:30

No, our anniversary trip was far from the corniness the title might suggest.

It was fun filled, joyous, and relaxed and food fuelled.

Darjeeling has been dear to us for some time now and we often lament how we don’t go there often enough.

Fact is, we have been there once in all these years of our marital bliss.

That too, as plan B. Ran away from very urban Gangtok and sought refuge in Darjeeling. She did not disappoint.

The mall with its tourist crowd jostling for the slice of sunshine on freshly painted benches. The makeshift shops with customers buying monkey caps, socks and gloves in all kind of lurid colours. The more established shops selling quilt jackets to the shivering populace. The grand old bookstore selling picture postcards. The vista point with the old man selling tea and bhej momos. The drove of tourism starved Calcuttans looking for places selling maach bhaat and settling for chow mein and chili chicken. The furry dogs who seem to exude peace. The little orange sellers with their neon bright wares. The nattily dressed teenager minding his horse around the Mall hoping for the next kid to take a horseback ride. The winding roads leading to the Raj Bhawan and beyond. The venerable tea places selling mighty expensive tea that you buy going by the price.

And Keventers. The undoubted pride of Darjeeling. Sitting on the edge of the road leading up to Mall, it has been proudly serving happy eaters since 1911.

Last time, we spent a lot of time on the open deck of Keventers over pots of tea, stacks of toast, slices of ham, streaks of bacon and links of sausages.

This time, we chose our place of stay in Darjeeling Club, across the street to Keventers. A fine choice. Rooms with fireplace. Wooden walls. Large bathrooms. A little run down but full of character.

And the best part is when you stand on the balcony of the club, you can smell the food being served at Keventers. Every morning was a waking up exercise of the olfactory organ. It is difficult to explain the magic salty meaty aroma does to the senses.

How do I even begin to describe the food? And I’m sure the ambience adds miles to the taste. Hundreds of miles away from busy Calcutta, breathing smog free sausage-aroma laden air, hunger inducing chilly weather, smiling veteran waiters, steel teapots and laden plates. Trust me, the taste of the simplest of bread is magnified many times over.

We had a veritable feast every day for three glorious days. Breakfast and lunch. Unfortunately, Keventers closes by 7 in the evening or else it’s a no brainer for dinner as well.

Soft white bread, the kind we frown upon for being of no nutritional value, piled high with amazingly tasty, soft yet cooked bacon. Earthy, spicy, hot sausages with distinct snap and meaty insides. Salty, gamy ham flecked with white fat that seem to melt in the mouth. Unabashedly heavy, unashamedly unhealthy, incredibly tasty.

Tea was served in steel pots. I am a coffee person but again, the ambience got me to drink lots and lots of the best Darjeeling has to offer. The mild bitterness and tang, coupled with the beautiful top notes of unknown flora and fauna melted even my caffeine-hardened soul.

And the picture will remain incomplete without the mention of the hot chocolate. They used to serve it in a glass and that is how I remember it. Now, it comes in a mug, not super sized, but generous proportions. Thick chocolaty foam covers the steamy goodness. Each sip warms the cockles of the heart. The fantastic aroma almost acts as a tranquilizer. You tend to forget that it is your everyday common brand drinking chocolate. Such is the magic of Keventers.

We hope frequent walks around the Mall and up and down the slopes helped a little to lose the zillions of calories that we collected. The cheeks seemed definitely puffed. The belt, a little tight. And the smiles decidedly broader.

After all, anniversaries do come twice every year for us.

Anniversary awesomeness

2011-12-20T16:51:00.003+05:30

Unlike most, we have two anniversary dates.

One date, when we signed on the dotted line and promised to love and cherish each other etc.

The other, when we dressed up like Bengali dolls and were made to sit in the middle of a few hundred people to go through an age-old tradition called social marriage.

I am partial to the first date as our anniversary. After all, it is that piece of paper that will enable us to buy property together, get loans from banks, and some such (none of which we have done yet).

My wife differs. So what is new?

We celebrate both.

This year, on the second day, we planned a great trip to Darjeeling.

But on the first day, my favourite, dinner was the agenda.

The usual debate. Bengali vs. Chinese vs. “Continental” vs. Malaysian et al.

We settled on Italian.

A lovely not so little place called Fire and Ice, conveniently located across a Metro station was the destination.

Unfortunately, both if us had a rough day at work so the taxi ride to the restaurant was kind of quiet, bordering on boredom.

By the time we reached Russell Street and walked up to the place, boredom gave way to expectation.

Thankfully, the place was empty. We were ushered to a cozy little table by the bar that does not really have a large selection.

The best way to get over a rough day; order to your heart’s fill. We were at our best.

Two pizzas, one lasagna, an antipasti with thoughts of a dessert.

The firat pizza to arrive was a prosciutto and mushroom on a cheesy tomato sauce. Thin crust, with telltale char marks.

Though the place does not boast a wood fired oven, the industrial high temperature one did good justice to the nice local ham.

Stringy mozzarella, tangy tomato, salty ham, broiled mushroom. All piled on one thin disc. One slice each and we forgot our woes and worries. In no time, the pizza vanished, flew off the plate.

We wanted the lasagna before the second pizza.

It came in a bake and serve dish. None of that nouvelle cuisine slice of lasagna topped with microgreens.

This was the hearty, robust concoction with layers of good ground goat meat simmered in garlic and tomato for god knows how many hours.

The top adequately browned, gratinated with extra cheese.

We took up our forks and dug in.

Though the lasagna sheets left us a little disappointed in their meek submission and overcooked blandness, the warmth of garlic and the meat went down well in the early winter evening.

Then the second pizza arrived.

By that time, we were completely full. Or as a good Bangali would say, “fed up and fulfilled”. You need to be a Bangali to get that joke.

We totally overestimated our hunger and our capacity. In the days of yore, I, for one would not have spared a second thought about the second pizza. Today, to paraphrase The Beatles, I am not younger as I was younger in my days.

This was a classic pepperoni pizza. Little coins of pepperoni illuminated the pizza top with its glistening glory. The light red of the fresh tomato sauce created a perfect foil for the dark dried meat.

But we could not take another bite. Yet, we could not let it go to waste. And carrying a doggie bag from an anniversary dinner just did not sound right.

The solution, we picked up the lovely coins of pepperoni from the pizzas and let the base with the sauce go to waste.

The last piece of pepperoni was paydirt. Dry, salty, slightly curly from curing, meaty with a hit of spices. It was the epitome of all things porky.

A fitting finale to our awesome anniversary dinner.

Dessert we had to forget.

Orly or not...

2011-12-16T16:46:00.002+05:30

A staple at a good Calcutta Bangali wedding.

Fish Orly.

No clue how it came about.

Thick fillets of fish dunked in a batter of chick pea flour and deep fried.

Nothing complicated. Nothing fancy. The only standardization is that the fillets are longish in shape.

Best eaten warm and not hot.

Kalyan, a reputed blogger and food enthusiast had penned a lovely description of eating it at Bijoli Grill.

And that inspired me to try and create that magic at home.

I mean, how difficult can it be? Take fillet, marinade, dunk in batter, drop in hot oil, turn once, soon as both sides are golden, bring up to surface. Job done, right?

So off I went buying Basa fillets (lot more easily available than the ubiquitous Becty).

Marinated them in ginger and onion paste with a hint of coriander leaves (beginning of winter after all), salt, green chilies and a dash of vinegar.

Brought out my mother’s trusty plain-Jane non non-stick wok and heat up a shipload of oil (the cholesterol free version, worry not).

Made a kind of runny paste with chickpea flour, salt and a hint of turmeric (You need a little turmeric to convince the mother to eat this).

Dunked the marinated fillets in the batter and expertly, as is always shown in food shows, kind of smoothly let the fillet immerse in hot oil, ignoring the angry hiss of oil and the odd splashes.

The fillet sunk to the bottom of the wok. So did my heart.

A quick rescue operation with the old metal spatula (khunti) and I was able to turn the fillet over and brown the other side. It was way beyond the golden crust that lives in my memory from numerous wedding parties.

The rest of the fillets followed suit. By then, I got adept at turning them over at the right time to stop them from getting viciously browned.

But still, most of them had that deep fried look.

Sat down for dinner with a still heavy heart. Admitted my failure to Kalyan over text. Smiled at his encouragement.

And then, the family ate the fruit of labour.

Amazingly tasty.

Brilliantly crunchy outside and incredibly soft inside.

Spicy with the hum of ginger and onion. Tart with the vinegar.

The crust, very deep ochre (read brown!) thanks to the turmeric.

A quick spritz of lime and the dinner was an unmitigated success.

I may have got the batter wrong; I may have got the utensils wrong; I may have got the marinade wrong.

The end result may not have been anywhere near the classic fish Orly of wedding parties.

But let me tell you, it was a darned good attempt at fried fish.

Orly it may not have been. But it definitely made my wife and mother smile.

And that is all I strive for.

Mission momo

2011-11-22T16:05:00.002+05:30

Last Saturday, this fat middle-aged man, along with his very beautiful wife and few friends, who are not fat middle aged, went on a mission.

Mission momo.

You know, those Tibetan dumplings filled with tasty morsels of meat and vegetables. Steamed or fried or sautéed.

We have been planning since there has been a hint of winter in the air.

But for some reason or the other, plans are falling through.

So, last Saturday, we decided come hell or high water, we shall go.

The place of choice is a lovely, cozy little place called Blue Poppy.

A place most efficiently run by the indomitable Doma Wong, who you are most likely to find sitting behind the cash counter, keeping a hawk eye on the waiters, rushing up to tables, talking to customers, suggesting dishes, taking orders.

I have been fortunate enough to have known her, as I have been a regular at Blue Poppy for some time now and also for the fact that we are facebook friends these days.

The motley crew reached around eight thirty and occupied a reserved table.

Though we were an hour late, Doma was kind enough to hold our table even on a Saturday night.

Believers gathered, we proceeded to order.

This daunting task usually comes my way and I do not always like it, for I tend to impose my likings and disliking on to others. Democracy be damned where food is concerned.

This time, it was a little different.

The momos were an obvious go, with one of us choosing the chicken variety and the rest going for the porky kind.

Upon popular demand, the stir fried greens were ordered.

Doma suggested the next two items – the roast chili pork and the flat noodles with prawns.

I put in my two bits with the last item – q dashi.

And the food started arriving.

Pillowy off white momos. Filled with ground meat flavoured with garlic. Accompanied by bowls of hot broth. Each mouthful an ecstasy. Each slurp a sinus clearing acid thanks to the sharp vinegar served alongside. The roasted chili garlic paste acted as the perfect base for the meat and the garlic to play on.

Emerald green, well, greens. Smoky from the high heat it was cooked on. Salty from the soy sauce. Spicy from the red chilies. Fragrant from the whole cloves of garlic. Crunchy in each bite, it flew off the plates in no time.

Bronzed, dark chili pork interspersed with sliced chili, sliced onion and bell pepper. All caramelized perfectly in the wok. For a change, there was no waiting for someone to take the last piece. I pounced on it.

The flat noodles were similar to fettuccine. But that is where the comparison stops. Stir fired with little river prawns, liberally scattered with mixed veggies and scrambled eggs, it soaked up a lot of goodness from the ingredients. As far apart from fettuccine as Italy is from Tibet.

And the q dashi. A simple bowl of stewed potatoes with local cheese. Fiery hot. Silky smooth. The lumps of molten cheese wrapped around the chunks of potatoes, working their way around the slices of green chilies. A real tongue tickler. The ever so slightly lactic smell of the cheese, dulled by the starchiness of the potato and heightened by the sharpness of chilies. So extreme, yet so balanced.

The motley crew was satiated. The motley crew was bursting at individual seams. The motley crew had food sweat despite the air conditioning. The motley crew will be happy to come back in no time.

If Saturdays keep bring on such food delights, may all days be Saturdays.

Saturday sojourn

2011-11-18T11:19:00.002+05:30

An average Saturday.

Wake up late. Wife has to go to work amidst much grumbling by me.

