tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-366235242024-03-19T15:12:57.177+05:30FoodScapes from Belowconcerning offbeat food and travel adventuresAbhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.comBlogger74125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-67086967231718838852019-10-29T08:23:00.003+05:302022-02-17T23:30:41.288+05:30[Guest Post] The Moozungu in Matoke-Land<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">[Guest-Post by Tapati Dutta]</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It all began almost two decades back, not food per se, but at the hearth of food, the kitchen. A post- lunch pun and sarcasm combined ‘giving-it-back’ conversation between Abhik and Raj Bhaiya, carries its inertia of amusement even today. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This was, Abhik’s and my first workplace, same joining date and I, by all means was elated to meet a Bengali at my workplace on the first day of work. Forget the opening communication, which was classic and comical to the core, the bonding began from the day of introduction itself. Lunch was provided by this organization, where we worked, which in itself, minus its strict rationing and 300 INR deducted from salary for the food provided, was such a boon to me. Since I was new to New Delhi, it comforted the transitioning to the neo-Delhi life. Lunch comprised of flat breads, half-full small bowl of ‘sukhi sabji’; lentils, which one could take a second serve if one ignored the strange looks of other colleagues and Raj Bhaiya, the cook, and curd; again, rationed. Both of us spent around a year and bit more in this organization and moved on, checkered professional journey and pursuing academics, that’s how the in-between two decades look like.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Over the course of my experience and learning, I identify myself a social-scientist in community-health. Currently living with the Ssemanda family in Masaka, Uganda as apart of 11 week internship coursework Advancing Collaboration and Community Training by Indiana University, where I am pursuing my doctoral studies.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Masaka, Uganda, is on the Equator with very known plants and trees of the Tropics – mangoes (<i>muyembe</i>), jackfruits (<i>fene</i>), sugarcane (<i>kikajjo</i>, pronounced 'chi-ca-jjo'), banana (<i>matoke</i>), coffee (<i>mwanyi</i>), corn (<i>kasoly</i>), pineapple (<i>nanasi</i>, guess the ‘a’ is silent), cassava (<i>muwogo</i>), yam (<i>e-jjuni</i>), sweet potatoes (<i>lumonde</i>), passionfruit (<i>butunda</i>), and avocados (<i>kedo</i>, guess that’s a shortened pet name for this overtly common courtyard fruit). The words in italics are the Luganda translation of these fruits/roots; Luganda, the language of Uganda.
The topography here is red soil with undulated greens, with an exuberance of the verdant. The Ugandans take pride and associate them with a clan, a clan being either a plant, animal or insect, which that particular clan is not supposed to kill – a process to conserve each species, thereof.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Though most of the flora and fauna are known ‘faces’, a difference than what I’ve seen in India or neighboring Kenya, is that of large stretches of plantations and orchards of these cash crops, rather than the heterogeneous and erratic mixed growth here. People say that the land is extremely fertile and thus, planned large-scale cultivation is not the practice in Uganda. Patches of land in the backyard and front porch, and a banana plantation in the vicinity is enough for the household subsistence.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As part of my work I interact with health care staff at the referral hospital and health centres here. Given the high disease burden in Uganda, vaccination against yellow fever, sensitization on HIV prevention and antenatal care are public-health priorities. Pick up any heath issue, the community sensitization uses analogies with a food/plant – because people associate life, living and lineage with nature. E.g. the flipchart in the image above, which compares ‘warts of cancer of the cervix’ with the cob and infected kernels of the corn.
At home, food is cooked once a day, early morning, mostly in wood-charcoal fire. The cooking process is roasted, toasted and boiled, though neo-addition like ‘curry powder’ and ‘macroni’ are also seen. Refrigerators and fans are unknown concepts here and food cooked in the morning is good to be eaten for supper. The magic lies in the cool breeze and that the food is not heated, later, after it is cooked, but gently covered with a piece of banana leaf or a porous metal cover.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mrs. Ssemanda preparing the bananas and sweet potatoes for the day</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Food laid on the table- Matoke, bineyoba, avocados, and a slice of boiled pumpkin</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Most of the roots I had mentioned earlier, are wrapped in plantain leaves and baked in simmering heat alongwith <i>matoke</i>, the raw bananas. The staple food is mashed <i>matokes</i>, boiled sweet potatoes or/and yam and a groundnut paste called <i>binyobwa</i>. No spice is added to the boiled food. The groundnut paste has some onions and tomatoes to it, somewhat similar to the black gram <i>chutney</i> sometimes served with <i>dosa</i>, though coconut and mustard seeds add an altogether different flavor to it. At times there is boiled rice, which you have with the <i>binyobwa</i>. Occasionally, there are vegetables like cabbage, carrot, bell-pepper, mostly tossed in pounded ginger (pronounced with ga, rather than j), which is used in abundance. Rajma, or red-beans and cow peas are the common pulses consumed, again boiled and then re-heated with some fried onions, ginger, tomatoes and curry powder. Egg is common, more in households who have a poultry, initiated under the donor funded income generation programs.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The other staple is ‘<i>posho</i>’, coarse corn flour cooked like a broth – which the children mostly have with red beans when they are at school. With most of the children studying in boarding schools, where they are kind of bored with the monotony of having ‘<i>posho</i>’, mothers try not to cook it when children are around for vacations – Not just showcasing ‘how’ longitudinally the psycho-social construct of ‘liking’ or ‘disliking’ a food builds-up, but also an unique determinant in gradually altering eating patterns of a culture, of generations to come!</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Fried grasshoppers</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Non-vegetarian food is mostly roasted. Pork for the Christians, beef for the Muslims, chicken (<i>coco</i>) at times, and grasshoppers, the delicacy, for everybody. I had my first serve of them last week, crispy, deep- fried and tastes so much like small shrimps- <i>kucho-chingri</i> – Not bad at all. Was so reminded of the Gopal-Bhand tale of tricking his widow aunt and having ‘Lau-Chingri’ at her’s.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A typical weekday begins with some hot water with pounded ginger and a sprinkle of cheap tea-dust and brown sugar. Then comes the day’s internship work and lunch around noon. Work day ends around 4:00 or 5:00 pm and I walk down the red un-metalled lanes. I am hungry by then. I know the food ‘would be’ for supper- the same which I had for lunch – no surprises, not much of choices, either. Just living on the laps of greens, ‘satisfied with adequacy’. Matoke plantations around, and as I walk by, I see children playing with the plantain stock, which we Bengalis relish, the <i>thor</i> (থোড়). They shout out a loud, cheerful 'Bye Moozungu' (foreigner). I smile and wave at them- a Bengali adage playing in my mind – ‘Thor bori kola, kola bori thor – থোড় বড়ি কলা, কলা বড়ি থোড় - the ubiquitous Matoke diet of Uganda!!</span></div>
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-37232495810353093372015-12-02T18:47:00.001+05:302019-10-28T15:50:49.853+05:30The Jungle Reviewed<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Some of us colleagues and friends went over to <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2015/11/jungle-view.html" target="_blank">Jungle View</a> once again the other day.
The place is so deeply ingrained in our psyche, that it has become
effectively a default option any time any of us wants to celebrate.
The occasion this time was Ramakrishna Das's wife Ashwathi's first
visit to Cuttack. Poor Ram had a tough time arranging the trip, or
at least, getting all members of the gang to agree on the date and
time. It was not just a matter of prior engagements. In the best
Odiya traditions, the more pious among us observe a strict
vegetarian diet on certain days of the week, on which days they
don't find Jungle View so attractive a proposition. I wonder why.<br />
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Winter this year has been unusually warm, but even so, the balmy
mid-November weather made lunch a much more interesting option. I noticed several
changes this time around. The ghastly cloth awning that covered the
central open dining area has been replaced by a smart-looking
prefabricated aluminium roof. This time we opted to sit in a
airconditioned prefab cabins, more out of a desire for privacy than
anything else. In fact, after a point we got them to switch off the
a/c even. And I don't know why I never noticed that big signboard up
there. Nice of them to also write the name in (slightly inaccurate)
Bangla. Or maybe it is because Bengalis frequent the place regularly. Not surprising, given its meat-intensive bill of fare.<br />
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I had intended this trip to be a follow-up to my <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2015/11/jungle-view.html" target="_blank">earlier post</a> on the place, that is, to to check out, and photograph, all the stuff I had missed out on the last time. Alas! my grandiose plans were almost completely frustrated. Both Emu and <i>patra poŗā</i> mutton were off that day. I
don't know what they have against <i>patra poŗā</i>; it never
seems to be available though the people there insist it's still a
part of their regular repertoire. The saving grace: they could
muster some <i>hāņdī poŗā</i> mutton. But more on that later. First, a brief digression on the Odiya
word <i>poŗā</i>. The term literally means 'charred' or
'scorched', a singularly unappetising appellation for one of the
most glorious cooking style one can encounter anywhere. Perhaps
'baked on embers' conveys the idea better. Briefly, the idea is
that the thing to be cooked is either placed in some sort of
receptacle (bamboo logs and earthenware pots constitute popular
choices) or wrapped in leaves. Then the receptacle or parcel, as
the case may be, is placed directly on smouldering embers, and the
stuff inside slow-cooks over some hours. The combination of smoke
and direct, yet gentle, heat does all kinds of wonderful things to
the thing being cooked. It enhances the natural flavours of meats
and imparts a delicious smokiness to them, a sweeter, much
more subtle smokiness than a Tandoor or a brazier's naked flames
do. Mutton responds particularly well to this style of cooking. It
remains slightly tough, and firmly textured. And its juices
intensify to impart a rich gameyness. But this is not to say this
method is good only for meats. <i>Chhenā poŗā</i>, to my mind
Odisha's single most monumental contribution to the culinary arts,
is also prepared in this way.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bamboo Mutton</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K877vkRkrkU/Vl7m97LGPDI/AAAAAAAAB70/KY4cM5mPKqc/s1600/20151118_143626.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-K877vkRkrkU/Vl7m97LGPDI/AAAAAAAAB70/KY4cM5mPKqc/s1600/20151118_143626.jpg" title="Handi Pora Mutton" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Handi Pora Mutton</td></tr>
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In contrast to the hoopla Jungle View associates with Bamboo
mutton, where the log is brought to the table and the meat
ceremoniously extracted in the presence of the customers, they
tend to serve <i>hāņdī poŗā</i> mutton in distinctly low-key
fashion. <i>hāņdī poŗā</i> literally translates to 'charred (baked,
whatever) in an earthenware pot', but you never actually get to
see the pot itself. What they serve up on the table is nothing
more than a portion of meat on a stain-less steel plate. Even at
first glance, though, differences with Bamboo mutton are manifest.
Its colour is darker, for one, which indicates they don't add so
much turmeric to it. Neither do they seem to use mustard oil,
since it lacks the faint pungency of the latter. Which is perhaps
just as well: the sharpness of mustard wouldn't have gone well
with the deeper, earthier notes of <i>hāņdī poŗā</i>. And it
certainly does exude deep, earthy, even gamey notes. It is also
smokier, and the meat a shade softer too. Perhaps earthenware pots
diffuse heat better than bamboo logs do? Suffice to say that it
has become an immense favourite with me, perhaps even more so than
Bamboo Mutton has. And that's one massive endorsement.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">Chinguri Pora</span></td></tr>
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We tried <i>chinguŗi poŗā</i> too. 'Charred Prawns' it translates
to, though it was not clear how exactly the prawns were consigned
to such treatment. The stuff was fantastic too, wonderfully smoky
and all. But I feel they added too much turmeric; tends to take
away something from the seriousness of the eat, if you ask me. But
that is probably because I don't like turmeric all that much, maybe a reaction to being brought up in a typically turmeric-intensive Bengali household. Anyway, the rest of the
stuff we ordered were interesting but not remarkable. We asked for
two types of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dal" target="_blank">Dāl</a>, one with
scrambled egg stirred in, and the other without. Rajat, the sole
vegetarian among us contented himself with egg curry (even his wife Nidhi cheerfully tucked into mutton and
prawn). I had a taste of the egg too.
Pretty decent, but not exceptional. All in all, a very pleasant
experience, as the group selfie I took just before we left suggests.
Pleasant enough, but I still wonder: whatever happened to all that Emu
and <i>patra poŗā</i> mutton?
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-20414182389831044622015-11-29T04:41:00.001+05:302019-10-27T19:22:36.665+05:30Dahi Bara Alu Dam<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Yes, such a thing exists, and it is exactly what the name suggests:<i> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dahi_vada" target="_blank">dahī baŗā</a></i> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dum_Aloo" target="_blank"><i>ālū dam</i></a>
tossed together. But to explain why I'm writing about it (and more
importantly, how is it that people actually eat such a concoction), I'll
have to start from Cuttack's reputation as a street-eat Mecca of sorts.
Or rather, why I think this reputation is largely bunk. Odisha's
culinary heritage is notable by any
standards. Its confectionery in particular is justly famous.
But much of its junk food is
derivative, at best regional variants of stuff whose provenance lies
elsewhere. Cuttack's famous rolls are merely a harshly-spiced
version of what one gets in Kolkata. <i>Gupchup</i> is only a
variation of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panipuri" target="_blank"><i>pānipūri</i></a> concept ubiquitous throughout the country. <i>Singra</i> is likewise only a version on the
pan-Indian <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samosa" target="_blank">samosā</a></i> theme, itself a distant progeny of the Persian <i>sambūsak</i>. <i>Ālū</i> Chop? Try the ones in Kolkata to see where the Cuttack
variant comes from. And about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indian_Chinese_cuisine" target="_blank">Chowmien and Chilli Chicken</a>, the
less said the better. <br />
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Dahi Bara Alu Dam, then, can be considered Cuttack's one true
contribution to street-eatery. But oh dear! it's nowhere near so simple.
Once yet again, none of its three chief components originates from
Odisha. <i>Dahī baŗā</i> (<i>dahī bhallā</i>, <i>thāir vaŗāi</i>), or fried <i>urad dāl</i> doughnuts soaked in a cold
yogurt-based sauce, is popular throughout India as a snack or
breakfast eat. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ghugni" target="_blank"><i>Ghuguni</i></a>, chickpea stewed in a thin, spiced
gravy, is likewise common to most parts of eastern India. Non-Odiyas spell it with only one 'u'. Bengal boasts several
variants, including one containing shredded mutton; the Odiya
version is closer to the stock Bengali preparation. <i>Ālū dam</i>, potato
slow-braised under steam in a mild gravy, is not even a snack. It is very much a
serious eat, and served as a main course in Bengal, Kashmir, Punjab, most other parts of North India, and even Odisha. <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KiiIhHIw2s8/Vlou8c9eNGI/AAAAAAAAB6o/7n1z6SBXNvI/s1600/20151117_154050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KiiIhHIw2s8/Vlou8c9eNGI/AAAAAAAAB6o/7n1z6SBXNvI/s1600/20151117_154050.jpg" /></a></div>
So if all three components are prevalent outside too, then how is it that Dahi Bara Alu Dam itself is considered exclusively to Odisha? Perhaps the fact that such a combination is so strange as to be unimaginable has something to do with it. All three components are considered stand-alone preparations in their
own right. And the thing about stand-alone preparations is that you
usually tend to eat them separately, and <i>not</i> mix them up in one bowl. For good measure, <i>ālū dam</i> and <i>ghuguni</i>
are both supposed to be eaten hot, while most Dahi Bara Alu Dam vendors
don't even carry any heating equipment with them. Think cold Irish Stew
added to pineapple pizza, and then equally cold pasta in marinara sauce
poured over it, you'll get some approximate idea just how ghastly it
sounds (<i>sounds</i>, mind you - how it actually tastes is another
matter). Which is fine, but how did the combine come to exist in the first place? And why Odisha, specifically? Those, alas! are questions to which I don't think anyone has any reliable answers. I am convinced no conscious human thought-process could have
come up with something like this. My own speculations tend towards serendipitous origins, maybe some idiot
upsetting <i>ālū dam</i> into a basin of <i>dahī baŗā</i> or something. <br />
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Some modifications to the basic concepts have been incorporated over the years. Most versions of <i>dahī baŗā</i> use a yogurt sauce the consistency of, say, creamy soup - runny but not excessively so. But here it is thinned down to the consistency of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chaas" target="_blank"><i>chhāch</i></a>. Then generally, it's the <i>ālū</i> in <i>ālū dam</i>
that is supposed to predominate: the quantity of gravy varies between
moderate, to a thick, viscous coating, to near-bone dry. Punjabis prefer
to lace it with cream, tomato, even crushed cashew; the Bengali version
is more restrained in its flavour, relying principally on aromatic
spices like cumin. In Kashmir they tend to make copious use of mild
dried chilli, but barring that one exception <i>ālū dam</i> is generally supposed to be <i>mild</i>.
The Odiya version in particular is a blameless, innocuous little number
that leans towards Bengali traditions. Or at least the <i>ālū dam</i> your next-door Aunty serves up when she invites you for lunch. The one you get with <i>dahī baŗā</i>
varies on both counts. It is made up of potato chunks swimming in vast
amounts of runny, vilely spiced gravy with great patches of chilli
powder-stained oil floating on top.<br />
<br />
It is no exaggeration to say the preparation is Cuttack's staple street-eat. People eat it for breakfast, as a snack, at times even as a lunch- or dinner-substitute. The city is full of Dahi Bada Alu Dam vendors. Over time some have risen
to such prominence and prosperity as to set up regular shops. There's one in Kanika
Chhak that ranks among the best you can get. I've been there once,
thoroughly enjoyed the experience too, but
that's not what the post is about. Here I talk about the itinerant
vendors who ply their wares all over town. A few affect 50cc mopeds,
but the overwhelming majority prefers bicycles. In fact the bicycle forms
an integral part of their equipment. Two large spherical aluminium pots,
containing <i>dahī baŗā</i> and <i>ālū dam</i> respectively, are
suspended from either side of the handlebar. A smaller pot of <i>ghuguni</i>
hangs down from the crossbar. Slung over the side of the real wheel is a
jerrycan of water, useful for rinsing spoons and enabling customers to
clean their hands. Other peripherals - canisters of chopped onion, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sev_(food)" target="_blank"><i>sev</i></a>, spices; metal spoons; a sheaf of <i>donā</i>s or disposable <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shorea_robusta" target="_blank">sāl</a></i>-leaf bowls - are tucked about in various crevices along the frame. <br />
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A ten-minute walk from our University lies Naraj Barrage, at the spit where the
river <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahanadi" target="_blank">Mahanadi</a> and its distributary <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kathajodi_River" target="_blank">Kathajodi</a> separate. It is a place of much scenic beauty, and is well-known as a venue for leisurely,
low-octane, hanging-out. Several Dahi Bara Alu Dam vendors congregate there, including this surly character who charges from his
makeshift shop an exorbitant thirty Rupees for six <i>baŗā</i>s. To place this into perspective, my favourite vendor, Sh Rabi Sahoo, charges twenty for a plate of ten <i>baŗā</i>s,
albeit slightly smaller in size. A most affable man who comes over
every morning from a neighbouring village, he prefers the traditional
method of dispensing the stuff right from his bicycle. He also follows
the classical procedure of assembling the thing together. The first
thing he does is take off the pot lids and wedge them between the bicycle's frame and
chain-guard. Then he takes a <i>donā</i> and scoops <i>baŗā</i>s onto it with a long-handled ladle. Once he's got the right number of <i>baŗā</i>s, he presses hard on them with the back of his ladle to squeeze out excess <i>dahī</i> into the pot. Next he spoons out a large helping of <i>ālū dam</i>, then a touch of <i>ghuguni</i>, and then sprinkles chopped onion, <i>sev</i>, some spice mixture, and there you are, that's it.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nSWsJP52Nts/Vlou9TRgNYI/AAAAAAAAB68/ZDmEUTvVnAk/s1600/20151117_154054.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nSWsJP52Nts/Vlou9TRgNYI/AAAAAAAAB68/ZDmEUTvVnAk/s1600/20151117_154054.jpg" /></a>Now the crucial question, how does it taste? Yes, and this
is where the weirdness of the whole thing reaches its pinnacle, it
tastes bloody good. Some newcomers don't like it much, or complain it's
nowhere near what it's made out to be. I don't know about that, I've
always found it most satisfying. As to how that incongruous mishmash
of standalone dishes yields something so tasty, don't ask me, I offer no
rational explanations here. The <i>baŗā</i>'s mild tartness contrasts well with the spice levels of the <i>ālū dam</i>;
then chickpea combines well with the mushy potatoes, imparting a
nuttiness to the latter; the onion and <i>sev</i> add pungent, crunchy
counterpoints, and that's it. That's as far as my powers of analysis go.
All I can say is, it makes for a delightful snack, and a fairly nutritious one too. Potato, yogurt, chickpea and
all are healthy stuff. And while the Baras are
deep-fried, they certainly do not exude oil, perhaps they have oil
squeezed out of them too. Spice levels are kept to a
minimum, since only small amounts of <i>ālū dam</i> and <i>ghuguni</i>
are used. Hygiene is another matter altogether, especially given the
copious amounts of (untreated) water used for the yogurt sauce. Then
again, I don't ever recall Dahi Bara Alu Dam giving me an upset tummy.
And hey, if you don't live life on the edge a little, then what's the
point of having street food in the first place?<br />
<br />
Oh, and one more thing - a minor announcement, in fact. Adding pictures to blogposts has posed a perennial problem. Lugging my DSLR around every time I encounter interesting street eats is clearly infeasible. On the other hand, the phones I've owned all tended to feature lousy cameras. Recently, and most certainly keeping the blog in mind, I've got myself a new phone, for once a model with a decent camera. It's a <a href="http://www.gsmarena.com/samsung_galaxy_j5-7184.php" target="_blank">Samsung Galaxy J5</a>, a joy to use due to its superlative AMOLED screen and capacity for memory cards of up to 128 GB. And I am happy to say that all pictures on this post were taken with it. The camera is decent, like I said, but could have been better. Especially in low light. Why they cannot improve phonecam low-light performance I have no idea.