Make coffee. Scrounge fridge for breakfast. Settle on eggs and toast.

Watch TV as wife actually goes off to work.

Shower late. Do not shave.

Have whatever is there for lunch.

Chit chat with Ma.

Around early afternoon, start bugging wife trying to find out if we can go out somewhere.

She finally finishes work and we end up in a mall.

The last Saturday of October was no different.

Everything happened like clockwork, including the mall where we were lounging in a café, eating toast and eggs, yes, again.

At that point, a phone call made the evening interesting.

Dear friends were around and wanted meet at a famous chop cutlet place near Lake Market.

We met there, had some deep fried loving and headed home.

We also decided to have late dinner together.

I already had plans to grill some humble tilapia and some not so humble Basa.

I also had plans to grill them with a soy ginger marinade.

No issues there. All I had to do was to season the fillets, throw some soy sauce and grate some fresh ginger, et voila.

Small problem cropped up when I discovered that there was no ginger at home.

Thankfully, our friends live in the same apartment complex and were more than happy to get us some fresh ginger from their stock.

Grill pan on fire, I slapped on the fillets. Happy sizzle welcomed me.
Quickly chopped up some green peppers and baby corn, tossed in the same marinade and grilled them too.

Sliced mushrooms and cooked rice. Tossed the mushrooms with olive oil and made mushroom rice.

Then, possibly for the first time, I plated.

A little mound of rice, one bronzed fillet of fish and a rough tumble of veggies.

The first bite always makes me apprehensive.

I went the classical way.

Some rice, little veggies and a piece of fish made up the first forkful.

And the taste buds exploded in a melodious rhapsody.

The bite of the ginger, the umami of soy, the smokiness thanks to grilling, the softness of rice, the earthiness of mushrooms and the nuttiness of olive oil.

A symphony of senses.

A unification of the dissimilar.

The sweet Tilapia basked in the soy glaze, happily caramelized to a mouth-watering bronze. Bits of skin were done to a snazzy crispness that added an extra oomph to the plate.

Light kick of green peppers coupled with the almost sugary layering of baby corns provided a brilliant cameo, amped up by the same soy ginger duet.

The bedrock of the plate was the rice. Slices of mushrooms and extra virgin olive oil provided both the platform and the depth needed to hold the orchestra together. The cello to the high notes of the fish and the veggies.

The friends were happy.

And an average Saturday got a little food magic to make it special

Pasta? Really???

2011-11-01T10:45:00.002+05:30

Pasta has always been my go to cereal product.

Simply tossed with olive oil, garlic and red chili, it makes a fine easy dinner.

Dress it up with fresh tomatoes and basil, and pasta pomodoro rewards you with bold taste and big flavours.

Prawns, tomatoes, basil together makes the humble bowl of pasta humming with songs of winter. Warm, wholesome, comforting.

And then there is pasta with pesto.

Nutty, herby, oily, lovely.

I can really go on and on.

Such has been my world of pasta.

The spaghetti, the linguini, the penne, the macaroni, the rigatoni, the farfalle.

They all have special places in my culinary world.

Till lately.

Till my world of pasta was shaken at its very root.

I guess I owe a bit of explanation.

Lately, I have been working hard, which is quite a rarity.

And working hard meant going to the market with my client’s sales team to help launch a much-cherished product.

An adventure that took me to diverse places around Calcutta for three days.

On the last day of this stint, I was at Metiabruz.

The birth place of Calcutta biriyani. The place where the impoverished Wajid Ali Shah introduced ho-hum potatoes to stretch the biriyani pot to feed all of his people. He really could not afford that much meat. And a legend was born. Today, in Calcutta and in many other places, we not only expect, but demand our piece of potato with our plate of biriyani.

But that bit of story has nothing to do with my experience.

Deep inside the market of Metiabruz, completely serendipitously, I saw a grocer selling unpacked pasta.

I have seen this done at many other markets but never paid too much attention to it.

But that day, I was curious. And asked the shopkeeper how is pasta eaten by those who buy it.

I asked because I really did not see a place for pasta pomodoro or pasta aglio olio.

The shopkeeper’s response left me stunned.

He said, “Why? Boiled with sweetened milk.”

No olive oil, no basil, no garlic, no tomatoes, no tuna, no sausages, heck, not even chicken…

He went on to add, “ Some people eat it like Chow Mein.”

But by that time, my mind was racing with the impact of sweet pasta!

Then, slowly, it dawned upon me.

Almost all cereal we eat, we eat either savoury or sweet.

There is the firni and the biriyani.

There is upma and sooji halwa.

There is wheat dalia and gehun ka halwa.

Even with the everyday bread, there is salty butter and the sweet jam.

So, why should there be only savoury pasta?

Sweet pasta, so be it.

Anyone game?

(The pictures used in this are mostly internet sourced. Apologies.)

Incredible Iftaar

2011-08-30T18:50:00.002+05:30

I experienced the joys of Iftaar for seven years of my life at a stretch.

From the very Indian Dahi Vada to the very Bangladeshi jilapi to the very Middle Eastern haleem.

And there is the ubiquitous date, power packed in a piece.

Ever since I moved back, I have missed this lovely practice.

Ramadan came and Ramadan went without us even thinking of Iftaar.

And it has been harder on my wife.

Some days, time permitting, she made Iftaar at home – the chickpeas, the puffed rice, the fried fritters, the tea.

And we would have this at the prescribed time.

But it never has been the same. It never had the very comfortable feeling of community eating. Sharing with your friends and near ones.

Iftaar turned out to be lonely affairs with us.

I have heard of Iftaars in Calcutta. But never had the opportunity to experience it.

As luck would have it, one of my clients, a major one, works out of an office which is smack in the middle of Iftaar district.

And as luck would have it, one meeting with the client ended around 5.30 in the evening, just the time for buying Iftaar goodies.

I took a small stroll down the narrow alley to a T intersection, following a crowd.

And there it was in front of my wide eyes.

A stall selling deep fried comfort consisting of egg, chicken, fish prawns and beef.

The comfort came in various shapes and sizes.

From the oval of egg chops, to the flat of beef cutlets to the casual dumpling of prawn origin to the cylindrical fish fingers.

As if to draw a contrast, the next stall had a couple of rows of watermelon slices, vivid in the crimson, bright in the green.

Adjacent to that, a man was frying vegetable fritters. Paper-thin slices of eggplant were getting a batter bath to be dunked in dark, hot oil of questionable origin. Spicy mash of potatoes was shaped into lithe patties and applied the same treatment. A mix of diced onions and chilies were mixed with a thicker batter to create fried dumplings. All to go with a packet of puffed rice.

One guy was quietly sitting in a corner, swatting flies off his mound of glistening, divine dates.

Mounds of airy vermicelli, both raw and cooked were on sell.

Luscious chunks of fresh cut fruits - guavas, pomegranates, papayas, apples, pears – were loaded on paper plates, each plate a potential carrier of dangerous stomach disorder.

Speaking of which, I had a severe case of diarrhea, which kept me from tasting anything.

I was stupid. As my doctor friend so succinctly pointed out later, it was the classic case of first in, first out.

At least, I got to see the Mecca of Iftaar in Calcutta.

Burger bravado

2011-08-23T12:44:00.001+05:30

My wife and I have been chewing on the idea of cooking burgers at home.

No biggie, right?

Not really. Being residents of an apartment complex, we have really strict fire rules and any kind of open fire is met with the inevitable visit from the high ups of the association of residents, the good fire service men and some irate neighbours.

So, as you see, cooking burgers at home does need discussion and planning.

And to add to that, our good friends kept telling us to try our hand at burgers.

So we decided to try out our grilling pan for burgers.

The pan has been a safe haven for grilled chicken, grilled veggies, grilled fish and such health heavy stuff.

But burgers have not sullied the ridged surface of the pan yet.

It was about time.

I went online to look for recipes. All stove top recipes called for eggs, breadcrumb and lightly frying.

My idea of burger does not entail any of the above. I like a char grilled burger, where the meat tastes like meat and very little else. Where tomato slices are fresh. Where mayo is thick and mustard is mandatory. Where onion is taboo. Where pickles or gherkins are a welcome addition. Where the bun does not fall apart at the first bite. and most certainly, where the patty is not fried, lightly or otherwise.

My wife’s benchmark of a good burger is the burger place at Gulshan in Dhaka. Many a dinner we had salivating over the very well done chicken cheese burgers. In my erstwhile non meat eating days, this was the only place which served a fish burger, real burger style.

My job was to better that expectation and experience.

My quest started with ground goat meat, that goes by mutton here.

In a North African inspired moment, I mixed the meat with toasted ground cumin and cinnamon powder. I also added some dried mint, diced onion and grated garlic. I completely eschewed breadcrumb and eggs. It was burger I was after. Not cutlets.

Then, just as the food shows tell you, mixed everything together in one meat dough.

Following further instructions from food shows and the resident gods and goddesses thereof, I wet my hands, picked up a ball sized mix and flattened it to form a sort of a patty. I’m sure I would have flunked my first course in burger making at Hamburger University. It was uneven, with jagged edges. Not the picture perfect patty that you see in the ads of golden arches.

The patties hit the heated pan with a nice sizzle. Juice oozed out of the side of the patties. After a few minutes, I gathered courage to slide the spatula under the patty and flip it over.

I was greeted with one of the most satisfying scene. A side of patty, nicely charred, with ridge marks.

The other side also behaved very well with me.

Patties done, I set about assembling the burgers. Toasted buns, smeared with mayo, topped with a patty, topped with a slice of tomato, topped with a squirt of ketchup. The other side of the bun got a smear of mustard and the burger was ready.

As my wife bit into her first burger in more than a year, rolled up her eyes and very spiritually moved her head from side to side. Much as I feared the worst, she, after the second bite, proclaimed this to be the best burger she ever had.

Springy to the touch, charred outside, almost pink inside, the crumbly texture of the meat offset by the firm tomato flesh, the silkiness of mayo countered with the bite of mustard and all of it held together by the sweetness of ketchup.

My bravado with burger had paid off well. Now I can go ahead and plan a burger party with dear friends as promised.

Good Morning Chinatown

2011-08-09T12:35:00.002+05:30

Like most great cities, Calcutta boasts a Chinatown.

Today, the hub of Chinatown, with its eateries and tanneries have moved to the Eastern side of the City, in a place called Tangra.

But they were very much a part of the Central Business District of Calcutta. In fact, it was right next to the police headquarters.

What remains today are a couple of old eateries and medicine shops.

And makeshift stalls selling breakfast.

Momos, meatball soups, steamed buns, fried crackers, dumplings of various sizes and shapes, fresh noodles, stewed liver, even some fresh greens and some fish.

I went there about five years back and remember a bustling street with at least fifteen stalls selling tasty morsels.

So, when my friend from Mumbai came to Calcutta and I find out that Chinatown breakfast is on his bucket list, I was too happy to accompany him.

The breakfast fever caught up with my wife as well and she decided to come along.

The only hitch, we were going on a weekday. The vendors tend to wrap up business and make way for office goers by 7.30 in the morning. Which meant to do any justice to the place, we needed to be there by 6.30.

A prospect that did not please my friend at all, neither did it cut much ice with the wife. In fact, I had to do my fair bit of emotional blackmail to ensure she comes along.

Steady drizzle since morning told us that the hot momos and the soup would be welcome. After a minor search, we found the alley.

And we were disappointed.

Precisely four stalls, all with identical steamers, all looking like they sell the same stuff.

My friend tried his best not to hit me over the head for dragging him out of a comfy hotel bed at 5.30 in the morning.

My wife was not so subtle. “Is this it?” is a civilized translation of her choice words.

Suitably chastened, I walked toward one of those stalls, the one that had a few customers. Thankfully, my wife and my friend followed.

As we stood by the stall and wondered what do we do and in our respective minds worked out plan B, the lady who owned the stall took off the lid of the steamer.

A warm mist of mildly spicy meat aroma hit us.

It was magic.

We forgot that there were too few stalls. We gamely dug into whatever was on sale.

And soon we hit pay dirt. A stall selling glistening meat patties. The same stall had fried sweet rice balls with sesame and nut filling. They also had a kind of fritter made with cucumber.

The momos were absolutely average. We found some steamed buns as well with some mystery meat filling. There was meatball soup, to be perked up with bright red sauce of questionable ingredients.

We ate them all. My wife even bought some fresh greens. We also wandered in an old medicine shop to discover an equally old lady who refused to be photographed since her hair was wet from the drizzle! True to form, that shop had an abacus on the counter. A shop that belongs to a different era, a different setting.

We forgot our initial hesitation (putting it mildly) and came back happy souls.

One thing kept me thinking all along though. Are momos of Chinese origin? Or are they Tibetan in nature.

Let us leave global diplomacy to others.

Birthday Bash

2011-07-19T22:34:00.004+05:30

Birthdays come and birthdays go.

Even at my soft middle age, birthday has some significance.

To begin with, I look at birthday as commencement of a new chapter, an occasion to be thankful for what we have.

Since the last nine years, a new significance has been added to my birthday.

I lost my father nine years back on my birthday.

Some say sorry to me. I say what is inevitable is inevitable.

But what that means is I do remain a little pensive and lost in my own thoughts.

What cheer me up are the many good wishes that keep pouring in from all corners.

By evening, usually, I am back to my normal self.

This year was no exception.

My birthday was on a Saturday. Which meant I had the day off. Unfortunately, my wife had to work through the day.

I spent the day mostly with my mother and in the evening, caught up with my wife. We tried to catch a movie and do a bit of retail therapy.

We also planned a dinner at my friend’s recently opened restaurant.

This is where the story really begins. If you have gotten bored reading the above, please have a little more patience.

Three of us went there. My mother, ever skeptic about restaurant food. My wife, the recent experimenter. And I, the all eater, lover of all food. Quite a trio. To please us is a task for any restaurateur.

My mother does not like fishy smell. She will not touch anything that is remotely tart. Chili and she are not the best of friends. She has recently grown a healthy disliking for all things meat.

My wife loves to be surprised, but within boundaries. Her taste varies from appreciation of the extreme to loving the most known.

I am always looking to push the boundaries of taste and flavour. Give me salted caramel any day over caramel custard.

We got down to ordering. My chef friend helped us out with suggestions that will please our distinctly different palates.

We settled for a baked crab appetizer, my mother for a becty simmered in aam ada sauce, my wife for a classic vindaloo.

I stayed true to the season and requested the hilsa. Baked with a crust fashioned out of something very Bengali, very traditional – daler bori.

I really do not have too many English words to describe a bori. Pulses made into a smooth dense paste and pellets created out of that one convoluted description come to mind. A classic ingredient of the Bengali fish curry.

The genius that my friend is, he created a breadcrumb style coating out of bori on one side of a boneless piece of hilsa.

Then he baked it to flaky perfection.

A bite and I was mesmerized. He took two classic Bengali ingredients, hilsa and the bori, and fused them, nay, willed them together to create this culturally relevant visually different dish. The mild crust of the bori yielded pale hilsa flesh. The lentil bite of the bori paved the path for the creamy fishy delight that is hilsa. He did not take the skin of the fish out, which led to an unctuous undertone to the whole dish.

It came with a tomato pilaf, another nod to modernization. It also, veering off tradition, came with steamed veggies. But they soon became secondary. I did not want to do the foodie thing of trying everything in each forkful. I was happy with my bites of traditional twist.

We went home, a happy, satiated family to have some close friends over to cut the cake.

Food, family, friends. What more does one need on a birthday?

See what I mean? Birthdays are occasions to be thankful for what we get and what we have.

Tasting Time

2011-06-10T15:17:00.001+05:30

My lifelong ambition came true. I was called for a food trial. Which basically meant many courses of outstanding food. Heaven on earth.

My chef friend is about to open his signature restaurant, which will have his, well, signature dishes.

My wife and I jumped at the opportunity and promised to be there as soon as we could wrap up business for the day.

Smack in the middle of prime South Calcutta, close to Gariahat is the place.

We reached and entered the dining room to be greeted by blonde wood chairs and tables. The chairs had bright multicoloured cushions providing material comfort.

The room was brightly lit – none of the dim light of fancy places. Two air conditioning machines made us forget the humidity outside.

The man himself came down and greeted us like the old friend that he is.

He took us through the day’s menu – and interesting take on, in his language, contemporary Bengali cuisine.

His cooking exploits are well documented and well reviewed by many worthy people. And we have been eating his creation for close to ten years. So expectations ran high.

The Maître ‘d asked for my order and I left it to the chef as I have for the last ten years.

I have no clue what he ordered for us.

With a wicked smile he went back to the kitchen.

And an unbelievable parade of creativity unfolded in front of us.

What came first were two halves of baked crab, in its shells. Nothing unusual there. At many respectable eateries of Calcutta will you get baked crabs. Crab meat mixed with cream and topped with cheese, baked. Simple, right?

Wrong.

A spoon of this hit me with a huge Bengali wave. What this magic man had done is to create a clever mosaic of crab meat with wilted iponema, otherwise known as Kolmi. Studded with garlic and baked with cheese, it was truly an East meets East.
We moved on to discs of potato, covered in semolina, crisp fried with hot cheese sauce. An interesting take of every Bengali’s favourite, fried potatoes. Unlike very Bengali’s usual serving of alu bhaja, this came boldly on a slab of black marble with julienned carrots doing a cameo.

The net item was nothing short of genius. Escalope of chicken sautéed with paanch phoron, the pungent spice mix of Bengal. I don’t know about you, but I expected a lot of flecks of fried spice.

What came instead was a very clean piece of boneless chicken, pink at the core, with just a hint of paanch phoron. May be it was dusted with the paanch phoron powder, may be paanch phoron was used to temper the oil. I need not know. All I know is that I got to taste chicken like never before.

The main course was a simple square of river Becty, lightly fried. It came in a béchamel sauce enriched with garlic chutney. Yes. The boldness of garlic and the subtlety of béchamel. West Meets West?

After an interlude of a palate cleansing orange sorbet, we were taken back to the river in the form of stir-fried prawns. It looked anodyne enough, with its customary coriander leaf garnish.

But one bite and I was left stunned. The prawn, only the freshest possible, was swimming in a puddle of green grapes and green chilies! The sweetness of the grapes gave way to the hot kick of the chili. The buttery prawn provided the perfect canvas for this.

But the best was saved for the last. A pork chop with apple sauce. Sounds classic. It was anything but that.

What came was a succulent, meaty portion, with a dollop of tart apple sauce. The first deviation from the sweet apple sauce. But the clincher was the pork chop itself. It was not one of those grilled ones. This was cooked a la our very own kosha mangsho!!! How I wished for some fried flatbread instead of the accompanying garlic toast… The sauce, marbled with coriander leaves, was strongly reminiscent of Sunday lunches and wedding banquets. Warm, comforting, filling, tasty. The very essence of feeling good.

And that is not all. How can you have a restaurant without dessert? And how can you have a food trial without dessert.

So there was a soufflé. A soufflé of green coconut and mustard. A marvel. A mound of snowy pleasure. A martini glass of warm moonshine. The creaminess of the green coconut and the mild fire of mustard played a celestial duet. This was not just East meets East. This was East rediscovers East.

I always have been a fan of my chef friend. From that evening onward, I shall worship him and his talent with food. I have always known that food can be fun. Never knew it can be so much fun.

The Aunt

2011-05-25T17:15:00.000+05:30

My aunt was in town. Aunt who helped inspire my love for food and cooking. Aunt who, with her mother, introduced a whole new world of cooking and eating to a chubby child of a solidly middle class couple. Hyderabadi Biriyani, lemon soufflé, stuffed pomfret, venison, farm fresh eggs fried, tri colour pilaf, cookies and cakes, roasts and bakes of all kinds. Things those were completely exotic to the fish and rice eating, Sunday mutton devouring good boy.

And ever since she moved to Pondicherry, her visits have been short and infrequent.

But this time, she agreed to spend a whole weekend with us. Something that overjoyed the entire family and we went about planning for the visit in our own ways. While the mother was busy thinking of making the bed extra comfortable and the curtains changed in time, the wife almost prepared a list of shops that the aunt must visit. A salon session was also planned.

I got down to what I do best – menu planning.

Aunt has had some trouble with her system for a while and does not indulge in heavy food any more. So eating out was not an option. Things were already working out in my favour. A green signal for me to cook!

I know she loves pasta. The wife also encouraged me to cook pasta for her. She just arrived and was staying where she usually stays. We thought it would be nice to cook pasta and bring it to her. There was only one thing that I did not bank on. The wife spoke to the aunt and gave me exactly an hour to plan and cook…

Quickly threw together some farfalle that I had in boiled water, made an impromptu Alfredo sauce with walnuts and nutmeg and saved the day.

But deep down inside, I was not satisfied with that. I wanted to do a little more. Pay a little more attention.

So when she cam over to stay, there had to be a pasta dinner.

Carefully planned, the pasta was penne, the sauce a version of marinara and the cheese the locally available mozzarella.

I, being at my multitasking best, crushed and chopped the garlic, pureed the tomatoes and washed the basil in a whirr of motion.

Then I proceeded to cook down the tomato puree with black olive, basil and garlic for about an hour. I also marinated some fish with salt, pepper, olive oil and balsamic vinegar, which I intended to grill.

The sauce reduced beautifully to a deep crimson. I tore basil leaves by hand and strew them about to impart maximum flavour. Sliced black olives were added with some of the brine to create another dimension of tartness. A little seasoning later, the sauce was ready to house the penne.

It is very therapeutic to see pasta mingle with sauce. Angle cut penne quickly started their swim in the rich tomato sauce, creating a beautiful chiaroscuro, a play of the light and the dark. The sauce did not remain inert. It found its way into every nook and cranny of the penne, ignoring and negotiating the minor roadblocks put up by the olive slices. The dark green flecks of basil provided the simple punctuation marks for the entire essay in the pan.

The simply grilled fish acted as the neutral counterpoint for the insanely rich, sweet, salty, tart pasta marinara.

And to top it all, the aunt loved it. The wife did too. I was happy.

Yahoo!! Yogurt!!!

2011-05-04T23:16:00.000+05:30

Not the exclamation you would expect from this carnivorous Bengali who swears by all kinds of edible animals.

But this humble acidulous stuff was the reason of some immense delight to a few diners one random evening.

Summer has well and truly set in, bringing with it the usual lethargy, the ennui and the listlessness.

So, when my wife told me that she had invited one of her friends for dinner and the bait was my cooking, I was alarmed.

I was alarmed because that would have meant sweating in our kitchen, slaving over the stove for a few hours in this oppressive heat (I know, it is going to get worse…)

That is when I put the great word into practice.

Strategy.

This called for a definite strategy to counter the negatives because cooking is very therapeutic to me, sweating is not.

I decided that instead of really “cooking”, I will “put together” stuff.

In a jiffy, I came up with the idea of quick grilled chicken, marinated with balsamic vinegar, garlic, red chili flakes, salt and sugar.

I also thought of a quick salad with poached prawns, iceberg lettuce and lemon mustard vinaigrette.

And I also decided that the piece de resistance will be the dessert.

And that’s where humble yogurt stepped in.

Being summer, I certainly wanted a cool dessert. Fruits are not plentiful in the market. Caramel custard sounded so blah. And I had a tub of yogurt in the fridge.

I decided to make the yogurt into an adult. I had an old recipe for a caramel yogurt. Basically, yogurt set on top of caramel sauce. As you eat, you get more and more of the caramel. You can also stir the caramel in the yogurt if you so wanted. All that was fine. But it was still Mishti Doi in disguise. I wanted more than that.

So, I took the plain yogurt and drained whey out of it. And proceeded to make a caramel sauce. Easy peasy, right?

I could not be more wrong. The first two attempts produced dark, bitter, viscous stuff. The third attempt solidified into lovely spun sugar that I certainly did not want.

As I was rapidly eating into the sugar stock at home, somehow my last attempt produced honey coloured, thick, redolent caramel.