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-30096883800139090502015-11-15T20:41:00.002+05:302019-10-27T18:56:02.449+05:30Sucharita, or that Random Road-Trip to Konark<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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One of the nicest things about my marriage is the ease with which we
have been accepted as a couple. Avanthi commands a much higher standing
among my relatives than I do. And her relatives have been unstinting in
the love and affection they have lavished on me, something I am most
thankful about. More to the point, our respective friend circles have
not merely accepted but duly absorbed the other into them. And over time
we as a couple have befriended other couples. Sucharita Sengupta and
Adnan Farooqui are an instance. They both teach political science at the
Jamia Millia Islamia - bright, socially motivated, warm-hearted, and
generally terrific people to hang around with. Suchi and I share a
common interest in photography. She also happens to be distantly
related: her first cousin once removed married a first cousin to my
grandmother. So going by the nomenclature prevalent in India, that makes
her my aunt. Anyways, Auntie and husband had a wedding to attend at a
resort just outside Puri. Which was excellent news, because it had been a
while since I had met them. Then Adnan welshed out, so that left only
Suchi and self, since Avanthi and the little 'un were in Bangalore. <br />
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Even then we nearly didn't meet. Suchi's hosts had organised a bus for
her and other guests directly from Bhubaneswar airport. And another bus
to take them straight to the airport once the festivities concluded.
Which didn't exactly leave much bandwidth for meeting up. That's when I
had this splendid idea of taking a day's leave from the University,
borrowing Millan's car, picking up Suchi from the airport, showing her a
bit of Bhubaneswar and, eventually, driving her down to Puri. She
cheerfully fell in with the idea, Millan readily agreed to part with his
car for a day, and the rest of the plan fixed itself up almost by
default, as it were. <br />
<br />
[A word about Millan's car, now. It's a little Maruti 800, a bit long in
the tooth, but well maintained. The engine especially is in good nick,
certainly sound enough to sustain a day-long romp to the coast and back. I
share an emotional relationship with it. When buying it he took me
along; at that time he was not confident of handling the traffic around
Badambadi. So I was the first person who drove it after the purchase.
And Millan is most generous about lending it out. We have this informal
arrangement: whenever I need it I let him know a day or two in advance,
and if not inconvenient to him he happily chucks the keys over.]<br />
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The day didn't start too auspiciously. I got late reaching Millan's
house, not a big surprise. So I was about halfway to Bhubaneswar when
Suchi called up to say she was waiting for me, and that too outside the
airport building. Damn! I did manage to reach the airport in half an
hour. And the revelry started in earnest right away. I suggested getting
some mandatory sari-shopping done first. She declared she was most
impressed with Avanthi for having me trained so beautifully! To her
credit she didn't take a whole lot of time over it. A quick snack later,
we were on our way. Actually, no. Suchi said she had never seen Konark,
something she badly wanted to do. We didn't have a whole lot of time
with us, so that's where we headed directly. In the process forsaking Bhubaneswar's numerous attractions (which for the most part fell within the genre
'touristy', so the loss was not a big one).<br />
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The journey was delightful. Beautiful if slightly congested roads, the
car behaving beautifully, and the sheer joy of catching up with a valued
friend, all added up to yield a most memorable experience. We didn't take
too many photographs, we had so much to talk about. Particularly foulmouthing our spouses, who had chosen to miss out on this wonderful experience.
And besides I needed to keep an eye on the road and unruly traffic too.
One picture I did take was of a minivan laden with bananas. Laden is too
mild a term, it had bananas everywhere: crammed full on the inside, and
then more on the roof, bunches stacked one on top of the other with long
bits of stem curving up and outwards like so many improbably green-coloured flamingoes. It brought back
memories of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harry_Belafonte" target="_blank">Belafonte</a>'s definitive '<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMigXnXMhQ4" target="_blank">Banana Boat Song</a>': "Six-foot,
seven-foot, eight-foot <i>bunch</i>!! / Daylight come and me wan' go home".<br />
<br />
Konark was another delight. It was well past midday now, and fairly hot,
but to the camera-obsessed, such considerations are at best peripheral.
We spent the better part of two hours there.
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This was followed by the most picturesque part of the journey. The East Coast Road connecting Konark and Puri is a dream. Beautifully maintained, largely bereft of traffic, and replete with interesting twists, it acts as a lure to local hotbloods bent on showing off their driving skills at high speeds, often with tragic consequence. But who would want to drive down such a picturesque road at high speed? And not take in the vast, untidy charm only mangrove patches can claim for their own? Or the pristine deserted stretches of beach interspersed between the mangrove clumps?
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These beaches were so beautiful that at
one point Suchi insisted we stop and take pictures. A wise choice, and a
particularly attractive stretch of beach at that. I was charmed, but
then in the last one year or so I had encountered plenty of beaches. The
impact it had on Suchi, on the other hand, was nothing short of
electrifying. She was thrilled, absorbed, engrossed, and she went beserk
with her camera. So much so that she didn't realise she had gained an
admirer. Woof! And any time I need to pull her leg, this is the photo I remind
her of. It never fails, believe me.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CRalgW1Bero/VkiJh0NUYcI/AAAAAAAAB4s/ssJlCXXoPuI/s1600/IMG_3275.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CRalgW1Bero/VkiJh0NUYcI/AAAAAAAAB4s/ssJlCXXoPuI/s1600/IMG_3275.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crab</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Cf9xcJ6_cg8/VkiJjO1zaZI/AAAAAAAAB44/q_oXfHKTIqc/s1600/IMG_3277.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Cf9xcJ6_cg8/VkiJjO1zaZI/AAAAAAAAB44/q_oXfHKTIqc/s1600/IMG_3277.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Prawn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
By this time we were quite hungry too. Suchi craved seafood beyond
anything else (Adnan's vegetarian, which means she can't make it at home too often either). I had promised to take her to
Chung Wah, one of Puri's finest attractions. Which was fine with her;
the place is justly famous for its Chinese-style seafood. But as we were
bouncing down the East Coast Road, she spotted a signboard advertising
fresh seafood. Further signages led us to the Lotus Resort at Ramchandi
Beach. By mutual consent we agreed to keep things (very) simple: crab,
prawn, and any other species of seafood the place
could yield. No rice, chapati, noodles, vegetables, or other inessentials. Perhaps because we had arrived at an odd time, they could
offer only a limited selection. We opted for um, don't recall what it
was called, but it was in substance crab fried in some sort of spicy
chilly sauce. Suchi loved it. So did I, but with some minor
reservations: I did think it was a trifle overcooked, and also not as
big as I have encountered in so many eateries in Odisha. The prawn, on
the other hand, was an unqualified success. At the manager's suggestion
we asked for it to be gently fried with a touch of coriander. It did come laced
with an incongruous assortment of vegetables, stir-fried and raw, which
didn't quite fit in. Then again, they did not succeed in undermining the
flavour of the prawn either, so could be happily ignored. The chopped
garlic and coriander, on the other hand combined to subtly influence the prawn in
the nicest way possible. The prawn itself was fresh, and cooked just
right. So it retained its crunchy texture, and its unique flavours. And
oozed rich, aromatic, downright intoxicating juices the moment you sank your teeth into it. It revived us no end, we had become quite tired by
then. <br />
<br />
The rest of trip was uneventful. I dropped off Suchi at the wedding
venue. We spent some time out there, once again spewing maledictions at
our respective spouses for not joining us. I then set off for Cuttack,
promising Suchi I'll be ever so careful. Not that she needed a whole lot
of reassurance; the day's worth of driving had left her most
appreciative of both car's and driver's capabilities. The car's
behaviour all through the day was particularly remarkable, and fully
justified the confidence reposed in it. At no point did it create the
slightest fuss. On the return journey too it behaved magnificently, and
ferried me home with aplomb. Which places me in a dilemma: should I let
Suchi know it didn't have a spare tyre?<br />
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-31983980823750409202015-11-12T21:40:00.001+05:302019-10-27T19:05:19.261+05:30Jungle View: Bamboo Mutton and Emu in the Odiya Hinterland<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Odisha's
a strange place when it comes to food. Especially urban centres like
Bhubaneswar and Cuttack. Not that they are starved of eateries, far from
it: I guess food lies in the second rung among lucrative business
ventures, right after clothes. But invariably, the array of
preparations they turn out tends to be -
call it what you will, homogenised, standardised - I call it boring.
The same old stuff: mostly misbegotten "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mughlai_cuisine" target="_blank">Mughlai</a>" and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indian_Chinese_cuisine" target="_blank"><i>faux-</i>Chinese</a>, a few
hackneyed Odiya dishes like <a href="javascript:void(0)" target="_blank">Dalma</a> and <a href="http://fromaoriyakitchen.blogspot.in/2011/06/oriya-mutton-kasha.html" target="_blank">Mutton Kassa</a>, perhaps one or
two equally hackneyed Bengali fish preparations, and that's it. The
State's rich, diverse culinary heritage gets showcased so rarely in
these joints that it's futile to expect them to display any true
identity or personality. At best they'll have a couple of signature
items they do really well, and then beyond that the same old gunk.
Even Jungle View, one of the few truly offbeat eateries I've
encountered in the vicinity, now stoops to <i>quasi</i>-Chinese
preparations. Incipient <i>Kaliyuga</i>, that's what it is.<br />
<br />
<div class="restofpost">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AH3lZzMEvBY/VkSts9ydr4I/AAAAAAAAB2o/5zaXLamRtds/s1600/IMG_3139.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AH3lZzMEvBY/VkSts9ydr4I/AAAAAAAAB2o/5zaXLamRtds/s1600/IMG_3139.JPG" /></a>The place's name is entirely
appropriate: it is sandwiched between <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nandankanan_Zoological_Park" target="_blank">Nandan Kanan</a> and the adjoining
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chandaka_Elephant_Sanctuary" target="_blank"> Chandaka Elephant Reserve</a>. You may not get to <i>see</i> (or
'view') much jungle, but that is a minor nit. The point is, it is
located miles away from anywhere, literally, even the most recently
urbanised parts of Bhubaneswar. So how do they manage to run a
prosperous eatery business so far away from cities, that too cities
not especially known for offbeat dining? Tourists from Nandan Kanan
cannot contribute all that much by way of custom. As a matter of
fact, most diners seem to come all the way from Bhubaneswar or
Cuttack, or even farther places, just to eat there. <br />
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It started out as a nondescript <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dhaba" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">dhābā</a> , then evolved to offer a nice little line in local meaty
preparations or, as <a href="http://www.nijhum-tripathy.in/wp/2015/11/02/day-off-at-jungle-view-restaurant-barang/" target="_blank">this blog</a> calls them, 'rustic tribal delicacies'. These include mutton - technically <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goat_meat" target="_blank">chevon</a> or goat meat -
cooked in bamboo logs, in earthenware pots, and wrapped in leaves of
some sort. Over time the place's reputation began to spread through
word of mouth, it expanded its repertoire to include <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Japanese_quail" target="_blank">Japanese quail</a>
(locally called<i> gunduri</i>) and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emu" target="_blank">emu</a>, apparently <a href="http://www.telegraphindia.com/1131001/jsp/odisha/story_17409336.jsp" target="_blank">sourced from a farm in Ganjam</a>. Also, to accommodate its steadily-growing upmarket clientele,
it took over an adjacent tract
of land and converted it into an open-air dining space where you get
the same food at marginally marked-up prices. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g3suJY1qGNQ/VkStqHOXI2I/AAAAAAAAB1w/bfIa8ngNsU0/s1600/IMG_3122.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-g3suJY1qGNQ/VkStqHOXI2I/AAAAAAAAB1w/bfIa8ngNsU0/s1600/IMG_3122.JPG" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nnp9uoboDls/VkStrdYhZqI/AAAAAAAAB2U/CmAN0b9ndYk/s1600/IMG_3131.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nnp9uoboDls/VkStrdYhZqI/AAAAAAAAB2U/CmAN0b9ndYk/s1600/IMG_3131.JPG" /></a>
Let's face it, the upmarket side of things is tacky in the extreme. Mainly due to
the excessive use of moulded concrete masquerading as unfinished log.
Right at the gate you encounter this rude post-and-lintel arrangement
made even more hideous by the two concrete birds perched on top and
looking slightly bored. Inside, you have a garden with two thatched
gazebos, each capable of seating about twelve. Rather pretty, really,
and for once the concrete used there looks like concrete. Beyond lies
the central dining area. This comprises a vast awning propped up on
concrete pillars trying their best to look like bamboo clumps. Beneath
the awning lies a marble dining table large enough to seat thirty-five
comfortably. Around it are concrete benches looking vaguely like split
logs. The backrests are even more strange, featuring moulded concrete
trelliswork made to look like er, what? Mangrove roots?<br />
<br />
After you cross
this you encounter another stretch of garden with more creative
landscaping, notably a hill made of concrete and boulders, which reminds
me irresistibly of grottoes I have seen at some churches. This stretch
also contains cages full of birds, mainly <i>gunduri</i>, which also
features prominently in the menu. Along the left edge of the tract run a
series of air-conditioned prefab cabins, available to groups at
no extra cost. Each can seat about twenty or so. Spartan furnishings notwithstanding, they do provide a modicum of
privacy and comfort especially in the summer months.<br />
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So much for the decor - it's obvious that's not why we keep going there.
We go there for the food and, despite the distance, we've been there so
many times I've lost count. Most of the photos posted here are from an
impromptu visit last March. There were five of us, including colleagues
Bishwa, Millan, Ram, and Sudatta. We had little work that afternoon, the
weather was still pleasant, so it was not difficult to persuade the
rest of the gang, particularly Millan who readily agreed to get his car
along. The drive was most pleasant, two long halts at level crossings
notwithstanding. On this occasion the air-conditioned cabins were not
available. We sat beneath the central awning instead, and passed time most
convivially taking pictures and cracking stupid jokes till the food
arrived. Emu was off that day, much to our disappointment. We
contented ourselves with Bamboo Mutton, quail, some <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dal" target="_blank">Dal</a> with egg in it,
some Dal without egg. And <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Naan" target="_blank">Naan</a> and rice.<br />
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The mutton is clearly the place's signature dish, and also the most
expensive at around four hundred a serving. Small chunks of mutton are
liberally smeared with spices, ginger, garlic and (very discernibly)
mustard oil, and then stuffed into hollow bamboo logs. The logs are then
sealed, tossed into smouldering embers, and left there for the meat to
cook. Once done, the logs are fished out of the embers and brought
directly to the table, where a waiter ceremoniously scoops out the meat
onto a plate. Cooked this way, it remains chewy, even tough at times. It
absorbs the smokiness of the embers, and the bamboo imbues it with its
own subtle grassy fragrance and moistness. The mustard oil's
pungency also remains discernible, albeit subdued. The result is
surprisingly harmonious, perhaps because the individual notes are all
understated. All in all, the preparation as well as the final results
are not something one is likely to encounter elsewhere. Definitely a
high-point of my stay in Odisha.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ORYLRahdSdc/VkStr-gwtKI/AAAAAAAAB2Q/XnoQwFlaOsY/s1600/IMG_3134.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ORYLRahdSdc/VkStr-gwtKI/AAAAAAAAB2Q/XnoQwFlaOsY/s1600/IMG_3134.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Braised Emu</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I am not so fond of quail. It is a bony bird, with not all that much
meat on it. Its flavour is interesting but not remarkable, at least not
to my palate. The chefs at Jungle View coat it in a spicy paste, and
then cook the bird whole in loads of oil (not mustard oil, though). The
spice levels do little to help matters; for one, they tend to block out
much of the meat's intrinsic flavour. Still, an interesting preparation,
and justifies an occasional foray if only for novelty value.<br />
<br />
On subsequent visits I had occasion to sample the other stuff on the
menu. The Emu wins hands down, beautiful stuff it is. They serve it
boneless, braised in much the same spices as go into the quail. But the meat's
darker, discernibly more gamey flavour goes well with the
spices. It is pricey at about 260 Rupees for a small plate, but more than
worth the spend. The mutton cooked in earthenware pots is also
excellent. Once we tried some prawn. It turned out to be so spectacular
we promptly ordered another plate. I don't know how they cook it, but it
was soft, not over-spiced, and had this distinctive smoky flavour. I
have not managed to try the leaf-wrapped mutton yet. Certainly the next
time I go across I shall make it a point to try it out, and also renew
my acquaintance with all the stuff I have only mentioned in passing
here. Do stay tuned for an update.</div>
</div>
Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-15818215920627177942014-12-31T21:43:00.000+05:302019-10-28T15:56:38.420+05:30Cafe Thulp, Bangalore<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Let me end the year with a long-overdue post, about a place I've wanted to write
about for quite some time. Bangalore's Cafe Thulp chain specialises in hamburgers, hot
dogs,
sandwiches, pastas, mammoth breakfasts and the like. It is
predominantly meat-oriented; it draws inspiration from a vast swathe of
culinary traditions - Malayali, Goan,
Italian, American, and South-East-Asian included; and its Koramangala
branch remains one of my most favourite
eateries in Bangalore. This might sound like an extravagant
claim. Bangalore is home to numerous restaurants, which vary
considerably in cuisines offered, prices, quality, and magnitudes of
pretentiousness. And this place appears plenty pretentious at first
glance. Its menucards and interiors are done up in a cheesy comic-strip
style. The preparations are given strange
names intended to convey informality and hip-ness simultaneously (try
Sheikh Yerbooty, or what we'd normally call milkshakes). And
the so many cuisines contributing to the menu raises apprehensions of
bog-standard Indian-Chinese-Tandoori-Mughlai-Continental mishmashes you
find in street
corners all over India.<br />
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Two factors save the place from
collapsing under the weight of its own over-the-top-ness. First, their
food is excellent, (barring a few disasters now and then). And
secondly, they understand cooking, including the nuances of each
cuisine they have sourced their dishes from. So even if they deviate
from 'authenticity' (whatever that be) and modify a preparation, they
do so intelligently and not merely because, say, some ingredient is
inconvenient to procure. This intelligence, and commitment to quality,
is
what makes their food truly eclectic and not simply uninformed.<br />
<br />
I confess I am touchy about southeast-Asian cuisine. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nasi_goreng" target="_blank">Nasi
Goreng</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pho" target="_blank">Phở</a> are not exactly <span style="font-style: italic;">haute cuisine</span>. I wouldn't go
about, like Wodehouse's Bingo Little, 'telling the head-waiter at
Claridge's exactly how he wanted the chef to prepare the <span style="font-style: italic;">sole frite au gourmet aux champignons</span>,
and saying he would jolly well sling it back if it wasn't just right.' Yet I would want Nasi Goreng to taste like Nasi Goreng
and not some <span style="font-style: italic;">ersatz</span> watered-down substitute.
If you replace <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kecap_manis" target="_blank">kecap manis</a> with local variants of soya sauce, and altogether omit <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oyster_sauce" target="_blank">oyster sauce</a> or <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fish_sauce#Southeast_Asian" target="_blank">fish sauce</a>, what you end up with is not Nasi Goreng but something indistinguishable from your roadside <a href="https://www.google.co.in/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0CB4QFjAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FIndian_Chinese_cuisine&ei=rTqCVOfNHIGzuASTooLoDg&usg=AFQjCNFrZFUpE4LBCvL6XfoDtIrIOd2bcQ" target="_blank">Indian-Chinese</a>
fried rice. I have no problems with Indian-Chinese food. Where I draw
the line at is seeing it palmed off as authentic Malaysian/Indonesian
cuisine, and its inevitable corollary, having to pay the premium prices
such 'exotic', 'foreign' preparations command. Low-cost eateries tend
to massacre the cuisine too, like the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paneer" target="_blank">paneer</a>-studded 'Singapore Cheese Noodles' I once encountered in Delhi, but at least they are not hypocritical about it.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nwfdnKKUyN8/VKQbpqstUeI/AAAAAAAABwg/fWvw5Mwb2Sw/s1600/pIMG_8235.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nwfdnKKUyN8/VKQbpqstUeI/AAAAAAAABwg/fWvw5Mwb2Sw/s1600/pIMG_8235.jpg" /></a>Thulp does not serve Nasi Goreng, or Phở. Nor does it make pretentious
claims to authenticity. But it sure does a mean ASEAN-inspired 'slow-braised pork belly with mushroom, bok choy and
oyster sauce'. It is so good that as far as I am concerned, all the
other things the place is supposed to be famous for - hamburgers,
Sheikh Yerbooty, the lot - simply fade into insignificance. The
menucard calls it 'signature', and it used to rank among their most
expensive preparations. I say 'used to' because inexplicably, they have
pulled it off their regular menu. It makes occasional guest appearances
on their 'daily specials' chalkboard, which is not nearly the same
thing. Back in the days it was a regular cast member, I ordered it on
numerous occasions, and each time it much more than lived up to
my expectations.<br />
<br />
[Update: Regular
reader and (so far the only) guest-blogger here on
FoodScapes Anita Dixit points out in her first comment that they do slip up now and then on the satisfaction front. I had taken her there once when she was visiting
Bangalore. Her (beef) steak was disappointing. And worse, by the following morning she had developed a bad tummy upset, in all likelihood caused by the steak. As for me, that was the first time I had tried the
pork belly. A thumping success all the way through, and my stomach
behaved with admirable meekness the next day.] <br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kHGD8TxVzNw/VKQbng0tlCI/AAAAAAAABwM/zQIEV9lo-3k/s1600/pIMG_8221.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kHGD8TxVzNw/VKQbng0tlCI/AAAAAAAABwM/zQIEV9lo-3k/s1600/pIMG_8221.jpg" /></a>
The last time I had the pork belly was when some five of us went there for lunch.
The group included sister-in-law Adithi, cousins Sayan and Swati, and
Swati's husband Arnab. In celebration of their brotherhood-in-law,
comedians Arnab and Sayan both landed up in Superman
t-shirts. Their appetites were sadly underwhelming, though.
Arnab's in particular undid much justice to his apparel. He opted for
about the smallest hamburger on the menucard. It was wider in
circumference than the ones you get at fast-food outlets, and its
patty, while not particularly thick, was certainly juicier and more
flavourful. Not surprising, because fast-food chains in India ply only
chicken burgers, while this was made of stuff pious Hindus tend to avoid. It came with a scoop of cole slaw that would barely
cover a playing card, and a similarly austere helping of french fries.
Beautifully cooked stuff, whatever little of it there was. Arnab had
asked for a small burger, so the limited portions were entirely
acceptable. It was his insistence he was full up that had me worried.<br />
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Sayan and Adithi ordered something called El Pollo Loco, in substance
crumb-fried chicken strips. Adithi's not a big eater and doesn't touch
pork or beef, so her choices were predictably constrained. On the other
hand, Sayan I felt was being distinctly unadventurous. Still, there it
was, and the chicken was good too. Really good. It was soft, juicy,
neither rare nor overcooked. The crumbed coating was particularly
delectable, crispy without having soaked up too much oil. It came with
a big chunk of cheesy mashed potato, and a bowl of what they called
'creamed spinach'. Much more cream than spinach if you ask me, in fact
I first thought it was a dip or sauce of some sort. But none the worse
for that; it was exceedingly good. I know because I helped myself to a
forkful of chicken slathered with it.<br />
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Swati started out with a coke float. A strange way to begin a meal, but she enjoyed it. Her <span style="font-style: italic;">entrée</span>
was one of the few true, full-blown disasters I have
encountered at Thulp. It was called The Clucky [<span style="font-style: italic;">sic</span>] Luciano, or 'breaded
escalope of chicken parmigiana with marinara sauce and mozzarella -
served with garlic mashed potato and salad.' She got all that, and also
a bit of pasta tossed in the same marinara sauce. This sauce was the problem. I have encountered very few Indian cooks who can
handle tomatoes. Even the best and wisest lose their sense of restraint
confronted with them. And the serving was a very painful reminder of this. It was sour through and through, blotting out
all the garlic and the delicate herbs that must have gone into the
dish. The pasta proved inedible beyond a few forkfuls, and Swati was
reduced to scraping sauce off the chicken with a spoon.<br />
<br />
The menu, usually so voluble about its preparations' provenance, is
uncharacteristically silent about the cooking styles that inspired the
braised pork belly. It is generally associated with
various cuisines of south-east Asia, and arguably more popular in that
part of the world than anywhere else. The oyster sauce reinforces this
suggestion, as does the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bok_choy" target="_blank">Bok Choy</a>, a variety of Chinese cabbage. China boasts a profusion of green leafy vegetables, which includes apart from Bok Choy also <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kai-lan">Kai Lan</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Choy_sum" target="_blank">Choy Sum</a>, and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sui_choy" target="_blank">Sui Choy</a>. Spoilt for Choyce? Certainly, and all the more so because they are all delectable. Incidentally, <a href="http://www.supernature.com.sg/eshop/shop_detail.php?prodid=19" target="_blank">this site here</a>
claims Choi Sum or Chye Sim are nothing but mustard greens. Eh? So many
years I spent exploring Singapore food, and all this while they fed
me Sarson da Saag?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JEFSSuBUVnU/VKQfgNqy8kI/AAAAAAAABxU/NXXJgIUki14/s1600/pIMG_8233.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JEFSSuBUVnU/VKQfgNqy8kI/AAAAAAAABxU/NXXJgIUki14/s1600/pIMG_8233.jpg" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Qoe43BOjqAg/VKQfrXQYwjI/AAAAAAAABxc/hEFkOemeqRg/s1600/pIMG_8231.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Qoe43BOjqAg/VKQfrXQYwjI/AAAAAAAABxc/hEFkOemeqRg/s1600/pIMG_8231.jpg" /></a>
The pork belly came a goodish bit later than the other main courses. It
did say slow-braised, so I cannot complain, really. It was an elaborate
affair. So elaborate that it needed two separate plates to hold
everything together. A conventional plate housed the <span style="font-style: italic;">accoutrements</span>
- a helping
of fried rice, a bowl of light soya sauce with shredded chilli, and
some salad largely made up of carrot, white radish and cilantro. The
pork itself came in a sort of soup plate lined with three or four Bok
Choy leaves. That was the only role Bok Choy played in the entire
affair, I don't know why the menucard gave it star billing. The
mushroom and oyster
sauce had a more central function. They combined with the meat juices
and the braising liquid to form a thin but intensely flavoured gravy,
which alone was worth the price of the dish. But all this paled before
the pork. Superb it was, no other word for it. The meat was chewy in a
good way, firm and with a strong flavour of its own. More delectable were the fatty bits. Now these days I find I cannot eat too
much fat: one small chunk and I start feeling queasy. But this fat was
light on palate and stomach alike. It did not taste very oily or
greasy, neither did it clog my appetite. I was confident I could polish
off another helping without much discomfort, something I cannot trust
myself to do after say, three slices of bacon.<br />
<br />
Dessert was a surprisingly drab affair. Thulp sources cupcakes from
neighbours who like to bake on the side, gifted amateurs mostly, or at
least those who think they are. Arnab and I decided to split one; the
others were too full to join us. That day the suppliers' confidence
exceeded their capabilities. The cake was dry, chewy and a little
over-sweet. Apart from this hiccup, and the bigger one involving the Clucky
Luciano, the meal was very, very enjoyable. Maybe a time will come when
I tire of their food, or when their cooking deteriorates beyond
tolerance levels. Maybe, but I don't think it's going to happen any
time soon. </div>
</div>
Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-30354808511498209782014-11-27T22:32:00.000+05:302019-10-29T23:15:56.703+05:30Patel Bakery<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RPk0uk91N0Y/VHdTmaw6n1I/AAAAAAAABto/ByWYrrfVbik/s1600/pIMG_1490.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RPk0uk91N0Y/VHdTmaw6n1I/AAAAAAAABto/ByWYrrfVbik/s1600/pIMG_1490.jpg" /></a>Cuttack's Buxi Bazar on Diwali night exhibits a curious mixture of
gaiety and desolation. Shop-fronts festoon themselves with
decorative lights, even the ones in Muslim-dominated neighbourhoods.
But since this is primarily a business district and people tend to
celebrate Diwali at home, you find few people around barring stray
groups of revellers lighting crackers on the empty streets. This is so
dramatic a contrast to the unending, viscous stream of noisy, unruly
traffic that you usually encounter on these streets, it is actually
disorienting. Disorienting, but not disconcerting. That is an epithet I
reserve for the rows and rows of closed food shops that greeted this
very hungry soul that evening. <br />
<br />
Finally I located a seedy joint offering Biryani (turned out to be ghastly) and Chicken Tikka dyed
bright red. As I came out of the place, I saw Patel Bakery, still open
at close to 9 PM. I was suprised. Not because of the late hour (shops
in that locality stay open till ten normally); not even the fact that
apart from that seedy eatery it was the only shop in that row open that
day. No, what surprised me was the utter absence of customers queued up.<br />
<br />
<div class="restofpost">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qOGcYWchPrY/VHdTmMUmGwI/AAAAAAAABtg/v7xLua0aqjA/s1600/pIMG_1471.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qOGcYWchPrY/VHdTmMUmGwI/AAAAAAAABtg/v7xLua0aqjA/s1600/pIMG_1471.jpg" /></a>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Dw6oTAQIcQ8/VHdTmDQShkI/AAAAAAAABtk/b-8KxL3F5PU/s1600/pIMG_1488.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Dw6oTAQIcQ8/VHdTmDQShkI/AAAAAAAABtk/b-8KxL3F5PU/s1600/pIMG_1488.jpg" /></a>
<br />
Patel Bakery is an institution in Cuttack. It is a singularly
unglamorous looking shop. And its bill of fare is restricted to simple,
homely stuff like bread, sweet buns, rusks, and tea-cakes. But over the
years it has built up such a reputation for quality that right from
early evening you see long queues of customers seeking to buy its
produce as fresh as possible. Even near closing time you'll find
customers' queues haunting the place. So when that night I found, for
the first time ever, the place bereft of customers I thought they were
in the process of closing. But no, they were still open, and I was welcome too. <br />
<br />
I took advantage of this dearth of customers to get chatting with the
proprietor, a sweet, thickly bearded old gentleman by name Abdul
Rehman Patel. And from this conversation I was able to gain some insights into his personality. He was a disciplinarian of the old school, who
simply could not tolerate any dereliction from what he considered minimum norms of etiquette. Standing in queue and waiting for one's turn was an uncompromisable aspect of this credo. It was made clear to me almost at first-hand, when another customer barged past me and tried to shout out an order.
In an instant Mr Patel's mild-mannered affability transformed into a
snarling belligerence I have rarely seen outside of the Delhi Police. He
stood up, made it amply clear to the transgressor he could bloody well
get lost if he didn't have the patience to wait; and then, once the
customer cowed down, treated me to a homily about Indians' lack of
civic sense, and why it is holding the country back. So, I inferred,
was keeping his shop open that day a facet of his innate
self-discipline. Never mind the lack of customers, never mind it's a
holiday, the shop must remain open as long as it is supposed to.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FYvNzK6lIuM/VHdWayn-cYI/AAAAAAAABuc/6Vbsdqp3rEk/s1600/pIMG_1492.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FYvNzK6lIuM/VHdWayn-cYI/AAAAAAAABuc/6Vbsdqp3rEk/s1600/pIMG_1492.jpg" /></a>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>
This little interlude was so startling I quite forgot to place my order. I hastily remedied this lapse, and asked for rusks,
buns, some tiny teacakes (the shop assistant solicitously informed it had egg in it), and a packet of fresh bread the place is so famous for. Then I
asked Mr Patel if I could take some photographs. He was initially a
little surprised, didn't seem quite sure how to respond. But then his
natural bonhomie prevailed, his sternness melted away, and he sat back
and smiled that warm, fuzzy smile of his.<br />
<br />
His black cap and sharp features gave him the appearance of a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parsi" target="_blank">Parsi</a> patriarch, but that was unlikely given his Muslim name. My initial guess was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dawoodi_Bohra" target="_blank">Dawoodi Bohra</a>, but he clarified he was a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kutchi_Memon" target="_blank">Cutchi Memon</a> and hence a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sunni_Islam" target="_blank">Sunni</a>. That explained several things. His business acumen for one. Then his love of regimen and his austere deportment (only
slightly dented by the cigarettes on his desk). And also his deep and yet enlightened commitment to religion, evidence of which abounded all over the shop. The cabinets at the back were liberally festooned with little advertisements
for Hindi and English translations of the Quran. His own desk was
surrounded with piles of religious texts for sale, the Ramayana and Gita as well as the Quran. I spotted in one corner a
guide to Urdu. Now gaining familiarity with the Nastaliq script has
been a long-standing dream, a dream I've not even come close to
achieving despite numerous efforts, and books bought in good faith.
This one looked interesting, though, and so it proved well worth the
hundred and twenty I paid for it.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o_3djFryUcg/VHdYJ2h47zI/AAAAAAAABu0/lmccz9Trg9I/s1600/pIMG_1805.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o_3djFryUcg/VHdYJ2h47zI/AAAAAAAABu0/lmccz9Trg9I/s1600/pIMG_1805.jpg" /></a>
<br />
After reaching home, I decided to start on the rusks first. I was struck by their curious
shape. Or should I say the curious diversity in their shapes and sizes.
Then it struck me, they were made from buns! Chop up into thick slices
buns left over from the previous day's sale, run them through the oven
once again, and there you are! as neat a recipe as any for at the same
time minimising waste and upholding your commitment to freshness -
well, fresh buns anyway. Frankly, the rusks weren't up to much. I
personally prefer the ones made of <span style="font-style: italic;">atta</span>
(coarsely-ground flour) or wholewheat flour, which impart a nuttiness
refined flour can never approximate. You make rusks as a derivative
process, you're bound to lose out on something, in this case flavour.
The buns fared much better in this regard, certainly in some measure
because they started life as buns, not as derivatives of something else
the way the rusks did. They were fresh, soft, not oversweet, and
generally a decent accompaniment to sweet milky tea. So were the teacakes pleasant to eat, if not particularly special.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cRfdpPZdhJs/VIG6aVPI3OI/AAAAAAAABvM/aWQoiwbHGR4/s1600/IMG_1803.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cRfdpPZdhJs/VIG6aVPI3OI/AAAAAAAABvM/aWQoiwbHGR4/s1600/IMG_1803.JPG" /></a>
But the bread stole the show. They were freshly made like the buns and the teacakes were, and if
anything smells more appetising than bread warm off the oven, I haven't
come across it. They were also cut into thick slices, and slightly
irregularly, the way bread <span style="font-style: italic;">used</span>
to be cut in old-fashioned bakeries. I didn't think much of it
initially, but then I realised it is actually an advantage if eaten the
old-fashioned way it is probably intended to: toast it on a <span style="font-style: italic;">tawa</span>
till the outsides are crisp and hot to the touch; slather butter on it,
lots of butter; then wait for the butter to melt and seep through the
bread a little before you start eating, preferably with tea or soup.
And if the bread is fresh and soft the way this bread was, it yields a
superlative <span style="font-style: italic;">maska</span> toast
experience. Three cheers, Mr Patel, you made my day. I don't intend to
visit you often, not so much for the queues as for the extra butter
your bread will force me to consume. But whenever my resistance reaches
breaking point, why, I shall cheerfully give in. Stand in queue for
hours even, if you want me to. And wallow in butter and toast for the
next few days, and then blame you leading me into temptation. <br />
<br /></div>
</div>
Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-53464110481792234992014-11-16T10:34:00.000+05:302019-10-28T16:12:25.589+05:30Dracula Romanian Food<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Da-VocjxaOk/VGgmYkm28YI/AAAAAAAABqA/DMQt5QTLkVQ/s1600/pimg_4164.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Da-VocjxaOk/VGgmYkm28YI/AAAAAAAABqA/DMQt5QTLkVQ/s1600/pimg_4164.jpg" /></a>
<a href="http://www.hungrygowhere.com/singapore/dracula_romanian_food/" target="_blank">Hungrygowhere reports</a>
the demise of the improbably-named 'Dracula Romanian Food', a hawker-centre stall at Singapore's
Alexandra Village neighbourhood. The title on the page is now prefaced
with a curt
'closed', and any time you try to access a review you're festooned with
annoying popups screaming at you, in case you missed the point, that
'This establishment is no longer in
operation'. <a href="http://www.hungrygowhere.com/singapore/dracula_romanian_food/review/id-9f5e0000/" target="_blank">One review</a>,
dated just a month after my last visit there, indicates some reasons why: a tedious story involving cost-cutting; substituting experienced staff with cheaper (and correspondingly less
competent) replacements; and (horrors!) so steep a drop in food quality
the reviewer actually contracted food poisoning. A sad way to go for an eatery I used to be rather fond of.<br />
<br />
<div class="restofpost">
I came across the place towards the end of my stay in Singapore. At that time
I was staying at a condo called Gillman Heights, one block of which NUS
used as a graduate students' residence. (Gillman Heights is also
history now. Thanks to an <a href="http://www.stproperty.sg/articles-property/singapore-property-news/gillman-heights-en-bloc-deal-is-on/a/5031" target="_blank">en-bloc sale</a>,
we had to vacate the place within weeks of my last visit to Dracula.
The old flats have been pulled down now, with something called <a href="http://www.theinterlace.com/" target="_blank">'The Interlace'</a>,
which looks like a tribute to disjointedness, coming up in its place.)
Dracula was walking distance from Gillman, just across the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ayer_Rajah_Expressway" target="_blank">Ayer Rajah Expressway</a>.
But because it was tucked away behind an HDB block, it took me till
June 2009 to discover the place, almost a year since I had shifted to
Gillman.<br />
<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sp825MlDRbc/VGgmaHNlRwI/AAAAAAAABqY/EKp4rC4ArAc/s1600/pimg_4218.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Sp825MlDRbc/VGgmaHNlRwI/AAAAAAAABqY/EKp4rC4ArAc/s1600/pimg_4218.jpg" /></a></div>
My first impressions were not particularly favourable. Invoking the
Dracula name smacked of blatant attention-grabbing (but then this was before
I found out several other joints exist all over the world both <a href="http://www.dracularestaurant.co.uk/index.html" target="_blank">named</a> and <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.in/Restaurant_Review-g294197-d6839053-Reviews-Dracula_s_Lounge-Seoul.html" target="_blank">themed</a> after that (blood)sucker). The <span style="font-style: italic;">faux</span>-ness
was underscored by a tacky plywood cutout of a castle stuck in front of the counter. Or to be strictly accurate, one half of the counter; the other
half was
given over to an Italian joint called 'Funny Lasagna by Peter Bontoi'.
A menucard was stuck onto the quasi-drawbridge, you gave your order
through this large slot masquerading as the castle entrance, and then collected your food
through the same aperture. <br />
<br />
A copy of a newspaper report framed and displayed prominent gave me some
background info. Bontoi was born in Romania and worked as a chef in
Turin for many years. He then shifted to Singapore and got into the
restaurant business, but after facing partner troubles he decided he
was better off running hawker centre stalls instead. So he set up Funny
Lasagna, specialising in Lasagne, Pasta and Pizza. The article does not
mention when the Draculanian side of things was started. But I presume
at some time he must have realised there was a market for Romanian food
too, so he partitioned off his stall into two halves, and so forth.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Q0h66IqUQiE/VGgmXRn6KlI/AAAAAAAABpw/O4o3Fu4o0k8/s1600/pimg_4160.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Q0h66IqUQiE/VGgmXRn6KlI/AAAAAAAABpw/O4o3Fu4o0k8/s1600/pimg_4160.jpg" /></a>
The first time I went there I ordered Cirnati de Pork, or handmade
Romanian pork sausage. Somewhat expensive at S$8 for one large
sausage on a flatbread, a small portion of salad, two slices of tomato,
a few scraps of leafy veg, and also a complimentary bread basket
containing about four slices of good multigrain. The flatbread was the
most intriguing. Its name was not mentioned, but in all likelihood it
was an unstuffed <a href="http://blog.foodnchef.com/placinta.html" target="_blank">Placinta</a>
(nowhere near as gross as it sounds like).
It looked very much like a Paratha, if a bit more severely circular in
shape, but its taste was different, denser and fattier, presumably
because they used refined flour and also greater amounts of
shortening. The salad was excellent. The sausage left me marginally
let-down; maybe the exotic surroundings and the Romanian antecedents
had goaded my expections to unduly high levels. It was certainly good,
no doubt. Just that it didn't taste very different from
any other well-made sausage. The portions also generally tended to be
on the
smaller side, especially given the price. Apart from these nits, I
enjoyed myself enough to go back three days later.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3dlhzZR9KrM/VGgudXiIchI/AAAAAAAABrc/rMcX6Hm0_Yw/s1600/pimg_4157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3dlhzZR9KrM/VGgudXiIchI/AAAAAAAABrc/rMcX6Hm0_Yw/s1600/pimg_4157.jpg" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jYWXy7iDXm0/VGgmbvFOtII/AAAAAAAABqw/HswJTGetIHM/s1600/pimg_4224.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jYWXy7iDXm0/VGgmbvFOtII/AAAAAAAABqw/HswJTGetIHM/s1600/pimg_4224.jpg" /></a>
On this occasion I opted for a Friptura de
Pork, or Romanian pork chop. They took some time to prepare it, time I
spent most enjoyably chatting with the manageress and the lady who ran
the drinks stall next door. I got a little more bang for my
buck (ok ten bucks) this time round: two generous pieces of pork
smothered in mushroom
sauce, a roll, a helping of salad, and again those bits of tomato and
leafy veg. Three bucks extra fetched me a potato salad, which was
nothing
short of excellent, but then I've always had a weakness for potato and
sour cream. The pork chops were excellent too, very soft, excellent
meat, well cooked. As was the gravy rich and flavourful. But once
again, not much different from any other decent chop anywhere else.<br />
<br />
That was my last visit to Dracula. In less than two weeks Gillman
Heights shut down for good, and we all had to relocate. I
left Singapore in end-August. These last few weeks were extremely
hectic, so I couldn't go back for another visit. It remains one of my
most vivid memories of Singapore, and I wonder why. The food was
certainly good, but not wildly exciting. I guess it was the fun of the
whole thing, the quirky name, the gimmicky castle, and the very
nice people running the show. Yes, an easy conviviality, an
informality, that you don't often come across in Singapore. I shall miss it.</div>
</div>
Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-76852192246448062592014-11-12T11:45:00.000+05:302019-10-28T16:36:14.629+05:30The Chopshop at Professorpada (and that lovely Ambassador car) - II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
[Continued from <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2014/11/professorpada-chopshop-i.html">Part I</a>]
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vDB-XS-t_cM/VGL6k8JoB9I/AAAAAAAABoA/4EG2u2PsA5U/s1600/pIMG_1602.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vDB-XS-t_cM/VGL6k8JoB9I/AAAAAAAABoA/4EG2u2PsA5U/s1600/pIMG_1602.jpg" /></a></div>
After the chicken pakoda interlude, I asked Satya to drive. I was feeling fatigued, and also slightly feverish (not so surprising; within two days my
temperature hit 103.8 Farenheit). Satya exhibited a much more practised
touch, had no compunctions gunning the car down crowded roads. Eventually we hit Professorpada, turned left at the canal,
proceeded down the road for a few hundred metres, and then Satya stopped
the car, asked us to get down, and pointed to a narrow lane on the
left. Going further down this lane we discovered two adjoining shops,
both selling chops. Satya directed us to the one closer to us, which was apparently the more favoured (and better known) purveyor.<br />
<br />
<div class="restofpost">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zD4XrGAF7hY/VGL6mRbbaSI/AAAAAAAABoo/SMnwnmBHz-M/s1600/pIMG_1609.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zD4XrGAF7hY/VGL6mRbbaSI/AAAAAAAABoo/SMnwnmBHz-M/s1600/pIMG_1609.jpg" /></a></div>
The outfit had been carved out of a tiny alcove within a large, old
house (the exposed beams on the ceiling gave you a feeling of just how
old it was). This, however, served only as a store-room. It was kept
meticulously clean, and had been fitted out with several shelves and
benches. On these rested an array of sauces, condiments, spices, and
trays full of uncooked chops. The action took place outside. All the
cooking was done on a gas burner mounted on a stand, on which stood an
ancient cast-iron <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Karahi" target="_blank">Kadhai</a> filled with oil. Customers stood around this arrangement, <a href="http://www.indianleafplates.com/cups.htm" target="_blank">donas</a> (leaf-bowls) in hand, the way people surround <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panipuri" target="_blank">gol-gappa</a>
vendors. Chops were brought out from inside one tray at a time, and
dunked into the sputtering oil. Once ready, they would be served
straight out of the kadhai onto customers' donas. Amazingly, this whole
process was a one-man affair. From frying the chops to serving them, to
keeping count of which customer had how many of which variety, to
handling the cash till, the proprietor did it all, singlehanded,
faltering only rarely.<br />
<br />
The chops were a surprise in several ways. Their size, to begin with.
Chops generally tend to be oblong in shape, at least three inches long
and about an inch and a bit across. These ones were tiny, at best three
quarters of an inch across, and nearly spherical in size. Then the
variety: the place has at least six or seven types on offer. They are
cheap too. The mutton, chicken, liver, and prawn versions sell for
three Rupees each. Also on offer is a vegetarian version, pointless
from a religious viewpont since they are fried in the same oil as the
meatier ones are. Egg chops are larger and pricier at ten bucks. Apart
from chops, the shop also sells chaap, or breaded, deep fried cutlets.