I felt high. Taking the sauce off the heat, I threw in a pinch of salt. And then proceeded to beat in some of the whey to thin out the caramel.

I had a cup full of quivering sauce that smelled so wonderfully of tangy yogurt. I decided to up the tang and poured in a good squeeze of lemon juice. Yes, the yellow stuff that I picked up when I went abroad. Immediately, the aroma of tart sweet lemon, tangy whey and deep caramel filled the kitchen with happiness and expectation. We could not wait to taste the sauce.

I got our bowl of drained plain yogurt and gently beat in the sauce to remove all lumps. Grated some lemon zest in it. And left it to chill in the fridge.

After patience worth an hour, the yogurt had set like some gorgeously decadent white chocolate fondant. It glistened with caramel streaks. It was specked with bright yellow of lemon zest. And I do not have the words to describe the smell.

The well bronzed grilled chicken, the serene green and pink salad and the garlic bread.

Followed by bowls of creamy, airy, tangy, sweet, lemony yogurt. Streaked with dark honey coloured caramel spiked with a little salt. A casual scattering of lemon zest resplendent against the pillowy folds of the yogurt.

And I did not need to break a sweat.

A summer new year

2011-04-12T20:27:00.000+05:30

AKA Poila Boishakh.

Time for the very venerable Calcutta Bangali tradition – Choitro sale.

And not just new clothes. Everything from the crochet cover for your microwave to the plastic jacket for your washing machine to ersatz flowers to music.

Everything is on sale and everything got to go.

And go they do. Over fifteen frenzied days.

This is not the stuff that you get from a swanky mall. No branded stores will sell these.

But Gariahat will. To the uninitiated, Gariahat used to be second only to New Market, when it came to shopping for fineries. Today, it is a long stretch of hawkers, selling things that you possibly did not know existed.

Consider this. A shop called “Baba Lokenath Store”, named after the famed sadhu, selling Bangkok jewellery. And they say so. “Baba Lokenath Stores – Bangkok Jewellery.”

Then there is Mega Mart, the discount store whose line snakes around the previous four roll counters, who does brisk business only selling to those patiently waiting in line.

Shopping during Choitro sale is not for the faint hearted. Heated arguments with the hawkers, faux anger and irritation, mock despair, secret delight of striking what you think is a bargain – only a glimpse of the gamut of emotion that runs amok.

But crowd watching? Now that is a different sport.

My workplace is smack in the middle of that battle zone and I have been experiencing the frenzy up close and personal. I, being a large person, am an obstacle on the way of the seasoned shopper. I take up too much space on the sidewalks. I move too slow. I gaze too long at “Baba Lokenath Store”. But you know what? I take in the sights and sounds more than anything else.

The other day, as I started my customary walk to the taxi stand, I passed by the innocuous muriwala. He sitting there with his glass jar full of peanuts and roasted beans and boiled peas and diced boiled potatoes and shredded coconut and chopped onions and sliced cucumbers and oily pickles. I was, as always, feeling puckish. So I picked up a packet of that stuff.

It was made to order stuff. Less muri, more chanachur, little boiled chickpeas, a sprinkling of bhujia, a scattering of peanuts, a smear of pickles, a drizzle of mustard oil, some diced boiled potatoes for the body ans some diced cucumbers for the crunch. Sans onion and chili. I did not want an over the top experience.

Munching that from a packet made of old newspaper, called thonga, I walked down crowded Gariahat. That stuff kept me going. The spice of the pickles expertly countered the first collision with the lady laden with shopping bags. The bite of the bhujia took care of the alpha male head of family shepherding his herd through the zone. The softness of boiled potatoes made the crossing of the street easier. The puffiness of the muri negotiated the myriad shopping carts placed haphazardly all along.

And all this aided by the smell of kati rolls, the sight of fish fry, the mound of pakoras, the oodles of noodles, the oily drip of beguni. By the time I reached the landmark sweet shop, stone’s throw from my taxi stand, I had finished my muri. I felt strong enough to brave the crowd inside the sweet shop and pick up some shorbhaja.

But that story is for another day.

Breakfast Bonanza

2011-03-08T10:16:00.002+05:30

Aunty De Saram told me that there would be string hoppers for breakfast.

I was excited. Love string hoppers. Aren't they called idiappam in India?

Noodly stuff, made in small bundles, to be eaten with curries.

Let me clarify that curry in Sri Lanka has a wider scope than in India. While there are various kinds of curry in India, the butter masala, the jhol, the tenga, the Chettinad style, to name a few, in Sri Lanka all food cooked with spices and sauced are curries. No differentiation. Widely varied in taste, curry surprisingly has no subdivisions here. At least to my knowledge.

It was Sunday morning. I got up late. Despite sleeping through most of Saturday, sleep somehow favoured me through the night. Slept like a log. Some years back, I might have said slept like a baby. These days, I dare not compare my anything with a baby. Middle age and all…

I came downstairs to a welcoming cup of tea. It was strong with milk and sugar. Whatever little sleepiness I had was chased away.

Aunty De Saram was busy in the kitchen. The night before I heard her grinding rice. I went to sleep to the sweet sound of the food processor efficiently producing what is needed to create string hopper magic.

If you think that string hoppers could be had with any old curry, you will not be too wrong. But not in the De Saram household.

When the table was laid, I found a light yellow curry, a darker prawn curry and a pol sambol (coconut chutney).

And the platter full of pristine white string hoppers. Sitting seductively, invitingly. If they were Bollywood starlets, I’m sure their look would have been described as “come hither”.

I helped myself to four of those. And poured the light yellow curry. I have had this in the past. The lightness of the curry almost perfectly compliments the airiness of the hoppers. No one overshadows anyone.

Four string hoppers later, I reached for my next three. It was time for the prawn curry. It looked intensely spiced, almost dark. I was little apprehensive as I mixed my hoppers with it.

I could not have been more off the mark.

The prawn curry was a benchmark of balance. The sweetness of the prawns and the shallots, the salt, the heat from green chilies and to cap it all, the acid from, wait for it, kaffir lime leaves.

I was not expecting kaffir lime leaves in Colombo. As you would not expect guava in Sweden.

I mistook the taste as lemongrass, a more commonly used aromatic.

I learned that Aunty De Saram had gone through considerable trouble to get this very expensive and exclusive thing, as she wanted the curry to taste just so.

My last three string hoppers were eaten with pol sambol. A taste I have learned to like. The nuttiness of coconut, the hit of chilies and the high note of lime. All coming together in a palate cleansing symphony.

But you know what? I ended the breakfast with just one more hopper and a spoon of the prawn curry.

After all, revelations do not happen every day.

Lunch I liked

2011-03-07T10:42:00.003+05:30

What do you do when you suddenly figure out that you have a completely free weekend?

And if the weekend happens to be in Colombo?

I was pleasantly surprised upon my checking in on Saturday morning in Colombo that all work will only begin on Monday.

I was staying with the wonderful Henri and Asoka De Saram, otherwise known as Uncle and Aunty De Saram. Trust me, if you meet them, you will also call them Uncle and Aunty.

This posed a problem of plenty. There are so many things to do, as in any city I might be visiting, that I was really spoiled for choice.

First call of action, a deep sleep. I travelled for 12 hours and through the previous night. I deserved the sleep. Nay, I needed the sleep.

Sleep was well aided by Aunty De Saram’s wonderful breakfast. Toast, scrambled eggs with tomato and shallots, little chicken sausages and some of that famous tea.

Woke up fresh and hungry. Did not want to disturb the De Saram couple. Resorted to texting my friend in Calcutta for some numbers. He came here recently and spent some wonderful time eating.

He sent me the number of Raja Bojun, a Sri Lankan restaurant. Apparently, it is famous for its lunch buffet.

Raja Bojun is on the wonderful stretch of road called Galle Face Road, bang opposite Cinnamon Grand, a boutique hotel. I took a trishaw (what we call auto) to get there.

I do not shy away from a good game of bargaining and the trishaw driver looked like a prime subject. As I started haggling over the fare, he gave me a lesson in philosophy. He said that he was a local and sure, I could flag down any passing trishaw and get a little cheaper ride, but what he offered was peace of mind. If I, by mistake, leave something in his trishaw, I was assured that it will be there if I came looking for it later. I could not argue with that.

As a reward, he took the scenic route. A lane that lead straight to the ocean side, the Marine Drive.

With the first right turn, the ocean kept our company. My heat and dust battered soul was drinking in every iota of the saline, moist air. My cement and glass tired eyes was greedily drinking the placid look of the water. A pizza delivery guy zoomed by in his motorcycle. A lonesome man walked by the seaside. A narrow gauge rail line carried a train on its way to Galle. World was an OK place.

The entrance to the place was very deceiving. I have never seen a more corporate looking walkway, lined with small water bodies, large glass doors, and black corridor. A few turns takes you to a large glass double door. You walk in and are amazed.

You face a huge bay window, overlooking a very placid Indian Ocean. A rail track passes by. A large space with well spread out tables. Nicely air conditioned, despite the fierce sun beating down through the windows. Part of the ceiling is also of glass.

A large wooden elephant stands guard while me, the mere mortal marvel at this newfound wonder. A silent thank to my friend and I was off inspecting the spread.

Red rice, fresh looking salads, emerald hued sautéed greens, crab, fish, chicken, assortment of chutneys, various sambols, fried shallots, curried yams, creamy yellow daal and a veritable spread of desserts lead well by the king of the heap, watalappa.

And there was a live hopper counter. A chef was at it, heating the pans, pouring batter into them, carefully covering and heating them to a mellow point, expertly breaking an egg in each of them. I have seen it all before. I have loved it all before.

What really caught my attention is the curious way the chef was heating up the empty hopper pan and then bringing it close to their ears. I was told that they were looking for the telltale “singing” of a perfectly heated pan. The heat made the metal make a very low hum and that’s how the chef knows the pan to be ready for a batter bath.

I was sitting in an almost empty restaurant. I was nursing a cold ginger beer. I was making multiple trips to the buffet table. I was staring at the ocean. I was being won over by the serenity, the simplicity of the setting, the warmth of the waiters who by mistake got me two consecutive glasses of hot water and smilingly corrected themselves each time.

Was the food authentic? Who cares when you are that happy, that relaxed. And I’ll tell you one thing. The ocean looked very authentic.

A bunch of spinach

2009-12-17T14:49:00.001+05:30

I had invited couple of very close families for dinner one Saturday. And as is wont, went about my business of planning the menu.
“Planning” is a very loose word that I am using here.
It was more of browsing through random websites looking for inspiration, recipes at least.
Truth be told, I have been suffering from a severe lack of food epiphany. Happens every now and then, and I usually am able to shake it off in a day or two.
This particular spell of barren imagination and innovation has been going on for the last couple of months and was irritating me like nobody’s business.
To boot, I was travelling on the Wednesday, Thursday and Friday before the said Saturday.
Which basically left me with little time to think through, little time to innovate, little time to shop.
Shopping did not worry me as my better half is just as good as I am at that, if not better. It was the lack of a menu that bothered me.
And what is worse, I was being completely unable to come up with a cohesive plan.
I took off for my trip, promising my wife to mail her my thoughts on the menu and a shopping list.
Neither happened as late as Friday evening, when I was sitting at the airport, waiting to catch my flight back, panicking about the impending Saturday evening.
My flight was scheduled to land around midnight, giving me no leeway there as well
I sheepishly called her and told to buy the usual – mushrooms, tomatoes, chicken, prawn, garlic, rice, basil.
Very mundane. Very usual. Her apprehension was palpable. This is a usual shopping list, barring the basil.
But what magic can one bunch of herb do?
Well, I landed around midnight and tossed and turned through the night nursing a bad stomach.
Woke up next morning with a sinking feeling and no idea of how to salvage the dinner.
I rummaged through her shopping from last evening.
And there it was, in front of my eyes.
A large bunch of season’s new spinach.
Fresh, crisp, bright, promising.
Light bulb started to flicker inside my dull brain.
I looked further and unearthed a carton of milk, another regular purchase.
By now I had a clear vision of a glorious way to create a centerpiece for the dinner.
Spinach Florentine. The answer to my quest.
Put the milk on boil. Found a small pack of buttermilk in the fridge. Emptied it in the milk,
Slowly, the milk turned into soft, creamy ricotta cheese in front of my eyes.
Drained in a large sieve and I was left with a big mound of the soft cheese just waiting to be pureed with the spinach.
The spinach was wilted on stovetop and put into the food processor with the cheese.
A generous grating of nutmeg, some seasoning and some crushed garlic cloves.
A quick whizz later, I had a pale emerald pool of emulsion, to be transferred to a baking tray and baked till almost set.
Going with the innovative vein, I broke few eggs on top of the puree and sprinkled some paprika on top.
It turned out to be a real face saver.
The soft yielding cheese melted into the ever so accommodating spinach puree.
Garlic added the kick. Nutmeg mellowed down the kick. Eggs added to the silkiness.
Agreed, there was chicken, skillet baked with basil oil and poached pears in syrup.
But had it not been for that bunch of spinach, imagination would not have kicked in.
I would certainly not have been writing this piece.
You see, Popeye is right.