Mutton chaaps come for fifteen Rupees, and the chicken version for ten
(I suspect the chicken chaaps are actually <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chicken_lollipop" target="_blank">lollypops</a>
rather than chaaps in the true sense). Another interesting feature is
the way they are served. About five to ten of them go into a dona,
accompanied not by the stale raw onion you get at most chop vendors',
but by a delightful green salad made up mostly of coarse-chopped
unpeeled cucumber, just a little bit of shredded onion, and a few stray
segments of lime. A masala is sprinkled, and then lime juice squeezed,
over chop and salad alike. We were also offered tomato and chilli
sauce, which we firmly and unanimously rejected.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Proceedings started with mutton chop, ten pieces to a person. Frankly,
not up to much: too much potato, barely any meat. They tasted good,
true. The breading was done just right - crispy, neither too oily nor
too heavy. So was the lightly spiced potato filling tasty in its own
right. But the dearth of meat filling was galling. All said, there's
only so much potato you can chomp through in your quest for elusive
bits of meat. In this regard the liver chops in the next round fared
much better. Each piece had a substantial chunk of liver embedded. I
suspect they pre-cook the liver, because for sure a few minutes' deep
frying won't soften it enough. The bits in the chops were firm but
impressively soft to chew, and they blended with the potato beautfully.
A very, very satisfying experience.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kAoc7vZvRQE/VGL6npdV57I/AAAAAAAABos/1IY2pjnwIg4/s1600/pIMG_1612.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kAoc7vZvRQE/VGL6npdV57I/AAAAAAAABos/1IY2pjnwIg4/s1600/pIMG_1612.jpg" /></a>In between the rounds, we got to talk to the proprietor a little. He
said his name was Muna Panda, but people generally knew him as Kalia.
His father had started the venture and he himself drifted into it in
due course, largely because he was never serious about studies. He
sometimes feels should have followed his brother, who qualified as an
engineer and is now very well settled in Qatar. Kalia is determined to
give his son a good education, and not let junior follow him into the
chop business. I wonder what happens when he hangs up his Kadhai for
good. Will he sell off the business? Will he share with the buyer,
presumably an outsider to the family, the secret recipes and techniques
he has amassed, the secrets that make his chops so singular? Or will he
refuse to part with them, and have the Professorpada chop die with him?<br />
<br />
And there were plenty of secrets too. We got a taste of them in the
very next round, comprising of prawn chops. At three Rupees apiece, you
cannot expect the highest grades of prawn. And indeed, the prawns used
were pretty small, and a little on the stinky side too. However, they
were cooked just right, and spiced just right. The spicing was gentle,
and yet just assertive enough to soften the stink to comfortably
tolerable levels. Once again, the prawn blended beautifully with the
potato and the crisp breaded exterior. So which one did I like the
more, liver or prawn? On hindsight, perhaps I'd go with the prawn, but
for sure the liver version would come a very, very close second.
Choosing between them is not easy.<br />
<br />
The prawn chops were where we stopped. We had demolished several plates
of chicken pakoda earlier, and then followed it up with about thirty
chops per head. And thirty chops, even ones as small as these, make for
a lot of meat, potato, and deep-fried breadcrumb. Raja continued to give
Kalia brisk business for some more time. He had a round of chicken
chops, then some mutton chaap, perhaps a few egg chops too. By this
time I was feeling distinctly out of sorts. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-giYWU5X98tQ/VGL6lU4mDTI/AAAAAAAABoE/nzqym_qeGhI/s1600/pIMG_1606.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-giYWU5X98tQ/VGL6lU4mDTI/AAAAAAAABoE/nzqym_qeGhI/s1600/pIMG_1606.jpg" /></a>
<br />
At Dolamundai the others visited a well-known <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bombay_mix" target="_blank">mixture</a>
shop. I took the opportunity to treat myself to some cough syrup. Then
we went to a legendary tea stall near Barabati stadium. The delightful
old gentleman running it greeted us with a perplexing remark, he said
we ought to have come earlier, now he can serve us only dalda, not desi
ghee. We had to talk to him for some time before we were able to
understand what he meant, namely that his stock of good quality tea had
got over for the day, and so he could offer us only second-great stuff
which came nowhere near the quality he was famous for. Second-grade or
not, the tea he served was excellent, and all the more so as far as I
was concerned because by this time the virus had me firmly in its grip.
<br />
Bishwa took over the wheel for the last leg. I was too sick to drive.
But not too sick to pose for pictures at the wheel of the car. We spent
a good fifteen minutes taking photos, mainly because I wanted souvenirs
to commemorate the first time I drove an Amby. It was a very silly
idea, agreed, but the others cheerfully got into the spirit of things.
Several shots later, I finally staggered up the stairs and flopped down
on the bed without preamble. I was tired, sick, shivery, feverish, but
it had been worth it in the end, every single bit of it.</div>
</div>
Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-41027830572306819792014-11-11T10:57:00.000+05:302019-10-28T20:08:00.710+05:30The Chopshop at Professorpada (and that lovely Ambassador car) - I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EN_qzE-xll8/VGLx5JNsTHI/AAAAAAAABnA/J-XKUi5kO3E/s1600/pIMG_1627.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EN_qzE-xll8/VGLx5JNsTHI/AAAAAAAABnA/J-XKUi5kO3E/s1600/pIMG_1627.jpg" /></a>I am not sure how Cuttack's Professorpada locality got its name. Maybe
faculty members from the nearby Ravenshaw College (now University) were
allocated land there. Or maybe a whole bunch of them decided to settle
down in the vicinity. I don't suppose too many academics would care to
stay there today. Due to its central location it commands high property
prices, even though Cuttack's largest, filthiest, and most malodorous
open sewage drain flows (or stagnates, usually) right past it. For some
strange reason the locallity has acquired a reputation for chop shops.<br />
<br />
<div class="restofpost">
Right, then. What is a chop? Specifically what do we Indians mean by it? This second question is most relevant,
because 'chop' is a textbook example of an English term
acquiring in India a meaning completely removed from what it
carries in its parent tongue. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meat_chop" target="_blank">In standard English, according to Wikipedia</a>,
a chop is a 'cut of meat cut perpendicularly to the spine, and
usually containing a rib or riblet part of a vertebra.' The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meat_chop" target="_blank">same article</a> defines a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cutlet" target="_blank">cutlet</a>
as a 'thin boneless chop, or one with only the rib bone', though it
admits the difference 'is not always clear'. In Indian cuisine a cutlet
is typically a rib cut, spiced, breaded, and then deep fried. Please
note that 'cutlet' refers specifically to the preparation; the cut of
meat itself is known as either Seena (<span style="font-style: italic;">sīnā</span>) (lit. 'breast') or Chaap (<span style="font-style: italic;">cāp</span>)
(sometimes pronounced with a slight nasal intonation as
'chaa(m)p'). The word certainly appears to be a corruption of the
English 'chop'. I was unable to find any source that bears out this
conjecture, barring an <a href="http://sutapa.com/intro.html" target="_blank">online glossary</a> that defines chaap as 'rib chop'. The resemblance across the two words, however, is manifest.<br />
<br />
In addition to 'chaap', several Indian
languages also feature a word called 'chop' whose meaning bears no
resemblance to its standard English counterpart. I have no idea where this version came from. It has at its
core some sort of savoury filling, either meaty or veggie (Bengalis
tend to make a mean chop out of Mocha or banana-blossom). It is then
spiced, encased in mashed potato, breaded (typically with fine-textured
breadcrumbs), then deep-fried. Hence it is much closer in spirit to the
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Croquette" target="_blank">croquette</a>, except that our chops tend to be more oblong or rounded than strictly cylindrical in shape. (NB: The <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=36623524" target="_blank">section on India</a>
in the wikipedia article is heavily misleading, please do not pay much
attention to it). This is not a strict definition. The Alu Chop
purveyed in
streetside shops all over Bengal and Odisha conforms to few of its
parameters. It comprises simply of sliced potato dipped in gram-flour
batter and then deep-fried. No mashed potato casing, no breadcrumbs. At
times it's not even spiced beforehand - just before handing the
customer the plateful, the purveyor sprinkles salt, pepper, chilli
powder and stuff.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uFe8Fr9V8dA/VGLyrnk1_MI/AAAAAAAABnQ/zmcjbo4AJQM/s1600/pIMG_1610.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uFe8Fr9V8dA/VGLyrnk1_MI/AAAAAAAABnQ/zmcjbo4AJQM/s1600/pIMG_1610.jpg" /></a></div>
The chop you get at Professorpada is of the croquette type - encased in
mash, breaded, then deep fried. It marks a celebrated high-point in the
Cuttack foodie scene. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Highway_On_My_Plate" target="_blank">Rocky and Mayur</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/NDTV_Good_Times" target="_blank">NDTV</a>'s food-honchos, have done a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o0oT53beE5s" target="_blank">spot on it</a> (the chop bit starts at about 7.18) and also <a href="http://books.google.co.in/books?id=Hy3_AwAAQBAJ&pg=PT381&lpg=PT381&dq=professorpada+mutton+chop&source=bl&ots=Y5VSnSul5O&sig=7b96Q4iL5zeNHerMpuzWHU8tLKw&hl=en&sa=X&ei=pMxPVK_TH4vk8gWvjIGIBA&ved=0CC8Q6AEwAw#v=onepage&q=professorpada%20mutton%20chop&f=false" target="_blank">reviewed it</a> in <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22923848-highway-on-my-plate-ii" target="_blank">their book</a>
(the review claims that the chops are batter-fried, ouch!). It has also <a href="http://www.newindianexpress.com/states/odisha/article547989.ece?service=print" target="_blank">featured on Indian Express</a>. I've been hearing about it since 2010, particularly from friend
and colleague Debasis, who used to live there back then. Even though I
visited him at his house on countless occaisions, I never got the
chance to try the chops, one reason being that he never let me know the
shops were located right adjacent to the apartment he lived in. Then he
moved out, my reasons to go there diminished, and I forgot about it.
Till last night, once again on a whim. <br />
<br />
This time round, apart from usuals Ramakrishna and Bishwa Kallyan, we
had two students come along with us. Raja and Satyaprakash are in the final year, and thoroughly
nice guys both of them. In Satya's case this is all the more notable because his father
happens to be a prominent local politician. However, the gentleman is
very much of the old school who has brought up his son with an iron
hand to ensure he absorbed none of the brashness and arrogance so
prevalent in political progeny in India. In this I am glad to
say he succeeded most satisfactorily.<br />
<br />
Presumably it's this old-school perspective that led the gentleman to buy an <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hindustan_Ambassador" target="_blank">Ambassador</a>
car instead of some swankier new model. The Ambassador has become an
icon of sorts today, loved and reviled in equal measure. It started
life in 1957-58 as a direct clone of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Morris_Oxford#Oxford_series_III_1956.E2.80.9359" target="_blank">Morris Oxford III</a>,
underwent several modifications through successive iterations, and
finally ended production as recently as 2014. Satya's version features an Isuzu-derived 2-litre diesel engine,
a five-speed floor-shift gearbox of similar provenance, front disk
brakes and bucket seats, power steering, and a retro-inspired
centre-mounted instrument panel. It doesn't even call itself an Ambassador any more - for some unfathomable reason it now bears the name <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hindustan_Ambassador#Ambassador_Avigo" target="_blank">Avigo</a>
instead. Beneath the changes, though, the bodyshell
remains largely unchanged from 1957, which establishes its Ambassadorial lineage no matter how comprehensively it is rechristened.
Now I started
driving at a time when pre-liberalisation cars like the Amby and the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Premier_Padmini" target="_blank">Premier Padmini</a> (colloquially known as the 'Fiat') were common. I learnt to drive on a Fiat we sold as late as 1999, and I'm pretty sure a <a href="http://www.team-bhp.com/forum/attachments/vintage-cars-classics-india/883102d1328449977-fiat-classic-car-club-mumbai-dscf0807.jpg" target="_blank">1962 version replete with suicide doors</a>
(which also I have driven) still remains somewhere in the family. But
somehow the chance to drive an Amby always eluded me. Till Satya
readily agreed to bring his car along for the chop jaunt.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lsPiFWPOAAM/VGLx80vp2zI/AAAAAAAABnI/3oOF0RlYPZ4/s1600/pIMG_1622.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lsPiFWPOAAM/VGLx80vp2zI/AAAAAAAABnI/3oOF0RlYPZ4/s1600/pIMG_1622.jpg" /></a></div>
The drive was a revelation in many ways. Driving a piece of history was
a thrilling experience. Yet I couldn't help but grieve a little over what the car stood for in its present iteration: a misbegotten modernisation exercise inevitably doomed to failure. The gearshift was flaccid. It was also
positioned
inconveniently forward, and the stumpy lever had a very wide throw.
Which meant you had to reach out and flail your left arm around a good deal before it slotted into gear. The
brakes were barely adequate. The power steering was
soggy, didn't give you a feel of the road. I didn't much like the
engine either. Particularly the feeble pick-up -
you needed to really rev the engine to get any
kind of acceleration out of the car. Nevertheless, the drive was in
general a pleasant one, largely attributable to features left unmolested from <span style="font-style: italic;">circa</span> 1957. Seating remains as roomy as ever, particularly for rear-seat passengers. And the suspension's ability to soak up potholes is something to be cherished.<br />
<br />
When starting off I assumed we'd proceed to Professorpada directly, and so set a course accordingly. But no, it turned we had to take a little detour. A little while ago the conversation had turned to chicken Pakodas served at a place called DFC (more on it later). This had whetted Satya's cravings so badly that, as we were
cheerfully bowling down the Kathjodi Ring Road, he unobtrusively went and called up DFC and asked for a few plates to be served the
moment we arrived. Had I known about it earlier, I would have hit the
Mahanadi Ring Road, kept to the river's edge till about Barabati
Stadium, and then prised the car into the YMCA Road. It was too late to
do that now, unless I doubled back from Satichaura all the way to
Chahata. The alternative was to head straight from Satichaura and then
cut through the town's denser pockets. I was not too keen to do that,
what with an unfamiliar car and all, but once I realised I didn't have
much of a choice, what the hell! The car behaved magnificently,
especially in the most thickly-populated bits where riding the clutch
was a necessity.<br />
<br />
[Continued in <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2014/11/professorpada-chopshop-ii.html">Part II</a>] </div>
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-53518487631611301232014-10-27T15:37:00.001+05:302019-10-28T20:09:42.584+05:30Hotel Subhalaxmi, Naraj<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BL5ZzfJou68/VE4WKptn94I/AAAAAAAABlk/bxL_KG-O3vs/s1600/pIMG_1250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BL5ZzfJou68/VE4WKptn94I/AAAAAAAABlk/bxL_KG-O3vs/s1600/pIMG_1250.jpg" /></a>
Hotel Subhalaxmi is a small, unpretentious <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dhaba" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">dhābā</a>
tucked away in a village just
beyond the farthest reaches of Cuttack. It is not a particularly
well-known place, nor is it given to offering exotic one-off
preparations. But over time it has built up a local reputation for
hearty everyday fare at reasonable prices. Denizens tend to speak
highly of its
mutton curry and fried fish. It is only a couple
of kilometres away from our University campus, and some colleagues are
regular lunchtime visitors. We'd been hearing about it for quite some
time. So the other day we three of us - Bishwa Kallyan, Ramakrishna, and self - decided on a whim to check it out.<br />
<br />
<div class="restofpost">
Ram had in fact finished a substantial lunch by then. He came along mainly for the good-humoured conviviality and camaraderie that make our little jaunts so memorable. That and a little fried fish on the side
- he ordered um, four of them. Bishwa and I were fortunate he didn't want anything more. They had
nearly run out of mutton by the time we arrived (at about 2.30) and could scrape together only two servings. To
this Bishwa and I helped ourselves with an easy conscience since Ram
was, of course, too full for another meal!<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dq4d8s37tLM/VE4WLodktpI/AAAAAAAABlw/JMKV4wgFJdk/s1600/pIMG_1257.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dq4d8s37tLM/VE4WLodktpI/AAAAAAAABlw/JMKV4wgFJdk/s1600/pIMG_1257.jpg" /></a></div>
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s_AUjcJmuuQ/VE4WKqkHASI/AAAAAAAABlg/X-5fGxzqCew/s1600/pIMG_1256.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-s_AUjcJmuuQ/VE4WKqkHASI/AAAAAAAABlg/X-5fGxzqCew/s1600/pIMG_1256.jpg" /></a>The place is typical of dhabas in Odisha. It is housed in a small
single-storied cemented building, one among a row of shops. In front
of the entrance is a kind of porch made of concrete columns topped by
a canopy of corrugated iron. This serves to stave off the heat, and
also provided some shade for regulars who sit there for a chat. What
really caught the eye was the shop's startling colour-scheme. The
columns are painted a bright lime green with a blue and, now much
faded, at the bottom. Inside the green gives way to an equally vivid
mustard yellow. Here the blue borders and edges are much more
prominent. The sides of the cashier's desk, and the iron door at the
back, also flaunt similar shades of blue. As is common practice among dhabas, the kitchen is situated
right in front, with tables laid out for diners towards the back. The
inside is spartan, with the furniture tending to granite-topped
iron tables and backless wooden benches. The ceiling has begun to look a little
sooty. That said, it is reasonably clean throughout, even the kitchen is
respectably tidy. The benches are not too uncomfortable either, a
sentiment evidently shared by the group at the next table who had
sneaked in some (very strong) beer and were surreptitously doling it
out amongst themselves. <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ov1-Wcygwak/VE4WLyVIl4I/AAAAAAAABmI/PnFc1hWraLs/s1600/pIMG_1258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ov1-Wcygwak/VE4WLyVIl4I/AAAAAAAABmI/PnFc1hWraLs/s1600/pIMG_1258.jpg" /></a></div>
Even though we had come for the first time, the manager sized us up as
favoured customers. This favour was bestowed in curious fashion.
Perhaps overly cautious of hygiene levels, he came and spread
newspapers on our table before setting down the plates. The full <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thali" target="_blank"><span style="font-style: italic;">thalis</span></a>
(plated meals) for Bishwa and self arrived first. And a good thing too.
We were starving by then; the freshly-lunched Ram was, well, not
starving. The trays contained rice, some mixed veg, dry stir-fried
potato and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parwal"><span style="font-style: italic;">parwal</span></a>, and that famed mutton. The rice was the inexpensive, thick-grained variety served in cheap eateries all over Odisha and known simply by the generic name <span style="font-style: italic;">usna chaula</span> (pronounced '<i>usnā cāulô</i>') or '<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Parboiled_rice" target="_blank">parboiled rice</a>'. Sophisticates disparage it as coarse, hard to chew, and heavy on the
stomach (hence lethargy-inducing). I tend to differ. It has a robust
flavour and texture I love, which you simply don't find in the more refined
varieties. If made properly it is not very chewy either. And in this place it <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span>
made most properly too, cooked just right. I used up all the rice
finishing off the veggies, and had to ask for a second helping to have
the mutton with. <br />
<br />
The mixed veg was tasty enough, if not particularly interesting. I liked the potato and parwal much more. It was well cooked, not oily at all, and I have a
weakness for parwal. I
would have asked for seconds had it not been for the mutton waiting patiently across the rice. Ah! the mutton. Lived up to expectation in
every way. The gravy was excellently made. It was browned evenly,
replete with
meaty juices and flavours, and without the slightest hint of scorching even though what they served us
must have been the dregs from the day's cooking. The meat was well-cooked, succulent, soft,
neither chewy nor mushy, and fell off the bone at the slightest
touch. Humble surroundings be damned, it compared handsomely with the
finest mutton I've had anywhere in Odisha.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-deEjIWkWhr0/VE4WMhHq9tI/AAAAAAAABmA/jYsNgDaroHo/s1600/pIMG_1261.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-deEjIWkWhr0/VE4WMhHq9tI/AAAAAAAABmA/jYsNgDaroHo/s1600/pIMG_1261.jpg" /></a></div>
I had just started on the mutton when the fish arrived. By the time I remembered to take pictures, and
also get myself a taste, Ram had polished off two of them. They were
locally procured small fish, possibly caught that morning off the
nearby <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kathajodi_River" target="_blank">Kathajodi</a>, and then fried whole. I confess I am not much of a fish
eater. Still I helped myself to a couple of chunks just to get a taste. It was not bad, but not very juicy either, and a bit on the bland side. Ram
enjoyed it thoroughly, though.<br />
<br />
They charged us about Rs 120 per mutton thali. (Or at least that's
what Bishwa told me later. While Ram and I were busy with fish and camera
respectively, he had sneaked out and quietly settled the bill.) While
not cheap, it was certainly reasonable considering the price of mutton these days. And certainly well worth the money. The fish sold for about Rs 30 each, which I thought was on the steeper side.
But this is a minor nit. We had a wonderful time, no doubt about it. I certainly intend to be back soon.</div>
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-19532948871152332112014-10-24T18:12:00.001+05:302019-10-28T20:26:09.381+05:30Istanbul for Beginners 01: Getting There<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i>[NB: This is part of a series on my visit to Istanbul. For other posts, please see the <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2014/10/istanbul-00-prefatory-note.html">prefatory note</a>.]</i>
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I was not meant to go to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Istanbul" target="_blank">Istanbul</a>. Not originally, that is. Back then I was a grad student at <a href="http://www.nus.edu.sg/">NUS</a>. Their research scholars policy extended to funding one international conference a year. The <a href="http://www.legalscholars.ac.uk/about/index.cfm" target="_blank">SLS</a> <a href="http://conference.legalscholars.ac.uk/" target="_blank">Conference</a>, certainly one of the more prestigious events for law scholars, had accepted my abstract. It was to be held in London that year, which is where I thought I was headed. But then I got into a little problem with my supervisor, and the wonderful lady decided send me, and CC to the Vice-Dean, a mail containing some highly suggestive and misleading remarks about a dissertation chapter I was supposed to complete. As a matter of fact I <span style="font-style: italic;">had</span> completed that chapter, and to the supervisor's satisfaction at that. I was the one who felt there was something vital I had missed out conceptually. So I withdrew what I had turned in, and asked for a little time to revise it. It took me fifteen days of tense, chaotic brooding, but I did managed to crack the puzzle in the end, and the insights so gained proved pretty fundamental. By that time, though, the damage was done, and my funding application duly turned down. Ironically, these new ideas were what I wanted to present at SLS.<br />
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Even though I managed to set the record straight with the Vice-Dean the next time I met him in person, the episode left me absolutely livid. So much so that I vowed not to apply for conference funding ever again as long as I remained in Singapore. My friend Saiful thought it was a silly thing to do. He empathised with my feelings, yes, but why not avail of something that was mine by right? So what should I do, I asked, go ahead and present at a top-tier international conference insights I know are substantial, but which the supervisor can only scoff at? That's when he had a most interesting idea: why don't I seek out some conference, any obscure conference, being held at a place I've always wanted to visit? A little googling revealed a conference on terrorism to be held at one of Istanbul's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kadir_Has_University" target="_blank">lesser universities</a>. I was reading Orhan Pamuk's book on the city at that time. Moreover, terrorism law had been one of my optional courses, and the term paper I had written for it could be comfortably recycled for this conference. Things began to fall into place automatically. This time my application sailed through most smoothly: I have no idea what the Vice-Dean told her, but my supervisor gave her consent in record time.<br />
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(Not entirely, though. She did one more little dirty on me. I had applied for three days' extra leave. She chose not to respond to the request one way or the other, which meant, thanks to the applicable rules, that I forfeited those three leaves without ever getting to know if they had been approved or not. I smelt a rat somewhere. My instincts told me extending the trip might not be a good idea. So I decided to return on the originally scheduled date. Sure enough, within hours of my landing I got a mail from her about something or the other. I responded within minutes, making it a point to say I was heavily jetlagged, which is why I couldn't come down to the campus. I don't know if she ran my mail through a reverse-DNS checkup. I sure hope she did; it would have reassured her no end.)<br />
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Anyways, once the approval came through the rest was easy. The only catch was, I had to arrange (and pay for) my own accommodation. This I managed online at minimum expense; I opted for a dormitory bed for fifteen Euros a night. Slightly steep, this <a href="http://www.istanbulparishostel.com/index.html" target="_blank">Istanbul Paris Hotel and Hostel</a>, but located in the heart of the Old City, extended walking distance from the conference venue, pretty close to the Blue Mosque and the Grand Bazaar, and they threw in a buffet breakfast for free. The University took care of the conference fees and, most crucially, the airfare. NUS had a delightful policy of reimbursing only SQ (<span style="font-style: italic;">i.e. </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Singapore_Airlines" target="_blank">Singapore Airlines</a>) flights. Given that it was and remains one of the best airlines around, I certainly didn't have any problem with that. I did face a minor hiccup over my blazer, which I had outgrown by several inches around the midriff. Buying a new one from Singapore was never an option: the readymades were badly cut and ill-fitting, and bespoke tailoring was too expensive to contemplate. So one Saturday I went over to Johor Baru in Malaysia, located a tailor there, struck a deal with him, and returned the following Saturday to pick it up. I goofed a little on the material: in my haste I chose some sort of polyesterish stuff; when I went to pick it up I learnt I could have got Italian lambswool for just a hundred Ringgit more. That apart, my preparations proceeded with the utmost smoothness. Even the Turkish visa was processed in about three days.<br />
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Since this was an SQ flight, I got to experience at first hand the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Singapore_Changi_Airport#Terminal_3" target="_blank">swanky new Terminal 3</a> at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Singapore_Changi_Airport" target="_blank">Changi</a>. I loved the whole experience, couldn't get enough of it. Especially the planes parked right outside the departure lounge, across the plate-glass windows. In the plane another surprise awaited me. Though the flight was reasonably full, the other two seats on my row remained unoccupied, at least till the stopover at Dubai. Which meant I could simply lift up the armrests and stretch out across all three seats. I still didn't get much sleep, though. Even after about six or seven assorted drinks, I could only manage a thin, intermittent snooze in the last two hours of the Singapore-Dubai leg. Maybe the drinks they serve on planes are smaller than regular ones. That's the only explanation I have for remaining awake, and stone cold sober, even with all that beer, wine, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Campari" target="_blank">Campari</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irish_cream" target="_blank">Irish Cream</a>, and indifferent <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cognac" target="_blank">Cognac</a> sloshing about inside me. I did say assorted, right? I meant it.<br />
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Given SQ's reputation, I expected the food to be several notches above the sludge they serve on other airlines. In this I was not disappointed exactly, but that's about all that can be said for it. They served us grilled chicken, sauteed veg, mash, a dinner roll, some salad - standard stuff, mostly nourishing, reasonably tasty and, well, humdrum. Breakfast the next morning was nicer, if equally conventional. I got some sort of sausage (lamb, most likely), a couple of bull's eye eggs, apart from the usual accoutrements like baked beans, a roll, coffee, orange juice and all.<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dubai_International_Airport" target="_blank">Dubai Airport</a> was much as I had expected it - opulent, at times to the point of garishness. I tried to get myself some food, but then they told me even if I paid in Euros they will return the change in their local currency. One more incident: I was taking some pictures of a watch outlet displaying a huge poster of Aishwarya Rai (which suggested where a significant chunk of the shop's clientele came from). This officious security guard immediately stalked up to me and told me not to take pictures. I was drowsy and tired for lack of sleep, which is why I decided not to create a shindig. Otherwise I'd have cheerfully asked to see the manager and, if it came to that, even file a complaint.<br />
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I did manage some sleep after Dubai, even though the seats next to mine were occupied. I woke up to a most spectacular dawn, which slowly gave way to the loveliest cloudscaped morning. In the brilliant sunshine, and against the deep mystic blue sky you get only at high altitudes, the vista was nothing short of magical. I could spot plains, forested clumps, rocky outcrops, windswept dunes. An enchanted land, a secret land, real, manifest, but which we humans were condemned to view only at a distance, from behind plate glass. And if by some stratagem, say a parachute, we contrived to reach out to the land, the closer we came to it the more the magic would dispel, the more porous, flawed, insubstantial our senses would perceive it to be. And then the land would shroud us in thick, sticky, opaque, white blindness and, before we knew what was happening, summarily eject us from its domain. After that of course the magic would reassert itself. Again the land would appear solid, real, but this time above us, unattainable because we cannot fly up.<br />
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Arrival at Istanbul was very smooth. I found myself outside the airport almost before I knew it. The weather was surprisingly chilly and drizzly, especially for late April. I was glad I had invested in a warm jacket before coming here; it stood me in good stead throughout my trip, and continues to do so even today, five years on. Getting to my hotel didn't pose much of a problem either. Some helpful soul advised me to take the <a href="http://www.havas.net/en/OurServices/BusServicesAndCarParkingFacilities/ServicePoints/Pages/AHL.aspx" target="_blank">Havaş</a> bus to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aksaray,_Istanbul" target="_blank">Aksaray</a> (good value for money at five Euros), then take the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Istanbul_modern_tramways" target="_blank">tram</a> to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%87emberlita%C5%9F,_Fatih" target="_blank">Çemberlitaş</a>. I enjoyed the drive to Aksaray, very picturesque it was, with the city ramparts on my left and the Sea of Marmara to my right.<br />
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Akasaray was a learning experience. About currency rates, particularly. Now that Italy had joined the Euro, Turkey must be the only country whose currency is called Lira. Some time ago, the government decided to revamp the heavily devalued Lira. They created a new currency called YTL or <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turkish_lira#Second_Turkish_lira_.282005-present.29" target="_blank">Yeni Türk Lirasi</a> (New Turkish Lira), each one of them worth 100,000 old ones. This brought about some sort 1:2 parity with the Euro. So when the Havaş guy glibly asked me for either ten Liras or five Euros, I thought this was the exchange rate generally. Ah, but then at Aksaray I found several foreign exchange shops offering as much as YTL 2.20 a Euro. (Later on, when I went to the more touristy places, I found rates there did not exceed 2.14. A useful trick, this: to figure out tourist-traps, keep a lookout for what currency traders offer.)<br />
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By this time the weather had got to me. I darted into a joint called <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.in/Restaurant_Review-g293974-d2672451-Reviews-Arjantin_Pilic-Istanbul.html" target="_blank">Arjantin Piliç</a>. As is now common the world over, the placemats had some popular items listed out, replete with pictures. That is how I figured out all steaks are called Biftek in Turkey: chicken steak is called Piliç Biftek, for example. (So chicken is called Piliç, except when it is called Tavuk. Go figure.) I wasn't interested in steaks. Nor in the chicken, lamb, quail and other meats set up for roasting on a variety of horizontal and vertical spits. What I wanted was soup, lots of soup, çorba they called it. And what wonderful soup it was! - thick, creamy, and flavoursome. It came with a basket of Turkish bread, warm, soft, and encrusted with sunflower seeds. A hearty welcome to the loveliest city ever.</div>
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-85644167942410795312014-10-06T19:00:00.001+05:302014-10-25T10:26:46.675+05:30Istanbul for Beginners 00: Prefatory Note<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
One more series of posts on food and travel interspersed. This time it's about my visit to Istanbul more than five years ago. Like with other posts, one reason I have not written about it for so long is that I couldn't decide where to begin. Or how to approach it - as a narrative of all that I experienced there, arranged chronologically and with no detail omitted, however slight; or as a collection of individual vignettes. The first does not enthuse me so much. Partly because I cannot be sure my recollections will be uniformly detailed or vivid. And the other partly because while I am eager to write about certain episodes, I would rather avoid the drudge of chronicling the less interesting bits. So what I have cobbled together here is a random collection of reminiscences presented in no discernible order. And whyever not. It's my blog, so there!<br />
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<b>List of Posts:</b>
<br />
<ol>
<li><a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2014/10/istanbul-01-getting-there.html" target="_blank">Getting There</a></li>
<li>One Day, Three Doner</li>
<li>Haci Abdullah</li>
<li>Camberlitas<br />
</li>
<li>Three (+1) Forms of Public Transport<br />
</li>
<li>Midye Dolma</li>
<li>The Blue Mosque, Wali Kebap</li>
<li>Aya Sofia</li>
<li>Selim Usta</li>
<li>Topkapi</li>
<li>The Asian Side - Sekerpare, Kocorek <br />
</li>
</ol>
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-25828093676069528302014-09-01T16:48:00.002+05:302019-10-28T21:30:07.349+05:30A (Mostly) Vegetarian Excursion to Mysore 04: The Return Journey<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
[Continued from <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.in/2013/06/mysore-veg-03-original-mylari.html">Part III</a>]<br />
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The rest of the day was spent sightseeing (that ghastly word). First stop, the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chamundeshwari_Temple" target="_blank">Chamundeshwari Temple</a>
just outside Mysore. An impressive sight, in several ways. For one, the surroundings were spotlessly clean. Then I could
spot only two special queues, priced at Rupees twenty and a hundred
respectively. The five-figure obnoxiousness characteristic of so many
temples in this country was thankfully absent. And this is something
I have never been able to either
understand or reconcile with what I consider basic human values: why
should your wallet determine how close you can get to god? Another
thing I much appreciate was the absence of those detestable "Non-Hindus Not Allowed"
placards so prevalent in places like Orissa. Mr David and
Amita had no compunctions about going in. So who stayed out? Heh.<br />
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It was not solely because of my agnostic outlook. The temple
and its immediate environs presented excellent photo opportunities.
That's what I did the whole time
the rest were away. Take photographs and observe generally.
There was plenty to observe, as there usually is near bustling temples.
Like that sign proclaiming "Coconut Broken Place" (for the
uninitiated, this indicates the place meant for breaking coconuts -
certain rituals require the beneficiary to smash a coconut
by hitting it very hard on the ground). Or the 'Godly Museum' just
outside the temple premises. Another was the board outside
the "Ladu [<span style="font-style: italic;">sic</span>] <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prasad" target="_blank">Prasada</a> Counter", which listed consecrated <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Laddu" target="_blank">laddus</a>
for ten Rupees apiece, two for twenty and (surprise) four for forty.
Perhaps their Holinesses of the temple management committee have
transcended mundane considerations like economy of scale? To be fair,
the laddus were priced reasonably, well within the budget of most
devotees.<br />
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A brief halt at the <a href="http://www.fullstopindia.com/nandi-the-bull-hill-at-chamundi-hill-mysore" target="_blank">Nandi Bull idol</a>, and then another famous place of worship, the Nanjundeshwara Temple at <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nanjangud" target="_blank">Nanjangud</a>. I stayed out this one too. But this time I had a task to
fulfil. someone (most likely my mother, don't recall exactly)
was feeling slightly unwell, so I set off to locate a pharmacy. It took
me much longer than I had expected: the nearest one was a good walk
away, and I misunderstood the directions I got from a kindly soul.
But in the process I was able to experience - and photograph - parts of
this lovely old town most outsiders are oblivious to. I wish I had more
time to explore the place.<br />
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Next stop, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mysore_Palace" target="_blank">Mysore Palace</a>
once again. This time we went inside to see the portion that had been converted into a museum. Which turned out to be a
cumbersome procedure. First we had to deposit our cameras. Next we had
to buy tickets, of course. Then came the strangest part - we had to
take off our shoes and deposit them at a designated counter. I have no
idea why this was mandated. Perhaps it was to help preserve
the antique tiled floor of the palace, or maybe the idea
of plebians clomping around with their shoes on did not go down well
with remnants of the erstwhile royal family.<br />
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The experience was made
even more unpleasant by the stone paving on the footpaths, which had
turned blistering hot in the midday sun. A few stray pieces of coconut
matting had been laid out over them, but they were too prickly to
comfortably walk on, and in any case so tattered as to be almost useless. Even the museum proved a massive disappointment. It contained
little of true historical significance. Mostly it ran to
bric-a-brac of various kinds ('<a href="http://madameulalie.org/strand/Doing_Father_a_Bit_of_Good.html" target="_blank">objay dar</a>' or 'French for junk', as the great <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/P._G._Wodehouse" target="_blank">Wodehouse</a>
put it) - mementoes gifted by visiting potenates or grateful sections
of the vassalage; old furniture and carpets; portraits, that sort of
thing. <br />
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Another unpleasant surprise awaited us as we came out. Some genius had come up with the idea of organising horse- and
elephant-rides on that part of the palace grounds. So now we had to not just hop-skip barefooted across scorching paving-tiles, but also take care not to step on the animal dung liberally decorating the pathways. We discovered the titular
Maharaja had opened up to the public some parts of the wing he still
retained. Some seventy Rupees gained you the privilege of inspecting
items of everyday royal life - toys, clothes, pots, pans and that sort of thing.
Adithi and Amita elected to check this out, the rest of us hopped over
to a row of snack outlets and treated ourselves to lukewarm fruit juice.<br />
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The Jaganmohan Palace was vastly more enjoyable. Its collection of
paintings was magnificent, no two ways to it. Some tend to
exaggerate its excellence: I came across a <a href="http://www.mysore.org.uk/museums/chamarajendra-art-gallery.html" target="_blank">webpage</a> that claims "such works of
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rembrandt" target="_blank">Rembrandt</a> can be found nowhere in the world except in Russia" and then goes on insist it also features works by master [<span style="font-style: italic;">sic</span>] like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rubens" target="_blank">P.P.
Ruben</a> [<span style="font-style: italic;">sic</span>], <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Titian" target="_blank">Titan</a> [<span style="font-style: italic;">sic</span>],
A. Caddy (who?) and miniatures by Gunoy (once again, who?). It turned
out that the
only (Western) old masters on display were specially commissioned copies. But no
regrets - the magnificent Indian art collection more than made up
for it.<br />
<br />
Take painters from Bengal. The biggies were all there - <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abanindranath_Tagore" target="_blank">Abanindranath Tagore</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nandalal_Bose" target="_blank">Nandalal Bose</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jamini_Roy" target="_blank">Jamini Roy</a> - and represented by some of their finest works too. And then there were several pieces by lesser-known <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bengal_school_of_art" target="_blank">Shantiniketan</a>
exponents, names I had not come across before. I wouldn't call them
inspired, exactly - some of them tended a bit too heavily towards
Chinese or Japanese stylistic cues. But that's just what made them
interesting in my eyes, as outcomes of a cerebral process, that is, of
a conscious, reasoned attempt to reduce various Indian and Far-Eastern
styles into their bare distillates, and then synthesise them into a new
idiom. And then of course the fabled Ravi Varma collection. I confess
I'm not a fan of his, find him a bit too schmaltzy for my tastes. But the
works on display here were still a treat, in a cosy, sentimental,
feel-good manner. Something like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahendra_Kapoor" target="_blank">Mahendra Kapoor</a>'s musical output <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vpqYjAHQtvI" target="_blank">[1]</a>, pleasant and nostalgia-evoking in its own way though in my view a mere shadow of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mohammed_Rafi" target="_blank">Rafi's</a> staggering genius.<br />
<br />
The musical instruments section was unquestionably the most rewarding part
of the day. Indian musical instruments contain many
sophisticated features, but their constitutive specifications have
never
been standardised through convention. As a result, they display much
greater
variance than western ones do in their dimensions, tonal range, pitch,
timbre, and at times
even the number of playing and other strings.
Good quality instruments are always ordered bespoke
from master-luthiers, who handcraft each piece according to
specifications the client supplies. An instrument thus amounts to a
record of the specific tonal and behavioural qualities the
customer-musician desires from it.<br />
<br />
But then again, musicians are not
always the sole arbiters of what constitutes good music; their target
audience must also be of the same mind. And this goes for the tone and
behaviour of instruments too. In the last century, Zia Mohiuddin Dagar
and Vilayat Khan made radical modifications to the Rudra Veena and the
Sitar respectively. They both enjoyed successful musical careers. But
would they have been considered successful if their audiences had not
accepted as meaningful their organological innovations? And in the era of princely states acceptability counted for much more given its crucial influence on royal patronage, musicians' chief source of livelihood back then.<br />
<br />
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This is why the exhibit was so remarkable. Each instrument was
represented by versions from different eras lined up together. So by
merely looking at them we get a clear idea of how they evolved
structurally - and tonally too - over centuries. This was the
only time I found frustrating their policy of not allowing cameras
inside museums. I'd
have loved to keep a visual record of those insightful displays. Just
to work off the frustration, when collecting the camera from the
deposit counter I loosed off a few shots of the palace's interior. It
gives some idea of just how graceful the edifice looks from the inside.<br />
<br />
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Next stop, lunch at a place called Kamat. Its open-air dining area was
truly beautiful - a large, intensely green space divided into smaller
canopied enclosures, with <span style="font-style: italic;">chiks</span>
(thin cane
screens) draped over the sides imparting a sense of privacy and
seclusion from other diners. All in all, we enjoyed the ambience
more than the food which, barring some terrific fried fish, was decent
but not remarkable. (We had decided to forgo for once our
self-imposed vegetarianism.) At Daria Daulat Bagh, Tipu's summer
palace, my
father-in-law and I sat in the car while the others went inside. They
came back about an hour later complaining how dilapidated and
ill-maintained it was. I of course knew about all this, which is why I
didn't bother to go there in the first place. One point of interest, I spotted one of those Kerala-registered autorickshaws I had first noticed at Tipu Sultan's tomb. Wonder what they were doing there, and how they got into Karnataka in the first place. I sat out the visit to
the Ranganathaswamy Temple too. No surprise there - I was tired, and in
any case never too enthusiastic about temples.<br />
<br />
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<br />
On the way back we made another very enjoyable visit to Maddur
Tiffanyss. Then we stopped for a good length of time at
Chennapatna, a town famous for laquered wooden toys. We went crazy
here, buying the most extraordinary toys for the newborn. One
couldn't blame us, really, the toys were so, so attractive.
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pu8hl8FMzzM/VARRoLsX6fI/AAAAAAAABgI/qr-4I9Rz0yY/s1600/IMG_9125.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pu8hl8FMzzM/VARRoLsX6fI/AAAAAAAABgI/qr-4I9Rz0yY/s400/IMG_9125.jpg" width="336" /></a>Adithi
opted for something whose extraordinary ingenuity I still marvel at. It
consists of a circular disc with a handle, approximating the
size and shape of a table-tennis bat. Five little wooden chickens dot
the outer edge of the disc, their jointed necks connected by threads to
a wooden ball suspended below.
<br />
<br />
Joggling the contrivance in a circle
(the way one fries a thin omelette) pulls down each neck one at a time,
making the chickens look like they are by turns pecking at the rice
grains painted on the centre.
<br />
<br />
A diverting spectacle, but not my out-and-out
favourite. That accolade has to go to a wooden cow which bounces up and down
on a long spring, something like a yo-yo. Daughter and self find
its sheer silliness irresistible. It seldom fails to elicit a giggle
from the both of us. But perhaps this is only natural; the difference
in our mental ages isn't all that much.
</div>
</div>
Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-90915946748820072872013-06-06T05:41:00.000+05:302019-10-28T21:18:38.423+05:30A (Mostly) Vegetarian Excursion to Mysore 03: Hotel Original Mylari<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
[Continued from <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2012/11/mysore-veg-02-sree-annapoorna.html">Part II</a>] <br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
The following day we woke up early. I forget why, though, but it was for a specific reason which somehow didn't materialise. First stop after saying goodbye to Peter: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._Philomena%27s_Church,_Mysore" target="_blank">St Philomena's Church</a>.
It is a magnificent edifice, modelled on the lines of the Cologne
Cathedral. But I couldn't shake off the feeling there was
something palpably modern about it. So when in the course of
researching for this post I learned it had been constructed in the
mid-1930s, I wasn't surprised. I managed some decent pictures of the exteriors, but several signboards made it clear
photography was forbidden inside. In any case, services were going on
at that time, with the officiating priest belting out a sermon with much gusto. To be honest, the sermon wasn't particularly good. We sneaked out keeping in mind the
admirable precept:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: left;">
The sermon our vicar, Rt. Rev.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Preached might have a rt. clev.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But the finish, though consistent</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Was kept so far distant</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
That we left as we felt he mt. nev.</div>
</blockquote>
St Philomena's is a Catholic church of course, but the principle is the same.<br />
<br />
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<br />
And now comes what's unquestionably the high-point of the entire trip:
Hotel Original Mylari. It was Mr David's idea, of course; he said one
got the best breakfasts in town there. And evidently many share that
opinion, if the number of blogposts and even newspaper articles on it
is anything to go by. But oh dear! it's not nearly so simple. There
happen to be two different establishments located there, more or less
across the road from one another. One goes by the name "Hotel Original
Mylari", the other calls itself, "Hotel Mylari - Original We Have No
Branches [<span style="font-style: italic;">sic</span>]." (I confess I
didn't even notice the second place, we were in such a hurry to grab
decent tables and get started on the hogging.) <a href="http://thinditheerta.blogspot.com/2012/01/hotel-original-mylari-mysore-restaurant.html" target="_blank">Thindi Theerta</a>
states rather decorously that "A chat with one of the managers revealed
some interesting family history between the two." That they share a
common ancestry is manifest; the review points
out that along with the name, even the food at the two places is more or less identical. <a href="http://muktamanassu.wordpress.com/2012/07/01/best-place-for-dosa-in-mysore-mylari/" target="_blank">Mukta Manassu</a>
says other places called Mylari also exist, including one in Kuvempu
Nagar. It
is not clear if this Mylari is also genetically connected to the first
two, or merely a copycat exercise. Either ways the food there is
reportedly not a
patch on the latter. Both these aforementioned reviews, incidentally,
are about Hotel Original Mylari, the places we ourselves went to. Other
reviews I found include ones posted on <a href="http://santy-space.blogspot.com/2007/01/hotel-mylari-in-mysore.html" target="_blank">Santy-Space</a> and <a href="http://passionatetravellers.wordpress.com/2012/09/12/mylari-dosa-the-original-mysore-masala-dosa/" target="_blank">Passionate Travellers</a>, both of which concern the other joint, the no-branches version. Curiously, they neglect to mention even the existence of its sister (step-sister?) concern.<br />
<br />
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Then this <a href="http://www.deccanherald.com/content/86899/brand-mylari-simple-cripsy-dosas.html" target="_blank">Deccan Herald article</a> entitled "Brand Mylari for those Simple, Cripsy [<span style="font-style: italic;">sic</span>]
Dosas" neglects to tell us just which Mylari it is
talking about, or even whether it is aware two of them exist. It does
say, though, that Hotel Mylari (presumably the progenitor of both these
"originals") was started some 60 years ago by one N Mylareshwara Swamy.