Rice Cooker

2009-08-04T18:36:00.000+05:30

I am a self confessed gadget freak. Especially of the ones in the kitchen.
Convection oven, food processor, sandwich toaster, coffee maker. They all adorn our kitchen cabinet.
I have invested in various kinds of can openers and cork screws.
Even our drinking water comes out of a mechanical water purifier.
I believe in pressure cooking.
Hand held mixers are a must in my life.
But I had steadfastly avoided the thing called a rice cooker.
It was an affront to me.
How can a machine cook rice in my household?
Aren’t I the ultimate rice cooker? Don’t I come up with those lovely, fluffy, fragrant grains of perfectly cooked rice on time, every time?
And besides, you can’t really standardize rice cooking time, right?
Brown rice will take more time than long grain Basmati. Par boiled rice and raw rice are two different animals, for crying out loud.
I also have never been a great believer in measurements in kitchen.
Eye estimation is my mantra.
So when everyone kept telling me to measure the proportion of rice and water, I refused.
I went the pasta way. Rice and lots of water. Eventually it all comes together. Then I drain the rice the old fashioned way and no one has complained yet.
All that changed thanks to my Mother in Law’s intervention.
My wife had to take a very short trip to Dhaka to close some family matters.
She was gone for only two days.
I went to pick her up from the airport as she came back.
She emerged from the arrival lounge with not a single tell tale duty free bag in tote, but a bulging packet.
A rice cooker in all its glory.
My Mother in Law had decided that we are the best inheritors of her rice cooker.
And the daughter promptly lugged it back with her.
I was aghast! A rice cooker!
But I kept my thoughts to myself, being the politically correct individual that I am.
Soon, we had guests. Close friends have bought an apartment in the same complex as ours.
They had come over for the first time as owners of the flat and we invited them for lunch.
My wife took over the mantle of cooking from me and announced that she will single handedly do the needful, with the able assistance of, yes, the Rice Cooker!
I snickered and waited for the expected SOS.
After all, a machine is no match to my years of expertise of boiling, testing and draining rice.
But much to my dismay, no hollers from the kitchen came.
Instead, a very appetizing aroma drifted all over the place.
I was curious. Could it be possible that some good might come out of it?
Pottered around for a while and when i really could not keep my curiosity under check, went and asked her about the menu.
She proclaimed a simple menu of pulao and chicken curry. With some fried fish. And just to provide a healthy angle to the otherwise calorie laden menu, a green salad as well.
Moment of truth came.
The guests arrived, very hungry and eager to sample the product of the rice cooker.
Out came the pulao.
Nicely creamy in colour, studded with cinnamon sticks, smelling rich of onions and ginger.
Every grain was separate and glistening. Steamy aroma filled the room.
Lunch was an unmitigated success, chicken curry and fried fish playing perfect second fiddle to the pulao.
And it made a convert out of me.
Now I have sold my soul to the altars of the rice cooker.
My love story with kitchen gadgets continues.

Seeing is nothing

2009-06-18T11:36:00.000+05:30

This one ought to bore you to death.
I am back to tell you another story of another get together that our school friends had.
Really, we seem to be trying our best to boost the sagging food industry by patronizing it at the drop of a hat.
Not that I am complaining.
So when the news of two Bombayite (I stubbornly and foolishly resist the name Mumbai) friends turning up in Calcutta (as I do in case of Kolkata) reached us, we did the obvious.
We organized a get together.
We decided on a nice venue at a South Indian Non Vegetarian restaurant.
Yes, such a thing does exist.
South Indians do not just live on idlis and dosas, you know.
They have a rich tradition of fish, sea food and various kinds of meat.
And it non vegetarian South Indian tastes divine, albeit a little foreign to our mustard oil ripened palate.
I volunteered to fix the menu and organize the liquids to lift our spirits even further than they already were, what with long lost friends resurfacing and all.
I tried my best to judiciously mix known and the unknown.
So, you had a rich and redolent Hyderabadi Mutton Biriyani nestled next to a bright and crisp Beans Poriyal. Ambat dal and Coriander Rice jostled for space. Murg Nawabi and Subz Handi went hand in glove, owing their origin to the great food city called Hyderabad. For dessert, we had the ubiquitous ice cream and something called Double ka Meetha. Basically, deliciously fried bread soaked in perfumed thickened milk.
Ok, I did make the spread sound simplistic.
It was anything but that.
Thing which I left to the restaurateur, who, I take no little pride in counting as a friend, was the “starters”.
The reason I have them within quotes is the fact that often enough, starter end up being the high point.
That was the case here.
We were served, in a plate, something that looked like home fries.
You know, the thick cut variety with a wedge.
Needless to say, I was disappointed.
After all, I did not come to an “authentic” South Indian place to have fried potatoes!
Nonetheless, I picked up a piece, ignored the white sauce that accompanied it, and took a bite.
It was a veritable belief-system-altering stuff.
I will never forget that bite.
From the crackle from the first bite, to the crunch of the first chew, to the soft interior which seemed all to ready to yield to my taste buds, it was simply brilliant.
I discovered that they were fried idlis.
Not the lumpy round kind you may find at any average place.
These were delicately steamed and then flash fried to give a crunchy exterior with a soft inside.
My next bite, after I kind of recovered from the ecstasy of the first one, was with the accompanying sauce.
Tangy, nutty, sweet and smooth.
It probably had yogurt and coconut and sesame.
But that is only a guess.
Rest of the dinner lived up to the opening act very well.
We ate, drank and made merry.
And I, once again, was aware of my one adage in life – seeing is nothing, eating is everything.

Mutton medley

2009-06-02T15:30:00.000+05:30

We rediscovered!
OK, ok. I have to get out of this habit of starting my writings without any background.
Allow me to expand.
Some of our school friends have rediscovered each other lately.
This was fueled by the fact that the beloved and respected Rector of our school passed away recently.
Most of the batch mates came for the condolence meeting. At least most of those who live in Calcutta.
We exchanged phone numbers, email ids and other coordinates and promised to meet up every so often.
One of those often happened to be a dinner at my place.
Three of my school friends were coming.
Two promised to bring their significant others.
One said he would come alone.
Now was the most exciting part.
Menu planning. My raison d’être.
Few phone calls were made and dietary restrictions were gathered.
Seemed that barring few allergy calls relating to prawns, eggs and chicken, all else was game.
My tendency is to veer toward the unknown and create a surprise every meal.
I decided to do my standard mushroom rice and a whole fish Mexican style. I also decided to roast some potatoes and onions together to give a stir fry feel to it.
But what would be the piece d’ resistance? Chicken was out of bounds. But certainly mutton was not.
I thought long and hard. I wanted to create something different, yet comfortingly familiar.
Can’t tell you why, but I was pretty sure that I wanted to do a stew. How, was the burning question.
I vacillated between Italian and Mexican inspirations. And in the end, settled for an Italian classic of Tuscan origin.
But it had to be made a little more familiar.
Out went the red wine reduction. In came tomato puree. Recipe called for black olives. I refrained. I increased the amount of garlic. But there were two things I did not mess with.
One was red peppers. No, not the hot kind. The bell pepper kind. Sweet, bright, full flavoured. They brought a whole new, yet familiar dimension to the dish.
The other was fresh rosemary. I rubbed them as marinade into the meat. Fragrant, sharp and distinctive, it blends very well with red meat to mellow the otherwise gamy nature of the meat. And mutton can be very gamy.
The result was very satisfactory. A stew that looked red and rich, redolent of garlic and the perfume of rosemary. Ying and yang. Would have please Confucius himself. After all, the great man did proclaim that a dish must strike a balance between colour, flavour, taste and texture.
Here it was all. Succulent meat simmered in silky sauce. Interspersed with bites of fried garlic. Smelling almost flowery with rosemary.
I can only hope my friends will give me more opportunities to create such eccentricities.
And I can only hope that they liked it as much as I enjoyed making it.

Diet download

2009-05-28T16:47:00.000+05:30

My wife is on a very weird diet these days. She only eats only protein one week; protein and some veggies the next week; protein, veggies and some carbohydrate the week after. Beyond this, I lose track.
The only implication of this with me is the fact that I need to shop accordingly. Gone are the days when I would mindlessly pick up vegetables of all sorts and red rice and good fresh water fish. Now I have to be little more careful and think ahead of time and be aware of which week of the diet cycle we are in.
Not that she is taking the diet well. After all, how much of grilled chicken and boiled eggs can one person have? She is not the most fish friendly person and hence, that is not an immediate solution.
As a result she has been eating very less and headaches are frequent.
Every cloud has a silver lining.
In this case, a lining comprising of food otherwise not allowed in the cycle.
She called from work complaining about headache.
I was at the market scratching my head over what to buy.
Sensing her discomfort, I asked her if she would like to have noodles for dinner.
I guess she was really suffering because she readily agreed.
This gave me new impetus to shop.
I had seen some organic shallots and basil leaves.
Picked them up.
Went to the frozen section and picked up prawns, imitation crab and something called “Premium Fish Fillet”.
Honestly, never heard of Premium Fish!
Also I picked up some packaged egg noodles.
In my mind, I was priming myself for some seafood noodle stir fry.
Quickly got home, defrosted the seafood and chopped some shallots and garlic.
Did the usual frying and sautéing and simmering with the veggies.
Added the seafood and stirred, but not for too long.
After all, all good cooks advocate against overcooking seafood.
Then I boiled the noodles, drained and tossed it with the stir fried stuff.
And presto!
Noodles were reduced to a soggy mess!
Fish pieces and prawns were scattered all over the place.
Crab strands hung limply like they were having a bad hair day.
And I realized my mistake.
I should have put the noodles in cold water before mixing which would have stopped them from cooking any further.
But in my haste to cook dinner, I went ahead and made the cardinal error of them all.
Overcooked the noodles.
Not even the bright green perky basil flavour could salvage it.
No amount of soy sauce or vinegar made it taste any better.
It tasted like fish flavoured toothpaste, heaven help us!
And it did nothing to reduce my wife’s headache.
Smart woman, she quickly whipped up toast and omlette.
And to rub salt in an already bleeding wound, she folded in mushrooms and black olives in the omlette, making it as distanced from basil accented sea food noodles as possible.
That, coupled with some medicines cured her headache in a jiffy.
And I, instead of humble pie, got to eat dinner, however breakfastish that may be.
Moral of story: diets are not something to be messed with.