Right from the outset it adopted a bill of fare restricted to two
items: its iconic dosa, and idli (which Deccan Herald does not
mention). Initially this did not wash down too well with customers ("he had "a [<span style="font-style: italic;">sic</span>]
few customers"), but then slowly its reputation began to grow.
Its successor establishments have retained their predecessor's ethos in
more ways than one. They are both tiny, poky places; they neither of
them believe much in publicity; they service the same menus; their
cooking is nearly identical; and given their small size and large
numbers of patrons, obtaining a table at either outlet is a chancy
affair. People frequently wait for hours for a table. Frequently and cheerfully too; regulars
insist the quality of food makes
waiting worth it, and anyway, the dosas are so delicate that takeaways
are not an option.<br />
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We were very lucky, then. By the time we reached, at around 7.30 on a
Sunday morning, Original Mylari was only sparsely filled. We
snaffled a brace of tables as quickly as we could, and then waited for
the food to
arrive. The idlis came first. And amazing ones they were too,
extraordinarily
soft and fluffy. Idlis generally approximate the size and shape of a
large
magnifying-glass lens. The ones you get at most regular shops hold that
shape to near-perfection - neatly circular in cross-section; regular,
symmetrical covex bulges at the top and bottom; even their surface is
smooth and only discreetly pitted by the steaming process. The ones at
Mylari displayed none of this boilerplate (OK, steamerplate)
perfection. They were noticeably thicker and fluffier, smaller in
diameter, and
somewhat unevenly contoured. This irregularity of appearance was
accentuated by deep dents that ran along the sides towards the bottom.
My wife's idlis tend to look like that too, and a conversation with her
gave me interesting insights about not only the shape but also the
taste of Mylari idlis. <br />
<br />
Crucial to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Idli#Preparation" target="_blank">idli making process</a> is the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Sa_idli_stand.jpg" target="_blank">idli stand</a>,
a tiered arrangement of several circular trays. Each tray contains
several concave depresssions with several perforations drilled into
them. Idli batter is poured into the depressions, the trays are stacked
up, and then the arrangement is lowered into an air-tight steaming
vessel. Steam generated by the water at the bottom of the vessel passes
through the perforations and cooks the batter. The more the steam goes
through it, the fluffier and tastier the idli turns out. Modern
idli stands are made of aluminium, steel or plastic, comparatively
non-toxic materials. Batter can be poured directly into the
depressions, which is how the resultant idlis gain their near-perfect
shape. But to prevent the batter from oozing out, the
perforations on the cavities have to be made very fine, which somewhat
constricts the passage of steam. Older stands are made of a metal
called <span style="font-style: italic;">pītal</span>.
(I've not been able to obtain a precise translation of this term.
Google Translate renders it as brass, but little credence can be placed
on it; if the direction of translation is reversed, Google Transate
insists both brass and bronze mean <span style="font-style: italic;">pītal</span>. It also tells us that the equivalent of bell metal is <span style="font-style: italic;">kāņsā</span>, but if the direction is reversed again, then <span style="font-style: italic;">kāņsā</span> comes out as bronze. It could be that <span style="font-style: italic;">pītal</span>
is an alloy indigenous to India, of which no precise western equivalent
exists. Given India's hoary metallurgical traditions, this is entirely
possible.) <br />
<br />
Due to its toxic character, cooking food directly in <span style="font-style: italic;">pītal</span> vessels is not a good idea. So when making idlis in a <span style="font-style: italic;">pītal</span> stand, small pieces of cloth need to be spread on the depressions, and the batter poured onto them and not directly on the metal. That is where the indentations come from; some folds and creases on the cloth are inevitable, and the solidifying batter tends to retain their impression. The cloth also keeps the batter from oozing out. So the perforations tend to be broader, which facilitates the passage of steam. Moreover, the intervening cloth layer has the effect of diffusing the steam and helping it pass evenly all over through the batter. The wife informs me that even the thickness of the cloth matters here - up to a point, the thicker the cloth the more evenly diffused the steam, and so the more uniformly fluffy the idli. While on the topic, we happen to have at home a <span style="font-style: italic;">pītal</span> stand at least fifty years old, and the wife's idlis made on it are things to die for.<br />
<br />
The other noticeable thing about these idlis were the way they were served. Usually what you get is a plateful of idli, surrounded by several small bowls containing <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sambar_%28dish%29" target="_blank">sambar</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Coconut_chutney" target="_blank">coconut chutney</a>, and at times other condiments as well. Bowls may be dispensed with, but sambar I thought was a <span style="font-style: italic;">sine qua non</span>. Not in this place, it turned out. What we got was some coconut chutney and a green concoction I had never seen before. Both were ladled directly onto one side of the banana-leaf-lined plate and jostled for space among themselves while somehow leaving untouched the idlis on the other side. No sambar anywhere to be see, which I was fine with, since I'm not a great sambar fan anyway. About the green stuff, more later. Suffice it to say they went very well with the idlis. So well in fact that I altogether forgot to take pictures till I had all but finished the first idli on the plate.<br />
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<br />
<br />
Excellent as the idlis were, they whittled away into insignificance once those magnificent dosas arrived. Even their
looks bespoke something special. They were evenly browned all
over, mostly a golden light brown with some parts a slightly nuttier
shade. There was none of the very dark, almost charred patches so
off-putting in taste and so sadly common to run-of-the-mill dosas.
These ones tasted as bright and sunny as they looked. Crisp on the
outside, soft and comfortingly warm inside, made from very fresh
batter, and then that blob of unsalted butter on top added that essential final
touch. No, I take it back -
nowhere near a final touch, that one. There was still plenty left about the ensemble that demanded proper description. Take the coconut chutney peeking out from behind
the dosa. Nothing unusual in itself, save that it went
easy on the spicy factor. And yet it stood out, a fact attributeable
almost entirely to the freshness of the ingredients used.<br />
<br />
Of greater interest was the green filling inside the dosas. Yes, the
same green stuff they served with the idlis, and one of the things that
make Mylari (ok, both Mylaris) so distinctive. I have not come across
it ever before. Indeed, the dosas I'd encountered earlier (at least the
vegetarian ones) were all either plain (that is, with nothing inside
them) or stuffed with the ubiquitous potato and curry leaf <span style="font-style: italic;">palya</span>.
Thindi Theerta says the potato stuffing is available as an option;
customers can choose between it and the green stuff. The article calls
it "saagu masala" and then ventures an all too brief description,
<span style="font-style: italic;">viz.</span>
"a semi-gravy type mixed
vegetable preparation." Passionate Travellers's review (of the other
Mylari) describes it much more comprehensively as "a sago-green
chilli-corainder paste filling with raw finely minced onions or
shallots." But then it goes on to call it "typical", which is where of
course I disagree. Typicalness aside, how successful a venture was it?
As it turned out, extremely so. Potatoes are mild sweetish, somewhat
neutral character, so
in a conventional dosa filling the sharpest tastes come from curry
leaves and
spices used. This filling had a flavour, a
personality of its own - the freshness of coriander and green chilli,
the texture of onion, coupled with a mild bite imparted by the chilli,
yielding a very effective combination, and all the more memorable
because I had not encountered it before.<br />
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While we were busy digging in, the place had begun to fill up,
imperceptibly, a little at at time. By the time we finished it was
jam-packed, with several people standing around and looking at us
hopeful we might leave soon. Through the jostle, I spotted sitting by a
window a figure in a white cap who looked strangely familiar.
And strange all the more because I wasn't aware I knew anyone here - not in the
whole of Mysore, and certainly not in this particular back lane. But no, that was not entirely true, it transpired. As we threaded our way towards the exit and drew closer to him, who does he turn out to be? None other than Mr Abdul Khader, he of the
previous evening's "Biryani Paradise" encounter, surprise! On his part he was
thrilled to bump into us again, kept grinning from ear to ear. He did
not seem the least bit abashed being caught eating at someone else's
eatery; maybe his own place did not run to breakfasts? Whatever it was,
he kept repeating this place gave you the best breakfast in the entire
city, and he's been coming regularly since he was so high. This must
rank among the most ringing endorsements I've ever come across - a
biryani-and-kabab purveyor extolling the virtues of a strict
vegetarian breakfast joint.<br />
<br />
[Continued in <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2014/09/mysore-veg-04-return-journey.html">Part IV</a>] </div>
</div>
Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-17072235821166115912012-11-16T22:00:00.001+05:302019-10-28T21:34:10.167+05:30A (Mostly) Vegetarian Excursion to Mysore 02: Sree Annapoorna Hotel <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
[Continued from <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2012/11/mysore-veg-01-maddur-tiffanyss-1.html">Part I</a>] <br />
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From Tipu Sultan's tomb, we went straight to Mysore. Mr David's friend and mentor
Prof Chandy had invited us to stay over at his house. Unfortunately he
himself was out of town at that time, something he expressed much
regret over. His general factotum Peter took every care to see we
had a comfortable time. After a quick wash-up we headed out to see the
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mysore_Dasara#Lighting_of_Mysore_Palace" target="_blank">Mysore Palace all lit up</a> for the occasion. We first viewed it from a
vantage-point halfway up the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chamundi_Hills" target="_blank">Chamundi Hills</a>.
The vista was truly stunning,
but I was unable to do justice to it photographically as I had left my
zoom lens behind in Bangalore. We then proceeded to the palace itself,
to see the decorations close up. Very pretty it was too. But let's face
it, there's only so many times you can stare at a bunch of lightbulbs:
you've seen one you've seen them all. We spent half an hour or so
there, took lots of pictures, then pushed over to Sree Annapoorna for a
much-needed dinner.<br />
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Sree Annapoorna is one of those places whose looks alone leave you
intrigued and eager for more. It is housed in a beautiful old building
right next to the State Bank of Mysore head office. The interiors are
equally impressive, running to high ceilings, warm tones and arches
everywhere - windows, doorways, even the colonnade outside. The dining
area, though, bears signs of an identity crisis. Watercolours of old
Mysore vie for attention with near-naked tubelights and funny s-shaped
tubes suspended from the ceiling which don't seem to serve any
functional purpose, and have in all likelihood spawned out of some
misbegotten designer fantasy. But this is a minor nit. A slightly
bigger nit has nothing to do with the place itself, but how it's been
written about. Given the circumstances I had presumed the place was
both old and popular, and so bound to have loads of articles published
on it. I was surprised to find all of <a href="http://wiggmissionindianadventure.blogspot.com/2012/03/to-mysore-by-train.html" target="_blank">one brief mention</a>,
in a blog run by a Canadian Mormon "senior missionary couple" (as they
call themselves). And even that brief mention is interesting for quite
the wrong reasons. I understand the authors are visitors from abroad,
and thus entitled to some latitude when it comes to details. But even
so, and especially when they've already spent some four to five months
in Bangalore, a description of "igly" [<span style="font-style: italic;">sic</span>]
or "white rice pattie" served with a "spicy curry sauce" and
(horrors!!) "dahi (yogurt)" does come across as startling. As Adithi
points out, "coconut chatni ki dahi bana dii, literally!" <br />
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The biggest nit, gripe, whatever you call it, remains reserved for the food they served us. It was fully as
disappointing as the building was spectacular. We had ordered several
varieties of dosa - coarse-textured <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rava_dosa" target="_blank">Rava Roast Dosa</a> for me, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benne_Dose" target="_blank">Benne Dosa</a> for some (don't recall who), regular <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dosa#Masala_dosa" target="_blank">Masala Dosa</a>
for others. And they were all disastrous, every single one of them. My Rawa Roast
was overcooked, and had transited crispy into a state
of outright hardness. It was also singularly devoid of flavour. The
other dosas tasted sour, most likely because the batter used was so
stale it had started to ferment. The coconut chutney was thin; the
sambar was decent but nothing exceptional. Ironically, the saving grace
of the entire meal were the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indian_Chinese_cuisine" target="_blank">quasi-Chinese dishes</a>
we had ordered as sides. The Chilli Mushroom was particularly
delectable - succulent mushrooms, chillies just piquant to make things
interesting, and overall a judicious use of spices and condiments. The
Mushroom Manchurian wasn't bad either. But nice as they were, they were
hardly enough to redeem the meal in its entirety. Which meant five very
disappointed diners at the end of proceedings. Five because Mr David
didn't feel like joining us, and said he'll pick up something for
himself on our way back to Prof Chandy's house. <br />
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This "something" eventually materialised into <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Biryani" target="_blank">Biryani</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kebab#Kalmi" target="_blank">Kalmi Kabab</a>
from a joint called Biryani Paradise. They took some time to process
the order, time we spent chatting with the owner, an affable gentleman named Abdul Khader. I wish I could be rude to veggie fanatics and gloat over what a thumping
success the stuff was. But no, no such luck. The Biryani was just as disappointing as the Dosas had been,
the Kabab better but still mediocre.<br />
<br />
[Continued in <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2013/06/mysore-veg-03-original-mylari.html">Part III</a>] </div>
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-18706570268934347952012-11-14T17:09:00.000+05:302019-10-28T21:37:49.900+05:30A (Mostly) Vegetarian Excursion to Mysore 01: Maddur Tiffanyss 1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Friends and FoodScapes readers regularly complain about the dearth of posts on vegetarian food.<a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2007/04/makkhan-wali-chai.html?showComment=1183232940000#c8000166783812277176" target="_blank">[1]</a><a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2008/02/kari-raisu-in-penang.html?showComment=1203535860000#c7771529555820154292" target="_blank">[2]</a><a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2007/09/foodscapes-at-university-ii.html?showComment=1190102100000#c3883806505998881702" target="_blank">[3]</a><a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2006/10/majnu-ka-tila.html?showComment=1204198500000#c2527981052611759797" target="_blank">[4]</a>
In private conversation some have even ventured to ask if I eat veggie
food at all, ever, going by the contempt I show for it on the blog. To
which my response runs something like this: Of course I eat veggie
food, thrive on it in fact. My mother-in-law's veg cooking, for
example, has to be tasted to be believed. But the blog's not exactly
about food <span style="font-style: italic;">per se</span>; it's about foodie <i>adventures</i>.
And that's where the point lies.<br />
<br />
This raises the question, what do I mean by adventure? For sure it's not about
locations. I've had the most satisfying adventures in Delhi's <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2007/04/makkhan-wali-chai.html" target="_blank">Lal Kuan</a>, Bangalore's <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2012/10/tselha-anze-i.html" target="_blank">Langford Road</a>, and Singapore's <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2008/12/java-kitchen-on-christmas-day.html">Lucky Plaza</a>,
notable for ironmongeries,
colleges, and touristy kitsch respectively but otherwise unremarkable all three of them. The adventures were about
what I encountered there, very unexpected stuff mostly. <br />
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So is it the
element of surprise that makes for adventure? I'd say sure, in most
cases, but not necessarily so. Some times it is the sheer satisfaction
one gets which transmutes the experience into an adventure. Our recent trip to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mysore" target="_blank">Mysore</a>
falls into this category. Much of what we ate
was conventional, and vegetarian, and also so delightful that it would be a shame not to
write about the experience. There was some iffy stuff too, ditto surprises. Even
some carnivore interludes, but for this once at least I won't talk about
them much. <br />
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Writing the post represents a challenge of another kind. Let me be honest about it, it 's a challenge I've always tried to weasel out of, mainly because I'm still not sure how to tackle it. The remit of this blog extends to both food and travel writing. Though the respective subjects often often coincide (such as when one encounters interesting food joints in the
course of travel), they entail qualitatively different experiences.<br />
<br />
Foodie experiences have a certain
discreteness about them: you discover a new eatery, you go there, eat,
enjoy the food (or not), come away, write about what you experienced,
and that's it. Travel, on the other hand, implies a certain fluidity.
While travelling one engages in several different activities, encounters
different experiences, some commonplace, others not. And yet because these
diversities emanate in the course of a single journey, they demand to be written about together as a whole. Tihis is what imparts fluidity to travel writing.<br />
<br />
The question is, how do I write about foodie binges experienced while
travelling? As separate posts, or as part of longer writings about the
trip as a whole? If the first, then where do I write about non-food experiences? And if the second, won't the foodie bits lose their individual significance and get submerged within the larger narrative? My first visit to Malaysia yielded posts only on <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2008/02/ten-quail-eggs-fried.html" target="_blank">quail eggs</a> and <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2008/02/kari-raisu-in-penang.html" target="_blank">Kari Raisu</a>. True, in the latter I did recount my non-foodie
adventures (or to be accurate, my misadventures in trying to get
something to eat), but even that one was without doubt a foodie post in
character. I have so far not written about my subsequent trips to
Malaysia and elsewhere (including an epic Istanbul sojourn) precisely
because of this problem with balancing foodie bits with the general
demands of continuity. This time around, I'm trying out a new approach:
several posts of varying length within a longer series. This way I get
to showcase foodie encounters in individual posts, while maintaining
through the series the context in which they and other experiences
arose. If necessary I could even dedicate some posts to non-foodie
experiences, though I haven't done that here. Let's see if this
approach works.<br />
<br />
Back to the Mysore trip, now. It happened when my mother paid us a long visit after the
birth of our daughter. My father-in-law then got this fantastic idea of a trip to Mysore during the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mysore_Dasara" target="_blank">Navaratri festival</a>,
traditionally celebrated there with much pomp, circumstance and gusto. And oh yes, that's one more reason for the heavily vegetarian character of this post. Believers
customarily eschew non-vegetarian food during the festivities and, at
least initially, both father-in-law and sister-in-law Adithi observed this practice. The rest of us also happily fell in line with
the sentiment, which is why we tended to gravitate towards veggie
joints more often than not. Anyway, my father-in-law then sounded out
his close friend and former colleague Mr Winston David. (As per prevalent Indian
convention I address him as Uncle, but doing it on the blog does seem
strange. So in this post I'll refer to him as Mr David.) He was equally
enthused about the idea, and volunteered to get his car along. A
spacious, comfortable car it is, the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hyundai_i20" target="_blank">Hyundai i20</a>, accommodated the six
of us in reasonable comfort. Six as in self, mother, father-in-law,
Adithi, Mr David and his daughter Amita, a very sweet
young girl still in high school. In short, terrific company all round, and the great diversity in our ages and backgrounds only made things
the more interesting. Unfortunately, the wife had to stay behind; our daughter was then just a few months old. I'm waiting for the little one to grow up a little, so's she, her mother and her father can travel lots together.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yBTc_8WO470/UKPl5toJitI/AAAAAAAABJY/yRBpAIqN6-g/s1600/post_IMG_9099.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yBTc_8WO470/UKPl5toJitI/AAAAAAAABJY/yRBpAIqN6-g/s1600/post_IMG_9099.jpg" /></a>The drive out was pleasant and largely uneventful. It featured only one foodie experience. But it was a zinger! At about four in the afternoon we stopped for a breather at
<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maddur" target="_blank">Maddur</a>, a small town famed for the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maddur_vada" target="_blank">eponymous vada</a> it is associated
with. The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vada_%28food%29" target="_blank">conventional vada</a> is about the size and shape of a doughnut,
and soft and spongy beneath a thin crisp outer coating. The Maddur
variant is flatter, bereft of a hole in the middle, flecked with fried
onions, and crunchier. I'm quite fond of Maddur Vada, generally prefer
it to the usual type. But this was an altogether different experience,
tasting it at source as it were. Mr David suggested a shop called
Tiffany's. Or should that be <span style="font-style: italic;">one</span>
of the shops called Tiffany's? There were at least four with
near-identical names and logos, and a few more with strongly derivative
signboards. The one Mr David ended up taking us to, and which he said was the original, bore the name "Maddur Tiffanyss [<span style="font-style: italic;">sic</span>]
1". At least that was what the signboard said, I'm not sure what if anything the "1" denoted.<br />
<br />
Original or not, the
choice was certainly inspired. A clean, simple place it was, running to
granite-topped tables and rather uncomfortable chromium-plated chairs.