Feast for the eyes

2009-05-11T17:42:00.000+05:30

My Sri Lanka sojourn has come to an end. Many memories, many friends, many great meals. I am totally ready to go back whenever.
I just have to share one last experience that I had there.
Last week of my stay was blissful. My wife joined me and I took off from work to spend some time in this beautiful country without having to worry about work and meetings and deadlines and presentations.
The first two days of her stay was spent roaming about the quaint, friendly city that is Colombo. Shopping at a very vibrant department store, picking up knick knacks at an eco friendly boutique, eating fried crabs in front of a heritage hotel by the ocean, arguing with a trishaw driver whose knowledge of English rivaled my knowledge of Sinhala, lazing around with egg hoppers for breakfast in the guest house. You get the picture.
For our last weekend, I had carefully planned a trip to Unawatuna, a beach resort South of Galle. Before tsunami struck so mercilessly, Unawatuna beach was considered to be one of the most beautiful beaches in the whole wide world. We just had to go there.
Meticulous planning included calling up the hotel, wrangling a great deal from them which included breakfast and dinner, finding out the train timings and figuring out how to reach Unawatuna from Galle station. Sri Lanka has no domestic flight system. So you travel either by rail or by road. We chose rail primarily because the particular train journey came with very high recommendations from every quarter.
According to all information, the train to Galle was supposed to be at 6 in the morning. We went adequately prepared and adequately underslept. Reached Colombo station, commonly called Fort station, around 5.15 in the morning. The station was teeming with people. I realised that a large number of people travel from out of Colombo to work there and that was time for them to go home for the weekend.
We managed to find the right ticket counter and were informed that the train will come around 7! We had an hour and a half wait ahead of us. We were directed to platform 5. Once we reach there, we tried to find out the approximate place where the second class compartment will stop. One kind soul pointed to the end of the platform. We trudged along there, one fairly large Indian carrying a backpack and his petit wife with a bandana tying her hair back carrying a crumpled tote bag. We made quiet a spectacle!
Reached the end of platform and double checked with a local who promptly pointed to the direction we came from! We gave up and stood in the middle of the platform waiting for the train to arrive. Can’t lose sanity for a place by the window.
One train chugged in. It was 6.35 in the morning. I asked a person if this would go to Galle. I got the most surrealistic answer. “Sometime”, he said!
Desperate, I asked a young boy sitting by the window and he vigorously nodded his head, hopefully signifying in the affirmative. He also proceeded to tell me that he is going to Matara. Now, my background research had told me that Matara is beyond Galle. So that particular train had to go through Galle. We quickly found a compartment with II written on it. As luck would have it, there were just two empty seats, none by the window.
Train left precisely at 7. Looked out and saw the familiar sight of urban life in a sub continental city passing by. We dozed off. About five minutes later, we were woken up by the crash of waves! Surely not! Had to be something else.
I will never forget what we saw. The train was chugging along the Indian Ocean. Out of the window, we could see the endless mass of water, churling waves. There was very little gap between the rail and the ocean. So the waves were crashing almost against the train and one could feel sea spray on the face. We kept looking out, mesmerized. In none of our previous trips did we experience such proximity with the sea while travelling.
Soon the scene changed to serenity. Beaches started to show up. Strips of sand on which people were jogging, walking, doing stretches. It went on to reveal a luxury resort. We could see the blue swimming pool overlooking a slightly larger body of water.
But soon enough, tiredness got the better of us and we fell asleep.
Woke up when the train came to a sudden halt. More surprise was in store for us.
The train had stopped on a bridge. An extremely calm looking river was flowing gently below. Green water slowly meandering towards the sea. And the sea was about 100 meters away. We could clearly see the river gradually morphing into the ocean. Dark green quickly became sea blue. We were some distance from the city and the colour of the ocean had changed from a murky blue to a bright clear blue.
The ride lasted three hours. And the ocean was a constant companion. The supporting cast changed. From the river to a highway which ran parallel to the rail line, to small towns boasting sea food shacks, to resorts and hotels taking advantage of nature’s gift to the island, to villages with chicken and vegetable gardens in the backyard. It was no super fast train which gave us plenty of time to soak all this in. We passed some known names like Moratuwa, Benthota. A bunch of people got out at Hikkaduwa, another very popular place. Finally, the train rolled into the Galle station. Our journey had come to an end.
The night before, we were at a party and got back late. Had very little sleep because we had to get up and catch the train. In the hustle bustle of it all, we never got the chance to get any breakfast. And we were famished. But, for once, physical hunger took a back seat. Our minds were full of the beautiful ride, the beautiful sights and the vastness of the ocean which kept us company for three hours. Our eyes had a veritable feast. Breakfast, for once, had to wait.

The watermelon incident

2009-05-11T17:38:00.001+05:30

It was yet another get together- dinner, menu planning and all the rest of it. Exasperating, some would call it. But not me! I thrive in these situations.
A few friends decided to get together and take advantage of the mid week break called May Day and dinner was the call. My place, despite the non-functioning lift, was the chosen venue. In fact, the broken down lift was probably a plus point, working up our appetites as we climbed up and digesting on the way down. With a couple of friends leaving the country just after, the occasion required special attention.
My food loving soul kicked into action. I decided that besides the time tested pasta, fish and mushroom I wanted to do something special this time, something out of the ordinary. I wanted something that would make people sit up and take notice. But what could it be? What mouth tingling, mind jiggling dish can I create that would be appreciated to that extent?
A very dear colleague of mine, who went to the US to complete his long pending education, met all sorts of interesting people there including a qualified chef, who was taking a break to complete her studies. In a moment of graciousness, he had introduced me to this lady and we had been in touch since. I discussed the issue of this dinner with her and voiced my desire to do a simple yet new dish. She asked me about the different ingredients available here and in a flash of inspiration, I said, “Watermelons- lots of them!” She simply said, “Why don't you do watermelon with olive oil and balsamic vinegar?”
It struck me as a stroke of genius. According to her, this was an Italian classic. They cube watermelon and pour vinaigrette on it. It instantly becomes a salad.
I did my own version. In place of balsamic, cider vinegar did the job. And a lot of cilantros gave it the summer feel. The customary dose of lemon juice to perk things up went in as well and I served the melon in its shell.
Bright crimson pieces of watermelon, swimming in a pool of cloudy liquid, emanating the essence of vinegar, shone from the olive oil. And the little green islands of cilantro specs garnished the dish. You could almost see the little bits of lemon catching the light. And all this mixed with the blushing juice of the melon made quite the spectacle. It brought out the oohs and aahs from my assortment of friends that I wanted.
I stood by hoping it tasted half as good as it looked.

Fishy, very fishy

2009-05-11T17:35:00.000+05:30

“Mache bhate Bangali” is an age old adage we grew up with. Generally speaking, I do not disagree with it at all. There are not many comparisons with a delectably done Koi Mach with steaming rice, or Chitol Macher Kofta, or even, the ubiquitous Taki Macher Bhorta. Mouth watering stuff!
My family is no exception. Both my wife and my mother swear by fish and rice preparations. The weekly fish market visit is a ritual. I usually walk a little behind them; my wife, with her dupatta against her nose to ward off smell, my mother with the years of fish buying experience written all over her demeanor. They will go from stall to stall, inspecting fish and asking for the prices. I’ll let you in a little secret here. My wife does not know fish from her kundalini. All she knows is ilish and anything else looks foreign to her. But that does not stop her from going up to the fishmonger and asking questions knowledgably. And I watch the whole scene from a safe distance, only stepping up to foot the bill.
You must be wondering where I am going with all this. Who wants to know my family’s shopping habits? Well, so happened that this fish loving, fish buying family went for dinner at a fine Dhaka eatery. I ordered, amid much protest from my family members, a special fish and rice dish. Protest, you wonder?
I don’t blame them for protesting. You know me. I am very experimental with food. I had ordered something called sushi! Yes, dear reader. Raw fish with rice, with horseradish and pickled ginger. One fish dish that does not go down well with Bangalis. But I am an exception. Blame it on my mindset. I just love the fresh taste of succulent raw fish topped on a beautifully glutinous ball of rice. You know what, to begin with, it looks incredible. Add the fact that an average plate of assorted sushi is made of different fish. The pink of salmon, the translucence of cuttlefish, the reddish brown of tuna, the bright orange of prawn, a mélange of colors.
Not only that. There is a ritual associated with it. To start off, you have a small bowl in which you mix soy sauce and osabi, the horseradish. Then you pick up a sushi and dip it in the mix. Let it stand in it for a while. Then pop it in your mouth. And you have satori. Suddenly, the meaning of universe is clear. All problems cease to exist. You come close to nirvana. I must say here that I am strictly against biting into a sushi. It just spoils the effect. The whole thing must be put in the mouth for the best result.
Well folks, sushi is fish and rice. At least in the very basic form. It is an acquired taste, but once you acquire it, becomes addictive. My family saw the point, but they struck one deal with me. They will only delve into sushi which are made of rice and cooked fish. Yes my friends, that can be had too. You can have nicely fried fish wrapped inside rice.
My love for shushi continues. My family’s love for macher jhol continues. We have found way to have our respective likings coexist. Weekend lunches are strict fish curry and rice affairs while the occasional evening out almost inevitably ends up in the sushi place, where I revel in raw fish, and my family in the cooked variety. Nonetheless, we remain true to mach ar bhat.

Watalappan

2009-03-20T15:39:00.000+05:30

Here I go again! More of Sri Lanka. What can I do? I am having so much fun! And slowly, but steadily, exploring the intricacies of this wonderful cuisine. Cuisine that is almost familiar, but not quite. Cuisine that gives a sense of familiarity yet keeps you guessing.
The caretaker at the guest house has turned out to be a fabulous cook, much to my delight. In a short span of time, she has clearly figured out that this man is into culinary experimentation. So one night I got chicken soup, redolent with leeks. Other night, macaroni with peas and carrot in a wonderful cheese sauce spiked with cloves. But the cake, almost literally, was a breakfast, where she brought a flan dish with an innocuous brown round thing and said “Watalappan, for you.”
I had heard of this dish from my friends. I knew that it is a pudding of coconut and like most other puddings uses eggs and milk. Given my past experience of Sri Lankan food, I half expected something chock a block with coconut, something not too sweet (I am yet to encounter anything that is very sweet) and something chewy.
My colleagues had told me that one can buy Watalappan off the shelf at most supermarkets. But my search so far yielded nothing.
And that is why, one day, I gathered the courage to request the care taker if she can make it. I was greeted by considerable surprise at my knowledge. Then she went on to inform me that it is am extremely involved process, consisting of grating fresh coconut, mixing eggs and baking. I had given up at that point.
So you can imagine my surprise when the flan was presented to me. I had just finished a sumptuous breakfast of Kiribhath and jaggery with some very ripe papaya and a glass of milk. And just could not eat another bite.
But I could not possibly refuse! It was put in front of me after all.
I took a spoon. Actually, was looking for a knife to cut a slice. The spoon, surprisingly, went very smoothly into the pudding and out came a perfectly stable chunk. The rest of the pudding did not collapse, as I was dreading.
I ate that chunk of pudding. And what a revelation!
The pudding had a silky texture, very non chewy, but did not slide down the throat. Coconut was a gentle hint and not the central role. Jaggery provided the rustic sweetness with a cutting edge. Eggs were evident in the silkiness of the texture. I honestly do not know what held it together. And the piece de resistance – the faintest hint of nutmeg, transporting you immediately to a different time zone where Roman priests used to burn nutmeg as incense.
I have heard a lot about the Mexican flan which makes liberal use of the vanilla pod and lemon zest, but have never tasted it. I am told, that is the best example of flan under the sun. But this side of Atlantic, I think I have found a worthy competition to the famed flan of Veracruz in the middle of urban Colombo. Hope I saved some for dinner!

Kottu

2009-03-18T23:11:00.001+05:30

“What in the wide world is that?”
“Excuse me!”
“Come again.”
All right. I’ll come clean. I thought of using a normal title for this piece. You know, the kind that has alliterations. Where the second word and the fourth word rhymes. Titles that gives you a clear understanding of what can be the possible topic. At the very least, topics that are teasers.
But I swear, Kottu is the most appropriate title for this piece. Anything else will take away from the simplicity, the unexpectedness, the delight that I experienced at this road side restaurant on Marine Drive in Colombo.
It was my second day in Colombo. Some of my colleagues accompanied me for a walk by the very expansive Indian Ocean. A slight drizzle made the walk a bit messy, but we were more than up to it. Especially me, driven by the desire to soak in all that was around me in this beautiful city. Off we went a few kilometers and pangs of hunger struck us.
Now street food is not very common in Colombo. In fact, it is very hard to find any food on the streets. You have got to dive inside one of the many restaurants that are all over, selling hoppers, patties, cakes and pastries. And Kottu.
Sure enough, we ended up in a small restaurant. One would be hard pressed to give it any award for hygiene. The place was brightly lit though. And the plastic topped tables and chairs were occupied by locals. Always a good sign.
We settled down to be confronted with a menu which no doubt extolled the virtues of the impeccably prepared Chinese influenced dishes. But my colleagues obviously knew better. Quick words were exchanged with the waiter, none of which I understood given the fact that they speak Sinhala. They seem to be happy about life. I asked what was coming up. They said that they have ordered fish Kottu. Sounded absolutely exotic and fine by me.
Nothing prepared me for what happened next. The quaint silence of sea side was shattered by the clanging of metal against metal. Deafening sound almost drowned me. My friends kept on talking as if nothing happened! They merely told me the Kottu was being prepared! This I had to see.
I walked to the large flat pan set near the entranced. The cook had already started the process. He tossed in some onions and some shredded fish. Next went in a handful of veggies. Then, to my utmost surprise, something that resembled paratha! All this was topped up with an egg as well. And then, the cook proceeded to pick up two metal spatulas and started dicing everything on the pan with the sharp edges of the spatulas. And this was no random chopping. He drummed up a steady, racy, rhythm. This was the source of the deafening noise. People are so used to it, they do not even stop talking nor raise their voice in this din.
After about a couple of minutes of this chopping and drumming, the entire mass, or mess, whichever way you see it, was poured on to a large platter and topped with chopped green onion. And then it was served to us with a bowl of some gravy.
We tucked into it. A kind of chow mein, with a prominent fish taste. Except that in place of noodles, we get finely diced paratha! The process was fascinating. The sight was appetizing. The taste was eclectic. Chewy, yet soft. Fishy, yet with the crunch of veggies. Tangy, yet spicy from the gravy. And the silky strands of eggs. Nothing like I have tasted before.
And that my friend was Kottu. You get all kinds of Kottu. Vegetable, egg, fish, chicken. But when in Colombo, why do anything else but fresh sea fish?
My culinary delight had just begun. And I can safely say that I am dearly looking forward to the next great experience here. I am sure I will not be disappointed.

Where the shack has no name...

2009-03-16T13:35:00.000+05:30

I am in Colombo. I am here on work. But that certainly should not stop me from enjoying this beautiful country and do what i do best – eat!
It is a very welcoming country. From the moment you arrive, you are surrounded by smiling helpful people. Even the immigration chaps are very accommodating and helpful. And visa is mostly given on arrival, for the duration of a month. Not many questions asked. No fees, to boot.
I got out of the airport in a very happy state of mind. My car was waiting for me. The airport is a little out of the city. About an hour away from colombo. It is a very pleasant drive to the city. With little villas and shops lining the road. As you get near the city, you get to see more and more modern shops. As if issuing a warning – you are about to enter a city.
But the city is just as pleasant. Wide roads, not too many high rises, no excessive honking of horns, mild traffic by Indian city standards. And a stunning waterfront. The endless Indian Ocean crashing onto the edges of the city. A rail line separating the ocean and the Marine Drive.
My office is walking distance from the ocean. Across probably the busiest road in Colombo and you can see the waves. Past a few international fast food chains you can walk down after work and take a leisurely walk along the rail line. And amaze at the constantly changing scenery that a rail ride along this line will offer. But that story, another day.
One of the first order of business at any new place is sorting out food issues. Generally speaking, finding out where to eat. Rice and curry is the staple in Sri Lanka. But don’t despair. The curry is like nothing you have tasted. Rich with coconut, spiked with chillies, bright with turmeric, dotted with curry leaves, with chunks of sea fish, it is a whole new world altogether.
My colleagues, very generously, have taken charge of my lunch. After a couple of days of eating in front of the office from a ubiquitous rice and curry place, they decided that I was in need of variety.
So off they took me, down the lane that leads to the sea front.
Just before we hit the sea side, they dived inside this small, lurid yellow place. It had a hand written sign in Sinhalese. The menu was also in Sinhalese. Not a word of which do I understand. Inside, we found straw thatched buffet tables, laden with big earthenware containing the day’s specials.
And there the true nature of Sri Lankan curries unfolded itself.
One pot contained rustic looking steamed red rice. The other, green jackfruit in a thick gravy. The third, string beans stir fried with coconut. Yet another with a very brown gravy in which hunks of tuna were floating. And the last one had humble potatoes, cubed, floating in pale yellow curry made of coconut milk. Known ingredients, unknown way of preparation.
Everything was cooked in coconut oil, which tends to lend a nutty flavour to the food, which may not be to everyone’s taste. But me, I was reveling in the hunks of tuna, the shredded jackfruit and the crispy beans. All mixed with red rice. And as if just to remind me that I still was in vicinity of India, a piece of fried papad topped the mound of rice.
In a different country, in a restaurant by the sea side where the menu is in a language that is unknown to me, with newly made friends and a whole new cuisine – can life get any better? We will find out, won’t we?

Tangra Night

2008-12-04T14:54:00.003+05:30

Some day, I hope to go to Beijing. Primarily, for the fabled Peking duck and other culinary delights. Secondarily for the fact that it is the most convenient place on earth to see the Great Wall. The other option is the moon. Yes, the only mortal made structure visible on earth from the moon is the Great Wall of China.

This piece has got nothing to do with the country. In fact it has very little to do with the food as well. At the same time, I could not resist the temptation of “penning” (we don’t do that any more, so “typing”) a unique experience I had the other day.

Most great cities around the world are blessed with a Chinatown. San Francisco probably has the most famous one. New York has a thriving one. So does Toronto, London, Paris, Melbourne and so on and so forth.

Calcutta is no exception. And yes, it is a great city!

The part of Calcutta which used to be populated by the Chinese people used to be a place called Terreti Bazaar. Commercial expansion forced them to move to the Eastern fringes of Calcutta, to the now famous Tangra. They set up their shoe factories and a few enterprising ones opened home operated kitchens, serving basic soups and noodles. It was hot, it was fresh and it was very affordable. Soon word spread of the quality of food and before you knew, the place became a veritable cornucopia of faux Chinese restaurants. Every second house became a “this” Garden or a “that” Kitchen. Tradition continues today, with ubiquitous paneer making its way in the menu to please the vegetarians.

You must be wondering where all this history is leading to. It so happens, a dear friend is moving out of town. A fellow foodie, no less. We are a triumvirate of friends used to raising rubble at various eateries. The three of us decided that a food oriented meeting was essential before our friend skips town. Tangra and one of its many hovels was the decided choice.

We met, dodging respective professional commitments. It was supposed to be a boys’ night out, so significant others were left sulking (or otherwise, we’ll never know!) at home.

There you have it. Three middle aged, comfortable looking senior managers of corporations of good repute, walking through the doors of a kind of famous establishment in Tangra and asking for a table for three. We were shown to a table, next to the kitchen door. We turned our collective noses up and asked for a better seat, preferably the one under the bright lamp may be? As option, we were shown another table by the restroom. Mind you, the restaurant was half empty. We asked why not the particular table that we so like? Pat came the answer. Apparently, it was the family section. I pointed another settee further down the room. I was told that is “even more family”!

Here we were, three gentlemen who do not drink, neither smoke, being shunned form the best seats in a restaurant for being, well, men! The restaurant’s logic was that many men come in these kinds of groups and then proceed to get drunk and ruin the atmosphere of an otherwise “family” restaurant. I politely asked; why then serve alcohol at all? The question was met with stony silence and several cold shoulders.

We upped ourselves and walked to the second best restaurant in the locality. After all, if they did not want our business, their problem. Plenty of places to go to anyways. Shock! Horror! The same treatment handed out to us! The table under the television counter, or bust.

We chugged along to a third place. Our choice took us back in years to this ramshackle old restaurant which used to make a mean “drums of heaven”.

We wanted a choice table. We found an entire restaurant to ourselves. Delighted, we, even before taking our seats, ordered the drums of heaven. Then proceeded to take our seats upstairs, the scene of many fine meals in our impetuous youth.

Nothing short of surrealism greeted us. We were in a room that has obviously transformed a lot in the past years. Apart form the grime and the decidedly non Chinese waiter, the only source of lighting were about ten light lamps in hues of red and yellow and soot covered.

We almost felt our way to a table because seeing anything was really a task. Settled down and had a chuckle amongst us about how things change and for the worse.

Then we were presented the menu. You must remember that this was a very dark room illuminated, if I can use the word, with a few night lamps. The menu card was black. And a very shiny black. The kind you get from years of grease and sauces. The actual menu was printed in dull red against the black background. Next you know, I was standing under one of those sooty night lamps, my glasses taken off, trying to read any one line, any one item. All of us took turn in doing so with the same result. We all failed.

That was when it struck us. Are we not too old to be doing these sort of things, displaying this amount of desperation and going to these length for a few crummy deep fried chicken legs? Had we not, a few years back, outgrown all of this?

Better senses prevailed. We took off, albeit after doing justice to the drums of heaven. They too have fallen from grace.

We ended up at the sanity of a five star hotel, sampling their fine buffet, actually being able to see what we ate and who served us.

It is another thing that we sought refuge in the comparative comforts of an upscale place. We go there often anyways. The entire incident told us very clearly that all of us have reached soft middle age and no more have any appetite for the kind of adventure that transpired.
I sincerely hope my friend has a great stay out of Calcutta. What I know for sure is that he is going to remember that experience for a long time to come.

Bake and Grill

2008-12-03T10:45:00.001+05:30

I am in the process of changing my lifestyle. Gone are the days of waking up late, rushing through the morning ablutions, chowing down some toast and tea and running off to work.

These days, I get up early and go for a brisk walk that lasts twenty minutes and is followed by some breathing exercises. Most unlike me! But at the same time, good for me.
Lifestyle change cannot just reside in morning walks. After all, my biggest problem is food of the good kind. The thermidors, the soufflés, the pies, the a la something or the other, the shorshe bata, the red curry, the hoisin sauce…

You know what I mean.

When I actually started to get up early and, it surprised my wife and mother to no end. And they pretty much agreed that this fad is not going to last beyond a couple of days. Soon, they assumed, I will succumb to the temptation of sleeping in, what with the nip in the air and all.
But nay! The good tradition continues. Every morning, I get up, put on my spiffy walking gear and personify Johnnie Walker. Some small talk with friendly neighbours, a gentle pat on the head of the dog who shares the park bench with her elderly owner, deep intake of fresh oxygen laden air, some breathing exercises, and I’m home, ready to take on the world.

But the food habit remained as fried and starchy as ever. I can’t seem to do without my daily dose of bhaat, mach, alu bhaja. And that was not helping my newfound regime.

I decided that matter must be taken in my own hands. Off I went one day, to the nearby electronics shop and bought ourselves a nice, multi function microwave.

This beast, I was told, not just heated cooked food. In fact, that is the least of its functions. It bakes, grills, cooks, thaws, boils, broils, steams…

Just what the doctor ordered.

Now my food habits nicely complement my lifestyle. I take some boneless chicken, marinate for a little while with some olive oil, some herbs, salt and pepper, stick it in the microwave and grill. I also manage to add some diced vegetables with the chicken.

What comes out is this nice, browned, juicy morsel, surrounded by charred vegetables, edges comfortably curled, ever so lightly blackened. Health on a plate. I do the same to fish fillets as well.

And that’s not all. I also have perfected the art of making low fat brownies. I just substitute butter with cholesterol free margarine and regular sugar with natural brown sugar. Piping hot delicacy in 15 minutes without most of the guilt. Great with a steaming mug of fragrant coffee for early winter mornings.

It has been going well so far. Barring occasional eat outs, we have been able to bake and grill and eat healthy. Easy to do in winter with the plethora of veggies available and the lack of humidity which is so deterrent to spending time in the kitchen.