But the food more than made up for it. The vadas here were larger than
those I've eaten elsewhere. It was also less oily, and exuded that
flavour you get only when the freshest ingredients are used. Along with
the vadas we also ordered <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Benne_Dose"><span style="font-style: italic;">Benne</span>
(butter) Dosas</a>, generally associated with the town of Davangere up
north, and so presumably not quite as indigenous to Maddur as the vada is. Nevertheless, once again the choice turned out a winner all through - light,
crisp, made with fresh batter, and smeared on the inside with this
lovely red chutney. All in all, a very enjoyable experience.<br />
<br />
Our next stop was a brief one at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tipu_sultan" target="_blank">Tipu Sultan</a>'s tomb in Srirangapatna. He and his father <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hyder_Ali" target="_blank">Hyder Ali</a> have been elevated to the status of Sufi
saints (the other day in Bangalore I saw a poster proclaiming something
about "Hazarth Tipu Sultan Shaheed R.A."). Nobody objected to me
taking my camera inside, but when I started taking pictures someone
told me, very politely, that photography inside was not permitted. Then
someone else said, 'Go ahead, but be quick about it.' And that's how I
secured these photos of the splendid interior, and the smoky,
incense-laden, emotionally-charged and slightly spooky atmosphere it shares with most Sufi shrines.<br />
<br />
[Continued in <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2012/11/mysore-veg-02-sree-annapoorna.html">Part II</a>] <br />
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-64334171254189713642012-10-07T00:10:00.001+05:302012-11-16T22:15:09.885+05:30Tselha Anze - II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
[Continued from <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2012/10/tselha-anze-i.html">Part I</a>]<br />
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In contrast to the hackneyed Chinese items, the Tibetan dishes on offer were genuinely interesting. I think this was the first time I've come across a Tibetan selection more extensive than Momo and Thupka. They were there all right. One whole section was devoted to Momos. It listed no less than eight items including Kothey (forgot what it was), Rechotse (Momo in soup), and the charmingly-named Ting Momo (more on this later). Then there was a separate section entitled "Tibetan Cuisine". Apart from two varieties of Thukpa, it featured Gyathuk (ribbon noodles in soup); Sha Bhaglab (more on this later); Pingsha (glass noodles - out of stock that day); Thenthuk (flat noodles in either soupy or dry form); and a sampler, or Tibetan Thali as they called it. I ordered the Beef Sha Bhaglab, or flat, lasagne-like noodles stir-fried with thinly sliced meat and veggies. It turned out to be a wildly successful choice. What I found most remarkable was that the separate components, even the vegetables, retained their own distinctive taste and juiciness. The carrot was crisp, not undercooked; the spinach retained its texture without wilting. And the meat was delicious - thinly sliced, succulent, well done and yet not overcooked as to lose flavour.<br />
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The serving was substantial, enough for a full meal, and as such excellent value for money at seventy Rupees. But given that long walk on top of a rather sketchy lunch, it simply didn't stand a chance against my starvation levels. I could tackle another full meal. This time I opted for Shabtak. I didn't have my <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canon_EOS_450D" target="_blank">DSLR</a> with me, so had to rely on my phone cam. Its performance is drab as it is; in low light situations it's downright execrable (you really messed up on that front, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Motorola_Defy" target="_blank">Motorola</a>). Execrable is more or less how the Shabtak pictures turned out; with the flash switched on the effect was still ghastlier. Which was sad, because actually the preparation looked every bit as tempting as this <a href="http://www.courant.com/entertainment/restaurants/a-la-carte/hc-beef-tibetian-kitchen.jpg-20120222,0,267301.photo" target="_blank">lovely photo</a> on Courant.com makes it out to be. It carries the caption "spicy sliced beef and sauteed with onion, red and green bell peppers and jalapeno" - as succinct a summary as any, though the jalapeño must have been a western innovation. <a href="http://tibetankitchen.us/shab-tak/" target="_blank">Tibetan Kitchen</a>, the eatery where the picture was taken, mentions only "long hot pepper". On the other hand this <a href="http://eng.tibet.cn/2010jk/xzcp/201009/t20100916_684150.html" target="_blank">recipe on China Tibet Online</a>, which calls it "browned beef", specifies not only the western jalapeño but also speciality ingredients like ground Emmo (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sichuan_pepper" target="_blank">Sichuan peppercorn</a>) and Churu (mould ripened Tibetan cheese), which makes me wonder what sort of audience the site caters to.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bedtV7pbIk4/UHBSsZVr13I/AAAAAAAABHw/KFIbtcT63CM/s1600/2012-05-05_20-24-26_523.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bedtV7pbIk4/UHBSsZVr13I/AAAAAAAABHw/KFIbtcT63CM/s200/2012-05-05_20-24-26_523.jpg" width="111" /></a></div>
[Aside: <a href="http://eng.tibet.cn/" target="_blank">China Tibet Online</a>, effectively the Chinese
government's Tibet portal, is a classic in its own right. One article proclaims, "<a href="official:%20the%20Dalai%20Lama%27s%20new%20%27prime%20minister%27%20illegitimate" target="_blank">Official: The Dalai Lama's New 'Prime Minister'
Illegitimate</a>".
Despite reading it through several times I was
unable to figure out just what it was that made the illegitimacy official in
character, and on whose authority. A little net-snooping turned out to
be instructive. It seems the text was taken from articles that appeared on <a href="http://eng.tibet.cn/2010home/sss/201104/t20110428_1015380.html" target="_blank">Global Times</a> (to which it carries an attribution) and <a href="http://english.peopledaily.com.cn/90001/90776/90785/7364314.html" target="_blank">People's Daily</a>,
but with the first eight paragraphs omitted for some reason. And oh,
also with the headline tweaked ever so slightly: both original versions go "Dalai's [<span style="font-style: italic;">sic</span>] New
'Prime Minister' Illegitimate: Official". Now the mystery clears
somewhat: not <i>officially</i> illegitimate, but illegitimate according to
some <i>official</i>. The missing paragraphs identify the official as Xu Zhitao, a Communist Party of China's (CPC)
Central Committee member. Little surprise, then, that he would denounce the
appointment. But no, it turns out his remarks were about the putative
illegitimacy of the Dalai Lama government as a whole. Even the reason given why appointment is flawed, and should be dismissed as "just another political show by the Dalai Lama", is that the government itself is non-official in character. So the article contains nothing at all about the PM's appointment specifically. Which makes for a rather piece of writing, not to mention insubstantial. But perhaps it might not be fair to blame China Tibet Online for
it. After all, not only did it procure the article from other sources,
it even took pains to omit the paragraphs where the problem locates!]<br />
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At Tselha Anze they happily used regular green pepper. I have no idea what kind of peppercorn they opted for, and don't recall tasting any kind of cheese. Tenzin insisted I have it with Ting Momo (or Tingmo as <a href="http://tibetankitchen.us/sides_tingmo/" target="_blank">Tibetan Kitchen</a> calls it) - rolls of dough twisted into interesting shapes and then steamed to a fluffy softness. I shall not wax eloquent about the Shabtak as I did about the Sha Bhaglab, suffice it to say that it was every bit as toothsome as the latter. So much so that even at the end of the meal, when I was close to stuffed, I still found it enjoyable to break off off bits from the Ting Momo, use them to mop up the gravy that had collected at the bottom of the bowl, and then chew them unhurriedly to savour the taste of the gravy. By the time I finished, there was literally nothing left in the bowl, except maybe a dried chilli or two. It cost me eighty-five Rupees, plus another fifteen for the single Momo I had (they usually sell in pairs).<br />
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By this time it had become dark,and pleasantly cool. So I decided to take yet another walk. A different sort of walk, though. Unlike the unseeing frenzy that characterised the earlier one, this was a gentle saunter through Shanthi Nagar. An old neighbourhood, surprisingly heterogenous, and with some really pretty houses. I couldn't take pictures of them, there was hardly any light around. But these murals painted on the walls of a nursery school (and fortunately located just below a street lamp) proved too strong a temptation to resist.
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-85478073425670993102012-10-05T20:19:00.000+05:302019-10-29T17:03:06.138+05:30Tselha Anze - I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Long walks are an excellent specific against bad moods. The snag is, if your
mood is really bad, you tend to lose track of how much
you've walked. The other day at Majestic, Bangalore, my mood was so glutinous you could have tarred a road with it. So I thought I'd
walk down to Avenue Road and take a look at those second-hand book
stalls. Back in my student day they used to sprawl all over the
pavements, <span style="font-style: italic;">My Fair Lady</span>
rubbing against Henry Maine's <span style="font-style: italic;">Ancient
Law</span>; Dickson Carr, or maybe Errol Flynn's <span style="font-style: italic;">My
Wicked, Wicked Ways</span>, alongside a hundred-year-old treatise on
conic sections. Once I picked up for eight
Rupees an Army rifle training manual written in Roman Urdu. On another
occasion a collection of turn-of-the-century novels - <a href="http://archive.org/details/londonlavender00lucagoog" target="_blank"><span style="font-style: italic;">London Lavender</span></a>,
<a href="http://archive.org/details/threepartnersan00hartgoog" target="_blank"><span style="font-style: italic;">Three Partners</span></a>,
ghastly romances like <a href="http://books.google.co.in/books/about/Promise_of_Arden.html?id=_3xuHAAACAAJ&redir_esc=y" target="_blank"><span style="font-style: italic;">Promise of Arden</span></a>
- about ten books, many of them first editions, for a hundred and
forty the lot. I still have them all, even <span style="font-style: italic;">Ancient Law</span> and the conics textbook.<br />
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This time, it was painfully clear I
wouldn't be adding much to my collection. Very few stalls still
remained, and the survivors seemed to deal exclusively in out-of-date
textbooks. Nothing was left of the glorious eclectic chaos
of my student days. This didn't help my mood
any. It made me even more oblivious to to how
much I walked, or where I was headed. So I was not really surprised
when I eventually washed up across the road from Hudson Circle,
about twice the distance from Majestic as Avenue Road is. According to <a href="http://www.taxiautofare.com/" target="_blank">taxiautofare.com</a>,
I had walked nearly <a href="http://www.taxiautofare.com/Default.aspx?LocationID=5&Distance=2.961&Source=majestic&Destination=hudson%20circle&Time=297" target="_blank">three kilometres</a>
from where I had started out. Without any discernible purpose in mind,
or any clue what I was doing there, or for that matter any dimunition
in the
blackness of my mood.<br />
<br />
So I decided to check out a
little Tibetan joint I had once spotted thereabouts. There was a little
problem: I had no idea where the place was. Back then I had managed to
catch only a brief glimpse through the recesses of a fast-moving
autorickshaw, and my rudimentary knowledge of Bangalore geography meant
I could not identify the locality. All I remembered
was that the restaurant had a Tibetan name, and it was on a road with
an
English-sounding name that began with an L. Fortunately the wife
happened to call just then, and I was able to ask her. Her guess was,
it might be Langford Road but she couldn't be too sure - in any case
Langford was a fair distance from where I was. No matter, halfway
through her admonitions I had already started plodding off. In due
course I reach Langford Road, still on foot, crossed St Joseph's
College. By this time I had <a href="http://www.taxiautofare.com/Default.aspx?LocationID=5&Distance=5.683&Source=majestic&Destination=langford%20town&Time=721" target="_blank">clocked 5.68 kilometres</a>, or sixty-three Rupees in
auto fare. But surprise! there it was, Tshela Anze, the place I was
looking for!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N_LevY1TOnM/UHBF08ENbaI/AAAAAAAABGw/jY-5h-UdAHM/s1600/2012-05-05_19-19-19_195.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="112" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N_LevY1TOnM/UHBF08ENbaI/AAAAAAAABGw/jY-5h-UdAHM/s200/2012-05-05_19-19-19_195.jpg" width="200" /></a>The signboard was a delight. It said, "T Selha-Anze - Tibetan
Restaurant", and then for good measure added in parentheses, "Our
Grandmother's Recipe [<span style="font-style: italic;">sic</span>]".
Incidentally, it was only here that the T and the S were separated by a
space. All other places, including the dine-in and takeaway menus, had
the name spelt "Tshela-Anze", hyphenated but minus the gap. The name
itself bore much promise. I reasoned that only someone who knew his
mind would start in the heart of Bangalore a restaurant with a name so offbeat
(and so awkward to pronounce). And with a little luck, this force of
character might rub off on the menu too. <br />
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Neither did the interior disappoint. It was airy, uncluttered, done up in
nice, bright
colours, free of piped music and Tibetan kitsch - assorted masks, brass
idols, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prayer_wheel" target="_blank">prayer wheels</a>,
that sort of thing - generally managing to
look austere and comfortable at the same time. Two large windows
looking out onto the street added to the airiness. The walls were
sparsely decorated: a portrait of the Dalai Lama over the counter; a
few Tibet-related pictures and wall hangings here and there; and
in one corner a stunning Kandinsky poster, nothing more. So was the
furniture comfortable but spartan, tending to granite-topped tables and
metal dining chairs.
The kind of
place college students on a tight budget could and did frequent.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z-dCA7hvSVc/UHBHLD5uKnI/AAAAAAAABHI/F6zU19DWdjU/s1600/2012-05-05_19-25-42_999.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="111" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z-dCA7hvSVc/UHBHLD5uKnI/AAAAAAAABHI/F6zU19DWdjU/s200/2012-05-05_19-25-42_999.jpg" width="200" /></a>Placing an order was a little tricky. The waiters'
English skills and familiarity with the menu are both rudimentary, and
the management knows this. So they get the waiters to go to each table
with a pad and pen, and then ask customers to themselves jot down what
they want. The trouble was, the menu merely listed the
dishes without explaining what they were. So I went over and talked to
the youngish gentleman sitting behind the counter. Tenzin, as he was
called, turned out to be a delight to talk to. He was more than happy
to guide me across the menu, and throw in his own suggestions without
insisting on them. Even the waiters were a cheerful bunch as such, and
promptly obliged minor requests like extra cutlery and glasses of
water.<br />
<br />
I found the menu fascinating. A sociologist could extract from it enough material for a brace of scholarly articles. Why, for
instance, does it feature so many Chinese preparations, the cuisine of
those who dispossessed them from their homeland? Customer demand
solely? Is this demand itself fuelled by stereotyped perceptions of all
Mongoloid races as "Chinkies", and hence Chinese food purveyors? Which
raises the question, how do they reconcile their cultural identity with this forced acquiescence in two monstrous generalisations, namely (a)
conflating Tibetan with Chinese, their oppressors; and (b) the indiscriminate "Chinky"-fication of Mongoloid ethnic groups generally? In any case, it is clear that the
Chinese offerings are not dictated by any especial love for the
cuisine. The items listed were run-of-the mill <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indian_Chinese_cuisine" target="_blank">Indianised aberrations</a>, including the Gobi
Manchury Bangalore is notorious for and which I
defy any self-respecting Chinese to claim for their culture.<br />
<br />
[Explanatory note for the uninitiated: Chicken Manchurian is made by
coating chicken in
cornflour, then frying it in ginger, garlic, green chilli, soya sauce,
and usually copious amounts of MSG. It was supposedly <a href="http://www.thehindubusinessline.com/todays-paper/tp-life/article1682241.ece" target="_blank">invented back in the mid-'70s by Nelson Wang</a>,
a Calcutta Chinese chef, which makes it about as
authentic Chinese as Dr. Fu Manchu. Gobi Manchury or Manjoori (as it's usually
spelled in Bangalore) is a vegetarian iteration, substituting the
chicken with cauliflour. At least the Tselha-Anze people had the decency to call it "Cauliflour Manchurian".<br />
<br />
[Continued in <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2012/10/tselha-anze-ii.html">Part II</a>]
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-39628211085707304422010-06-07T17:39:00.021+05:302019-10-29T17:03:19.756+05:30Chilli Frog and Kway Teow at Geylang<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Some of my most cherished memories of Singapore are associated with Geylang, the city's largest red-light district. After the thumping success of our first visit, I found myself acting as unofficial tour guide to the area, so strong a curiosity did it evoke in my friends. My second trip there was especially memorable. This was quite some time ago, nearly two years. (So why didn't I write about it earlier? Difficult to say.) My friends Lakshmi and Wangui were winding up their stay in Singapore, and we thought a visit to Geylang would be a good way to round things off.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAjoQUoPSFI/AAAAAAAAA1M/qe2Wa8frOug/s1600/IMG_0756.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAjoQUoPSFI/AAAAAAAAA1M/qe2Wa8frOug/s400/IMG_0756.JPG" width="300" /></a>Actually, there was more to it. We all of us were keen to try out frog, arguably Geylang's best known speciality. And that's chiefly why the trip was so memorable. It was the first time I tasted frog. So we met up at Geylang directly, and lost little time making our way to <a href="http://www.vkeong.com/2010/food-drink/eminent-frog-porridge-geylang-lorong-19-singapore/">Eminent Frog Porridge and Seafood</a> at Lorong 19, certainly among the most famous if not <i>the</i> most famous of frog-porridge outlets.<br />
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A word of explanation here: Conventionally frog (in its various iterations) is eaten with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Congee">congee</a> or rice porridge, hence the name 'Frog Porridge'. We were in no mood to fill our stomachs with semi-solid rice. So we went straight<br />
for the meat. The "Eminent" menu had an interesting price structure. The base price was eight (Sing) Dollars to a frog, but there were two "special offers" advertised. Buy-two-get-one-free (at sixteen Dollars or S$ 5.33 a frog) or buy-three-get-one-free. Even though this offer was priced at twenty-two dollars (or S$ 2 less than the normal twenty-four), the price <i>per</i> frog came to S$ 5.50, marginally more than the three-for-the-price-of-two offer. Clearly they needed to revise their math a little. Both "special offers" were fake, incidentally. I have seen them being advertised without the slightest alteration right through my two years in Singapore.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAmBzfpmqsI/AAAAAAAAA1g/r6JGTIOPXDg/s1600/IMG_0746.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAmBzfpmqsI/AAAAAAAAA1g/r6JGTIOPXDg/s1600/IMG_0746.JPG" /></a>We ordered sixteen Dollars' worth of chilli frog, also iced tea and some sweet-and-sour chicken. The tea was good, if a little too lemony for my liking. The chicken wasn't so bad either. The frog came doused in a thick sauce and covered with spring onion, inside a steaming, slightly sooty <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clay_pot_cooking">claypot</a>. The claypot is a cooking vessel with a distinctive stubby handle and made of unglazed ceramic. It absorbs water well and is capable of withstanding very high temperatures. Both these characteristics are critical to the cooking process. The pot is first soaked in water for extended periods. Next, the raw materials are arranged inside, and a lid placed on top and sealed. Then the whole thing is placed on very high heat. The absorbed water turns into steam and ensure that the stuff being cooked retains its moistness throughout the process; this combination of moisture and high heat is what imparts to claypot cooking its distinctive flavour.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAqbohMQmTI/AAAAAAAAA14/O1AUuvtQeD0/s1600/IMG_0747a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAqbohMQmTI/AAAAAAAAA14/O1AUuvtQeD0/s1600/IMG_0747a.jpg" /></a>That said, we didn't find the frog all that great. Oh, it was edible all right, that is, once we got over our inhibitions (I managed to photograph Lakshmi struggling over hers). The meat was soft and tender, and didn't smell at all contrary to what we had assumed for some obscure reason. On the other hand, it didn't really taste of anything much. The sauce was nice, hot, sweet and gingery-pungent at the same time. Nice and fresh the spring onions were. But the meat itself was curiously, well, bland. The second reason we remained unimpressed - it was too bony. Too little flesh, too many bones (and sharp also). All in all, it wasn't too bad, but not the culinary revelation I had thought it would be.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAykF9k089I/AAAAAAAAA3Y/6PO9LtDrm8k/s1600/IMG_0754a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAykF9k089I/AAAAAAAAA3Y/6PO9LtDrm8k/s1600/IMG_0754a.JPG" /></a>On this trip I had another agenda. I wanted to take some pictures of the girls who worked here, something I hadn't dared to on my last trip. The problem was, how to go about it? Finally I thought of trying the most obvious strategy. On an adjoining table I saw this guy sitting with two girls skimpily dressed and festooned with blingy ornaments. I went over to him and said I was a tourist from India and could I take their picture, please? He took one look at me, another look at my camera (I had an <a href="http://reviews.cnet.com/digital-cameras/canon-powershot-a550/4505-6501_7-32314543.html&tag=cntv">inexpensive point-and-shoot</a> those days), looked back at me, smiled, and said, "Umm, sure, go ahead!" So that was all there was to it.<br />
<br />
We were still hungry, though. After some deliberation, we decided on the famous Beef Kway Teow stall at Lorong 9. This was another first for me, even though I had heard so much about it.<br />
<br />
The walk down to Lorong 9 was pleasant enough itself. Geylang is one enclave of Singapore that never seems to lack for life. And not just of the <a href="http://www.virtualtourist.com/travel/Asia/Singapore/Singapore-1495679/Warnings_or_Dangers-Singapore-Prostitution-BR-1.html">seamier sort</a>. You get pretty strange shops out there. (On another visit there, I once came across a shop that sold nothing but soya milk in a bewildering variety of flavours. I tried out some almond-flavoured milk. A waste of almonds it turned out, sadly. Then there's this other shop that sells herbal infusions. Herbal as in Chinese herbs, none of whose names made sense to me. Many of these infusions were being sold chilled in small plastic bottles. Out of misplaced curiosity more than anything else, I chose a purplish bottle which claimed to be refreshing. It was worse than the soya milk.)<br />
<br />
At Lorong 9, we asked for three servings of Kway Teow (we were still that hungry), and some stir-fried mushrooms and broccoli. Then we settled down for a longish wait. At this stall, they process each order separately. No doubt this contributes to the excellence of the final product (and we weren't complaining one bit!) but, well, it's not exactly fast food.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAyE1BMaB9I/AAAAAAAAA2o/hq1wsuQfxBk/s1600/IMG_0765.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAyE1BMaB9I/AAAAAAAAA2o/hq1wsuQfxBk/s1600/IMG_0765.JPG" /></a>I decided my camera and I needed a walk. Leaving Wangui and Lakshmi wasn't an issue - Geylang must be one of the safest red-light districts in the world. Ended up taking several nice photos that night. One of a Durian seller, taken handheld in ambient light, is a favourite.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAy13R7UM2I/AAAAAAAAA3s/Z0gMclO8Miw/s1600/IMG_0766a.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAy13R7UM2I/AAAAAAAAA3s/Z0gMclO8Miw/s1600/IMG_0766a.JPG" /></a>Further north along Sims Avenue, I came across a table occupied by a couple. The girl was very pretty, didn't look like a "working girl" apart from her horrible tinsel-y clothes. Her companion was elderly, clad in a crumpled, not too clean white shirt, briskly fanning himself with a tattered paper fan, altogether nondescript. Till he asked me in a deep baritone, "Yes, and what can I do for you?" - British accent, grammatically flawless, not a trace of Singlish - I was impressed and surprised. Perhaps this was what education in Singapore used to be once upon a time? I launched into my usual "harmless tourist" spiel. The gentleman thought a moment and said, "A tourist? Hm, all right, then." If I had more time on my hands I'd have liked to talk to him a bit more. Notwithstanding his appearance, there was something about him - a magisterial air - that intrigued me.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAy7hhv6UKI/AAAAAAAAA4M/KpamnvgWxpw/s1600/IMG_0770.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAy7hhv6UKI/AAAAAAAAA4M/KpamnvgWxpw/s320/IMG_0770.JPG" width="240" /></a><br />
By the time I returned, the food had been served. Three steaming plates of er, what? Kway Teow? Like as in flat, ribbon-like noodles, right? Not this stuff - if anything, it looked like like some sort of dismembered lasagna floating in a thin brown gravy. But then, that was hardly cause for complaint. The portions were plentiful and with lots of meat in them and, most important, the concoction smelled pretty good! Wangui and I opted to split a beer, Lakshmi the abstainer settled for her usual lime juice. Then we began to tuck in.