I intend to carry on this good work. Despite the notun gurer sandesh and the gurer rasogolla that tempts the soul so much, I will stick to my healthy bake and grill.

Wish me luck.

back where i belong

2008-03-07T17:53:00.002+05:30

waiting at the mumbai airport. finally headed home. still a while to go. flight will land around 9.30 at night. air traffic permitting.

was so busy that could not have lunch at work. mumbai airport has a hot dog stand (how american!). had two hot dogs. wanted to get the large ones. was told that the only difference is in the size of the link. what else will be the difference between a normal one and a large one? didn't ask. didn't argue. wolved down the stuff. pretty bad, actually.

after check in and security check there is a wonderful cafe coffee day outlet with cane sofas and stuff. and a counter full of goodies. why did i not wait? how was i to know?

could not resist temptation. amidst the crowd of dark glasses wearing, laptop slinging, edgy people, placed my order for a raisin muffin and a black coffee. i am not to be outdone today. i am carrying two laptops. one is for anjan.

i was informed that black coffee will be without milk or sugar. may be i don't look the part that will slug black coffee at busy airports. may be i should have ordered tea with milk and sugar. that probably would have been appropriate for my visage.

the muffin was rock solid. unyielding in nature. just like any scrupulous government official. goaded it to break down slowly and respond to pressure. should not have been tempted. white suit black shirt clad gentleman sitting on the sofa next to mine has couple of sidekicks running around trying to figure out the timing for the flight to jaipur. one of them came back and asked the boss for the name of the airline that he is taking. what was he looking for all this while?

hope my flight is on time. hope there is some mach bhaat for dinner at home. my age is showing. i never blanched at the thought of eating out. not tonight. million dollars would not be able to drag me to any restaurant. comfort food is what i want. coi is my goal.

thus ends my mumbai episode. let's see where i end up going next. a gentleman has just come and sat opposite to me. he is having a samosa. and a tea laced with milk and sugar. emptied a couple of packets of sugar in the cup in front of me. he must have been the ideal customer for the cafe coffee day person. not having to explain that black coffee, indeed, will not have milk or sugar. let me go and people watch in earnest.

gomantak

2008-03-06T09:55:00.003+05:30

all hail nishka! she is indeed the saviour of mankind. she has shown me the light. she is someone i have known since my dhaka days. and by quirk of fate, we have ended up being colleagues. she introduced me to this wonderful cuisine called gomantak. coastal maharashtra stuff. heavenly prawn masala, prefixed with a "special" on the menu. lovely soft rawas. what is it called in english anyways? or for that matter, in bengali? how come i don't know? am i not this true bengali who has a doctorate on all things fishy? isn't calcutta the blessed land where, if it is not in the market, it does not exist? well, anyhow, now i know where to head to in mumbai if i need a quick fix of mach bhaat in a different form.

i am carrying some ice cream back home. i have already called the place and ordered. they are supposed to deliver at my office. this is what i like about mumbai. the take service to a different level. all at a price, of course.

haven't been to trishna yet this time. that has a chance to be corrected today evening. let's see. if the crabs and squids are to be, so be it.

where the streets have no names

2008-03-05T12:29:00.002+05:30

mumbai. and the streets actually have names, but no one knows them. if you tell a taxi that you want to go to veer savarkar marg, he will look at you perplexed. you'll have to say prabhadevi and you will be whisked to your destination. coming from the land of southern avenue and camac street and park street and chowringhee and bbd bag, it is very disconcerting. thankfully the guest house is in one of the few streets with a name. i feel elated every evening telling the taxi, "peddar road"!

olive was a blast. it is this neat white building with loads of mediterranean vibes. let me not get into the architecture lest my more aware friends chasten me. it has an outdoor and an indoor seating arrangement. don't see the point though! why would you sit outside in muggy mumbai weather? and you can smoke inside as well.

food was delicious. and it was even better as i had great company. harsh and suneeta are the ideal couple to hang out with. ricki sangeeta, harsh suneeta, partha madhumita. the community is growing. conversation never stops. it went from some film maker, to research to calcutta to trekking to food and all over the place. and the best part, none of us stopped smiling throughout the evening.

i secretly suspect the tuna carpaccio wasn't the real deal. i think the tuna was more than just marinated. in fact, i distinctly smelled smoke. but let that not take away from the fact that the dish was so appetizing.

the salad with feta cheese was promising, though little short on the feta side. but the dressing, i believe a balsamic reduction, worked beautifully.

the coup de grace was the catch of the day. kingfish and i have no clue what it is in bengali! on a bed of zucchini parmesan and a risotto, it was flavourful and tender.

and for the dessert, we chose something called chef max's surprise. and some of it was brilliantly surprising. out of the ordinary was the chocolate coated orange peel. strips and strips of them, looking like short vanilla pods, bursting in aromatics. the other thing that really took me by surprise was the chocolate dipped gooseberry. the tartness of the berry set off the bitter sweet chocolate so beautifully that it was magic!

let me not forget the sangria that washed down everything. it was nice and fruity, chilled and red. and no, that is not a problem in india. room temperature in france and room temperature in india are vastly different.

but they better do something with the music! it reminded me of doordarshan. or all india radio. i'm not sure which one. suneeta laughed at the notion and harsh vehemently resisted. stands to reason. they are bombayites and olive is close to their hearts. if someone said the same about the music at marco polo, i probably would react the same way. it is another issue that marco polo does not play music. but if they did is the point.

and at the end of it all, around midnight, i got into a taxi, and said, "peddar road"!

non manic sunday

2008-03-03T18:36:00.000+05:30

and an equally sedate monday as well.

sunday was well spent in the company of partha and madhumita. partha has been back for two days after a three year stint in dhaka. it was obvious that he was terribly missing his work and colleagues. i know the feeling. you are torn between home comforts and familiar work environment.

was treated to some sumptuous bengali lunch, including gurer payesh as well! got some ice cream for kunda di, our caretaker of the guest house. she was thrilled to bits. good soul. she is taking good care of me.

i decided i will go easy on monday foodwise. my stomach has been subjected to a lot of sensorials lately and it is time for abstinence. been good the whole day. and absolute simple dinner awaits me at the guest house.

i am supposed to go to juhu tomorrow to attend couple of grouop discussions. will meet up with suneeta and harsh after that. they are supposed to take me out to olive. something mumbaiites swear by. i have not visited olive yet. looking forward to it.

how did i forget to carry the camera with me is something i will not be able to figure out. as a result, this blog is very black and white. would love to put in some photos. shall do so in near future.

saturday night's all right

2008-03-02T00:49:00.000+05:30

breakfast almost turned out to be a disaster. we reached banyan tree around 10 in the morning. place was suspiciously empty. as we were walking up the three steps the guy manning the pastry counter smiled and said, "sir, no gas." quickly realized that he was not alluding to his state of digestion, they were actually out of fuel!!! this is a first.

thankfully, the waiter turned out to be an extremely resourceful person. he overheard us discussing the possibilities of checking out another place. he came up and offered us to serve some patties and sandwiches.

so there we were. eating bagel sandwiches and chicken patties and washing it all down with some weak coffee. in case of priya, coke.

headed out to bandra. was supposed to meet suneeta and harsh. we had decided to meet at mocha. reached a little early and messaged them to come soon. found a natural ice cream outlet next to mocha on hill road. settled down with a scoop of tender coconut ice cream. soon, suneeta messaged me that they have reached mocha. got out and entered mocha. only to find it to be quite deserted. not a sign of a soul, forget a tv star and his wife! waited for a couple of minutes and then i called them. turns out that she had mentioned mocha all right, but the juhu one!

quickly jumped in a taxi and made my way through pali hills and santacruz west, much to the consternation of my cabbie. he really wanted to go through the main thoroughfare. but i was in no mood to budge. in no time, we were in juhu. some sort of record. from bandra to juhu in 10 minutes flat!

found them well ensconced in a corner, devouring what looked like remnants of a crepe. we were meeting up after ages. though we are in touch over phone etc., face to face meetings have their own values.

quickly caught up with basics like what each of us are up to etc. then was this small matter of food. i ordered a spanish omlette. suneeta went for this parsi egg preparation. i forget the name of the dish. harsh took forever to order. finally he settled on this sandwich which promised the presence of jalapeno and some such exotic ingredients. oh, i ordered my favourite kenyan coffee also.

we sat there for about two hours talking about everything under the sun and then some. harsh had to go for a shoot. we took of to the not too simple task of shopping. and that consumed the rest of the afternoon.

around three hours later, groaning under several bags, tired of haggling over prices, suneeta and i felt that we deserve a treat to ourselves. popped in another natural outlet. this time in lokhandwala market. i chose the watermelon flavour while she settled for apricot.

dinner was at suneeta's. narayan da has been cooking. there was bhapa chingri waiting for us. narayan da, in his unbridled joy of being able to cook bengali food after a while, outdid himself. he had also done alu posto! and there was mushurir dal. after days of sandwich lunches and eating out, this was manna from heaven. and the bhapa chingri was seriously good. redolent with mustard and coconut paste, it echoed the green chilies that the bengalis so love.

finally back in guest house. kunda di, the caretaker, is very upset that i do not eat at the guest house. she has promised to make omlette and toast for breakfast tomorrow. let's see. tomorrow's another day.

in mumbai

2008-02-29T17:27:00.000+05:30

been in mumbai for the last five days. staying at the guest house on peddar road. eating out a lot. let's see...
first night i ate at the guest house. so was the breakfast next morning. no surprises there. normal stuff. cornflakes and milk with some fruits and a cup of very thick tea with milk and sugar. really wakes you up!

the second night i hooked up with my good friends ricki and sangeeta. they took me out to indigo at colaba. they always take me out whenever i am in town. i feel so comfortable with them. ate like there is no tomorrow. we ordered a salad platter which had a mashed corn salad, a very tangy cold chicken salad and some good old egg salad. oh, there were some good veggies too. stuff like asparagus and string beans and yellow peppers.

the main dish was this pan seared grouper, which came on a bed of baked potatoes. the fish was unbelievably soft and fresh. must have been a fresh catch.

and their house ice cream is to die for! i had the hazelnut with bits of, yes, hazelnuts.
rounded off with a great mug of sidomo coffee. work for the day was done.

lunch has been interesting so far. just out of the office building are several fast food counters. i have taken particular liking to this sandwich guy. he makes this awesome sandwich with boiled potatoes, cucumber, tomatoes and cilantro chutney. really cheap and filling. you can have it on wheat bread as well, and toasted if you so want. i have been having it almost every day.

today went to vashi to meet kanak da. He took me to this restaurant called flavours. in the middle of vashi, of all places.

it would surprise you. this place looked like a cool bistro. comfortable sofas, wine rack stocked full with indian wine, an eclectic collection of single malt also i'm told!

settled down and left the ordering to kanak da. all i said was that i would appreciate some pasta. he called the waiter and asked if the chef was in. i knew i was in good hands. kanak da is quite the foodie.

we got amazingly good penne in hearty pesto sauce with chicken chunks and a spicy prawn concoction. the prawn dish actually came with some arborio rice. all this in the middle of vashi. and you thought that is the back of beyond!

dinner plan is kind of fluid today. let's see what happens. i am supposed to go watch a movie with sangeeta and ricki. guess i will grab something quick before that. noorani's keema paratha? may be. then again, with them, food is always part of the plan.

last night was cool. met up with a dear friend who has come down from us. funny world we live in. we both were in calcutta but could not meet. and we found time for each other in mumbai. anyways. she was at the taj and that's where we met. i was hungry like i don't know what. and i forewarned her. good girl whisked me away to poolside and pronto called the waiter. i ordered a salmon burger. was i too geeky in doing that? guess i'll never know. surprisingly for such a high profile place, the burger fell apart at the first bite! you'd expect better from taj!

meeting my colleague priya for breakfast tomorrow at banyan tree. i have no clue where that is. she will pick me up. i'm told it is this cafe that serves amazing breakfast with pastries and quiches and bacon sandwiches and that was good enough to convince me.

will update tomorrow.