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I am not exaggerating a bit, the noodles were nearabouts the finest thing I've ever eaten in Singapore. The noodles were <i>al dente</i>, as the Italians call it; the meat was succulent and oh-so-soft. Simple though the preparation was (meat, noodles and very little else), it seemed to contain several secrets. One was the quality of the raw material used. The meat was easy - fresh, good quality beef - but apart from flour, what in hell did they make the noodles out of? Then the cooking method. This is just speculation, but I think the juiciness of the meat is due to some special technique they use. Lastly, how do they achieve that unique flavour of the meat. Do they marinate it in ambrosia? Rarely in my experience has a foodie adventure been so successful. Lakshmi's expression in the accompanying photo says it all!</div>
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-67607928515245503882010-05-31T18:23:00.280+05:302019-10-29T15:22:26.564+05:30Autonson Soup - II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
[Continued from <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2010/05/autonson-soup-i.html">Part I</a>]<br />
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The area where I live (officially named Abhinaba Bidanasi, though everyone calls it CDA) is dull even by Cuttack standards. Once, on a rare occasion when I had nothing to do, I explored the western fringes of the colony towards the outskirts of the city. It turned out that the entire stretch, spanning over at least three square kilometres, did not have a single market! Though I am fortunate enough to have two market complexes within walking distance, my foodie choices are predictably constrained. And even the shops that do exist in the area do not believe in giving customers much choice. The local roll guy, though competent enough, has so far declined to expand his repertoire beyond four items.<br />
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So, while returning home one evening, I was pleasantly surprised to see a new roll joint had come up not far from the old one. It was an ambitious venture - a largeish shack made of bamboo and leaf-matting (and set up on illegally occupied land, but that's beside the point). It even had seating space for about eight people, a rarity among roll joints. And a menu too! Nine roll joints out of ten don't bother with such sophistication (given their somewhat limited bill of fare, menus do come across as superfluous). The remainder simply tack on a notice on the wall. This one was different. The moment I entered the shack, the number-two picked out a printout from a stack and shoved it into my hands. I understood why it was necessary; the outfit boasted no less than three items over and above the usual, with yet another one added with pen later.<br />
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Sadly, the promoters' ambition and enthusiasm somewhat exceeded their ability to spell. Before I could order, I had to sit and decipher the text. Choumini (chowmein) and tootcon (sweet corn) soup were easy. But autoson soup had me baffled, completely - I had no clue at all what it could be. I asked the boss what it meant. He couldn't say anything much, so contented himself with repeating the name a couple of times. However, when rendered in his characteristic Oriya lilt (<i>AWWT</i>-onsOWn) it seemed to ring a bell somewhere. The third time he said it I caught on, finally. And then I had to take a second or two to wince, recover my breath, and stop clutching my temples. I felt so sorry for the lot that I asked if I could proofread the menu, which offer they accepted with alacrity. Only after I finished this little task was I able to turn my attention to the food.<br />
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The weather was too hot for soup (which begs the question, what were they doing in the bill of fare in the first place?). The spellings didn't inspire much confidence either. I decided to play it safe and stick to chiken [<i>sic</i>] rolls. The price had been scribbled over with a pen, so I asked (specifically) how much the double-egg version cost. Number-two said eighteen apiece. I was impressed enough to order two - this shop undercut the old one by two Rupees, pretty decent considering their slender operating margins. <i>Chef du jour</i> then sets about beating the eggs and heating the rotis, and all this while number-two maintains a running commentary on how novel the rolls are, how the special masala blend adds a mysterious something to them, something the chef learned in Calcutta so you won't get it anywhere else, not in this city for sure.<br />
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By the time the rolls arrived, I was curious but not exactly slavering with anticipation - in the past I've had several encounters with bombastic purveyors of street- and other food. Predictably enough, the rolls tasted exactly the same as what you get at any other stall or pushcart. Still, not bad for eighteen bucks, I thought. Actually no, number-two demanded twenty-two.<br />
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I was really taken aback. I pointed out he had said eighteen earlier. Which launched him into another rigmarole about how he had meant single-egg when he said eighteen, and double egg sold for twenty-two. I reminded him I had specifically asked him about double egg and he had said eighteen. He fell back on the time-tested tactic of ignoring my question and reiterating the price list as if it had been sent down from heaven with the other ten commandments. I certainly was not going to stand around there arguing with that moron for a few measly Rupees. But nor was I exactly overflowing with goodwill for that lot either. In fact, I was irritated enough to do something I generally refrain from indulging in. I dug out a hundred and then, while number two was counting out the change, quietly abstracted the proofed copy of the menu and slid it into my pocket. Chef caught on, and said "That's the corrected version!" I looked him straight in the eye, and said "I know." Poor fellow didn't know what to say, so I quietly walked off.<br />
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And if you haven't guessed by now, it's hot-and-sour soup.</div>
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-54366526483016778242010-05-30T18:10:00.014+05:302019-10-29T15:33:04.672+05:30Autonson Soup - I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAT4rGxyM1I/AAAAAAAAA0U/zSJjR-Uup7U/s1600/IMG_5247.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAT4rGxyM1I/AAAAAAAAA0U/zSJjR-Uup7U/s1600/IMG_5247.JPG" /></a>A lot of things happened since my last post. I shifted back to India, spent a little time in Delhi and Hyderabad, then took up a job teaching law in a university in Cuttack, Orissa. And each of these places has contributed to my sprawling backlog of foodie adventures I want to write about but cannot for lack of time. Cuttack also joins Hyderabad, Bangalore, Istanbul, Kota Bharu (Malaysia) and Tanjung Pinang (Indonesia) in the list of places I've visited recently, but not written about so far.<br />
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Cuttack as a city is difficult to characterise. "Moribund" describes it well. I'd say this moribund-ness itself derives from a curious reluctance to identify with either the past or the future. And to this can be attributed many of its unique, often contradictory characteristics. For example, it claims continuous inhabitation for upwards of a thousand years. Looks like it too, particularly those spooky, winding lanes in the heart of the city. But nobody seems talk about the secrets they hold, the events they witnessed over the ages. If the city's denizens are passionate about its lore, they sure don't let outsiders like us know.<br />
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Yet their tepidness towards the past is just that, tepid. Cities like Delhi exhibit what I <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2007/07/nizamuddin-00-prefatory-note.html">once described</a> as a "strange, savage violence perpetrated by the present on its own mute past." But then Delhi is a city on the move. Protected buildings and ruins are viewed mostly as impediments to unbridled construction, to be circumvented through creeping encroachment and bribery. That is, vestiges of its past amount to little more than hindrances to its frenzied, unregulated future growth. None of all this apply to Cuttack. It does not treat its past with hostility and resentment, at least overtly. Nor does it perceive itself as a "happening" city; that title was ceded to neighbouring Bhubaneswar a long time ago. Bhubaneswar boasts all that one can wish for in a metropolis - malls, multiplexes, multinational fast-food outlets. Cuttack's concessions to glamour stop with a <a href="http://www.bigbazaar.com/">Big Bazaar</a> and a solitary <a href="http://www.cafecoffeeday.com/">Cafe Coffee Day</a> outlet (housed in the same complex, incidentally). <br />
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Cuttack's inhabitants are exceptionally nice. Within weeks of our moving to our present house, the landlady more or less adopted us. From occasional cups of tea sent up, to spontaneous "Join us for lunch!" invitations; now we are regarded as an integral part of the family for all ceremonies organised within the extended clan. The exception: tradesmen and especially auto drivers - among the surliest I've encountered anywhere. Even this is of a singular nature. The Delhi shopkeeper regards you as an impediment and nuisance; he could have served so many customers and made so much money if only he didn't have to attend to your imbecilic queries. So he shouts at you. His Cuttack counterpart's rudeness is not impelled by any such misbegotten entrepreneurial spirit. This guy is indifferent to sales and customer goodwill alike. Possibly both interfere with his contemplation of the infinite.<br />
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Similarly, the Delhi auto driver is out to rook you for all he can get. So the bargaining begins. He first demands a preposterous amount (the feeler, to see how new to the city - hence gullible - you are); you explode in indignation ("Dude, I'm local!"); he wilts a bit, bleats on about how difficult it is to earn a living these days ("Do you know how much rent the owner charges from me these days?"); you stand firm ("Look, if you don't belt up I'm looking for another auto"); and finally you arrive at a figure you both think reasonable, which could be anything between 10% and 40% over and above the metered fare. This holds true of most other cities - Hyderabad, Bangalore (auto drivers follow the meter more closely, but now and then they ask for something extra), even Bhubaneswar.<br />
In Cuttack, the process runs in this fashion: You hail a free auto; he stops (invariably at least twenty yards ahead); you run up to him; he quotes his usual preposterous fare; you point out he's demanding more than twice the "correct fare" (<i>i.e.</i> what you usually pay - till date I've never seen a Cuttack auto with a meter installed); so he haughtily turns away and drives off, while you keep standing there feeling slightly stupid. This process repeats itself about five times. The sixth either quotes the "correct fare" first time off, or proves to be more reasonable in his expectations. You quickly come to a bargain and set off with him, having wasted about half an hour - sometimes more - on this silly charade. Even though Cuttack auto fares are at least at par with, if not more than, what you get in larger and more prosperous cities.Come to think of it, I've never managed to find out what happens to the auto-walas who drive away. Do they regularly manage to snare dupes willing to pay such inflated fares? Unlikely, given that Cuttack is not exactly the richest of cities. So is it that they don't need to earn a living, or at least feel the need to do so?<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAT3vpzCPGI/AAAAAAAAA0A/0x5hsX6c-fM/s1600/IMG_5246.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ikNA-qTOdWM/TAT3vpzCPGI/AAAAAAAAA0A/0x5hsX6c-fM/s640/IMG_5246.JPG" width="422" /></a>
What I have described above might help make sense of two features I found deeply characteristic of the Cuttack food scene. The first is a general paucity of eateries. To be sure they do exist, but not anywhere as thickly clustered as they do in other cities. Take the area our university is situated, a nameless stretch along the Mahanadi between Chahata and Gora Kabar so devoid of landmarks and other reference points it's impossible to direct autowalas to it. One cannot get within a kilometre and a half anything resembling a square meal. The nearest tea-shop is at least a kilometre away, so is the nearest provision store. The stretch, by the way, is utterly beautiful. In any other city, it would have been clogged with chaiwalas, chaatwalas, and other junk-food sellers. Thankfully this has not happened, and the stretch has retained its pristine beauty so far.<br />
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Even areas that ought to sustain greater demand (such as <a href="http://www.ravenshawuniversity.ac.in/">Ravenshaw University</a> or the railway station), contain far fewer eateries than one would expect. Fewer, and drab. That is the second characteristic, a lack of variety. Exceptions exist: Royal serves a mean 'Stick Kabab' (more or less what we in Delhi refer to as Chicken Tikka); then I have seen a place advertising authentic Oriya cuisine. But by and large, Cuttack's eateries can be classified into three categories. Close to the top of the pile lie a bunch of nondescript family-style restaurants. All have rickety air-conditioning, and a more or less standardised multi-cuisine menu - some Mughlai items, some Chinese items, a few (not many, only one or two) typical Oriya dishes like Dalma and Mutton Kassa. Then come nondescript dhabas and other low-budget places. They range in size and decrepitude, but they are all marred by hygiene issues. And rude service. Nonetheless, they make for an interesting alternative because their food is better and much more varied.<br />
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The third type comprises what can be considered fast-food outlets. If dhabas operate from hovels, these These operate out of anything from push-carts to bamboo-and-tarpaulin shacks to proper shops. But regardless of these differences, they have near-identical menus with very little variation in prices. A half-plate of chicken chowmein sells in the range of twenty Rupees (usually seventeen or eighteen), chicken rolls for fifteen (single-egg) to twenty (double-egg). The marginally larger establishments extend to things like chicken pakora and chilli chicken (anything between fifty to sixty for a full plate). That's it.<br />
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[Continued in <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2010/05/autonson-soup-ii.html">Part II</a>]</div>
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-72890355765350571052009-08-23T18:28:00.004+05:302022-02-17T23:30:02.818+05:30Dorm Cooking 01: [Guest Post] Chicken Curry for First-Time Cooks of Non-Veggie<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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[Guest-Post by Anita Dixit]</div>
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1. Take down from the supermarket shelf the smallest available pack of chicken drumsticks. Look at it with some trepidation. Replace. Take down again. Replace. Repeat three times. Finally, cross fingers and buy.<br />
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2. Take home and announce to unsuspecting spouse 'I have bought chicken drumsticks. I'm going to cook them myself.' Ignore his look of panic. Also ignore his pleading look as he says 'will you also take off the skin yourself?' He's trying to make you say No. Don't say no - you're going to do this all on your own!</div>
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3. Open packaging. Take final, scared, look at chicken. Then grasp firmly. Let out a sigh as you find that it does not feel slimy, or ooze blood onto your hands, or any such disgusting thing.<br />
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4. Remove skin. Correction, attempt to remove skin. Chicken will resist having its skin removed and tenaciously cling onto it. Do not give up. Continue to pull off skin.<br />
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5. After two drumsticks have been skinned, start swearing fluently under your breath. This makes the skinning easier. A sentence like 'saale, tu kya, tera baap bhi niklega!' is extremely effective. Preferably, swearing should be done in one's native tongue. However, take care to keep the volume down, to prevent spouse offering to help again. You DID want to do this yourself, didn't you?<br />
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6. After skinning four drumsticks, start contemplating philosophical issues: why would a dead chicken be so attached to its skin? what use does it have for it? is this a sign that consumerism is moving from humans to chickens - a form of reverse bird flu? or is it evidence that the soul exists even after death and resists dispossession of what it considers its own? Such philosophising will enable you to get through the last two drumsticks.<br />
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7. Finally get through last two drumsticks. Wash hands and knife thoroughly, they're totally sticky and slimy by this time. Give chicken one last baleful look. Then proceed to make several deep cuts in each drumstick. Resist temptation to attack it with the knife as if you're trying to murder it. Remember, it's already dead, no point giving vent to your anger through violence.<br />
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8. Now you're in your element! All you have to deal with is spices and herbs and cooking, and you know how to do that! Smile. Then proceed to marinate the chicken with yoghurt, salt, turmeric, and red chilli powder. Mix thoroughly, make sure drumsticks are properly covered. Let it sit for 2 hours.<br />
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9. Slice onions fine, make a paste of ginger, garlic and green chillies. Saute onions in about 3 tablespoonfuls of cooking oil. When they start turning golden, add garlic-ginger-chilli paste and saute a bit more.<br />
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10. Add marinated chicken. Let it cook till most of the yoghurt gets absorbed into a thick gravy. Don't worry, it WILL get cooked, and in a reasonable time. Just because it's not a vegetable, that doesn't mean that it's uncookable. You can make the gravy as thick as you like.<br />
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11. Remove from fire, garnish with lots of coriander leaves. They taste good, and they look very good too!<br />
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12. NOW you can complain to spouse about the tenacity of the chicken in holding onto its skin. He will tell you that there's a right way of doing it. Doesn't matter now, since you've proved that you can do it all on your own, you can take help now. Give sheepish grin, and say 'Yes, I'm sure I was doing it all wrong, you show me next time.'<br />
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13. Ladle onto plate, cross fingers hard. Voila, it's cooked! And tastes good too! Look tentatively at spouse. He's licking his fingers. He turns around and says, 'accha banaya hai!' with a big smile. Way to go, baby! You finally cooked chicken! A world of endless possibilities is open to you now...</div>
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-81508037193122237632009-08-22T18:13:00.005+05:302009-08-24T19:14:54.024+05:30Dorm Cooking 00: Prefatory Note<div class="summary">Another new series, and this one marks a fresh approach for the blog. So far I have resisted posting recipes. Like I mentioned in the recent <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2009/03/policy-update.html">policy update</a>, the blog was envisaged as an attempt to understand food, particularly street food, in its larger social and economic context. Recipes tend to do the very opposite - their purport is to detach preparations from their origins. That is what they achieve when they instruct the Peruvian how to cook <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tagine">Tagine</a>, or the Japanese the right way of making <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Borscht">Borscht</a>. Often they suggest how ingredients difficult to procure can be substituted with easily available alternatives; this has the effect of further distancing the dish from its roots.</div><br /><div class="restofpost">Of course, it can be argued that recipes serve to bridge cultures; the Tagine recipe may well constitute, say, the Peruvian's sole exposure (no matter how tenuously approximate) to Moroccan Culture. My simple response is that true or not, this has little to do with what the FoodScapes blog has set out to do. It was started with an express remit (namely, to understand food in its context), and publishing recipes goes against this.<br /><br />However, there does exist a genre of cooking that transcends context, so to speak. And for good measure, it is a genre which we ourselves, my friends and I, regularly add to. Most of us are either grad students or young professionals in academic or semi-academic streams. Money and time are both prized commodities, and yet we appreciate good food as much as, and may even more so than, the next person. In the face of such onerous demands, something or the other has to give way, and usually it is adherence to convention that is a casualty. Let's face it, our cooking is not conventional. It is dictated likely as not by what is convenient, what the local department store is offering a discount on, what is left in the fridge, and whether it'll fit into the microwave. Not conventional, as you can see, but boy, are the results good! I've gained quite a bit of weight in the last year, despite subsisting largely on nuked vegetables.<br /><br />Incidentally, I find this genre of cooking has garnered some wider recognition even. Heidi Swanson's <a href="http://www.101cookbooks.com/">101 Cookbooks</a> blog recently featured an article on "<a href="http://www.101cookbooks.com/archives/dorm-food-ideas-recipe.html">dorm food ideas</a>". Apart from anything else, that resolved the issue of what to call this genre. "Grad Student Cooking" didn't sound right somehow, not the least because many friends and potential contributors are no longer students. For that matter, even yours truly might gain a respite from studenthood within this week! "Dorm Cooking" sounds better - it conveys a feeling of haste, a bohemian disregard for conventions, a freewheeling lifestyle marred only by looming deadlines. And let's face it, that's mostly what both grad-student-life and early-professional-life are all about.<br /><br />This series also represents another break with convention. So far I have been the only one writing on this blog. We start the series, however, with a guest post by Anita Dixit on chicken curry. More posts as and when. As usual, this prefatory note also contains a list of posts in the series.<br /><br /><br /><b>List of Articles:</b><br /><ol><li><a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2009/08/dorm-cooking-01-chicken-curry.html">Chicken Curry for First-Time Cooks of Non-Veggie</a> (guest post by Anita Dixit)<br /></li></ol><br /><br /><br /></div>Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36623524.post-44906404593153820192009-08-08T15:25:00.000+05:302019-10-29T17:01:36.888+05:30Thaksin Beef Noodles - II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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[Continued from <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2009/06/thaksin-beef-noodles-i.html">Part I</a>]<br />
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The first time I went there was soon after I had shifted to Gillman Heights, a few bus-stops away. My then-flatmate Mainak and I decided to go there on the spur of the moment. It was a cold, damp evening; had rained almost throughout the afternoon. Neither of us had cooked anything, or was inclined to do so. And so we decided we could do with something hot, spicy, filling and, most important, cooked by someone else.<br />
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Actually we also wanted something dryish by way of noodles, not soupy or overly gravy-laden, and that's where we messed up. The Signboard had two pictures - one soupy and the other dry - and we didn't know which was which. (Like I said, this was in my comparatively greenhorn days.) We tried asking the ladies manning the stall, but they had only minimal English, only slightly more than I had Malay. So we finally asked for the beef noodles and, sure enough, we ended up with the soup! I mean, it was bound to happen.
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We had opted for $4 bowls. This gave us a substantial amount of broth containing lots of noodles and a fair amount of meat, and topped with large cilantro leaves. The <a href="http://eatbma.blogspot.com/2007/01/thaksin-beef-noodle-clementi.html">Travelling Hungryboy</a> reports the $5 version is garnished with garlic, which makes an immense difference. Also, apparently, its broth is far superior to that used in the $3.50 version, though he wasn't able to understand how this could be so. I am yet to try either version, so am unable to comment. So let me say only that the broth in the $4 version tasted just fine!<br />
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In his <a href="http://foodscapes.blogspot.com/2009/06/thaksin-beef-noodles-i.html?showComment=1245085185526#c5003047532574724">comment on Part I</a>, my friend Soumya asked how this Thai Muslim version is different from the non-Halal soup sold on Thailand streets. He also mentions the Thai food he'd tried in Singapore's Lau Pa Sat was noticeably sweeter and less spicy. I have never been to Thailand myself (about the nearest was the Tom Yam I had at Kota Bharu, Malaysia, just south of the Thai border). Nevertheless, my guess is that the Thaksin version (at least, in stock form - pun fully intended) was milder that what one gets in Thailand. There are many Chinese who have no stomach for spicy food. At the same time, the soup was not exactly bland; it had its bite all right! It was also mildly sour, but the taste that stood out was the <i>umami</i> of the meat. The meaty broths and stews I've had so far have all been thick, usually creamy. This is the first time I have come across a broth that is thin and so markedly meaty in its flavour. The usual Thai seasonings went into it - one could discern lemongrass and a good deal of coriander. And of course the ubiquitious chilli. Like I said it was comparatively subdued, but certainly made its presence felt.<br />
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The meat was the best part of the experience - fresh, of excellent quality, and minimally seasoned. As the notice promised, it had not been marinated using tenderisers or vinegar. Neither had it been sauteed or braised to get rid of the stink most meats have. And yet it was neither hard nor stinky. It was soft and juicy, and the lightly marbled fat imparted a feeling of substance. And they were pretty generous with the meat too.<br />
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By the time the food came we were both famished, not the ideal frame of mind for taking levelheaded decisions. Mainak, moreover, craved something really spicy. Poor fellow, he heaped chilli flakes onto one of those little sauce-dishes, and tipped the entire lot into his soup. Thankfully I stopped myself from following his example, and remained content with a few tentative sprinkles. That itself was powerful enough for me. It got me just the right amount of bite, I settled down to a nice, pleasant dinner. And then Mainak start to glow. A fiery incandescence spewed out of his eyes: his heavily swarthy complexion was suffused through with a redness angry like molten lava. He could only gasp for breath. Perspiration saturated his t-shirt and likely as not collected in little puddles on his seat. And still he continued, in spite of my protestations. He finished the bowl, and then together we walked across to Vivocity for some Korean-style barbeque. Ultimately we had some ice cream, and that seemed to finally cool him down a little.<br />
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I went to Thaksin again a few weeks later. This time I tried out the Phad Thai. Very well cooked (the meat was tender and flavourful as always), and sprinkled over with coarsely ground peanut. True, it lacked the sheer personality of the Soup. Nevertheless, it made for a very satisfying meal, arguably more satisfying than the latter.</div>
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Abhik Majumdarhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06921264695439784161noreply@blogger.com0