FoodScapes from Below

Chilli Frog and Kway Teow at Geylang

2010-06-07T20:09:00.021+08:00

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.

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 Eminent Frog Porridge and Seafood at Lorong 19, certainly among the most famous if not the most famous of frog-porridge outlets.

A word of explanation here: Conventionally frog (in its various iterations) is eaten with congee 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
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 per 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.

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 claypot. 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.

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.

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 inexpensive point-and-shoot those days), looked back at me, smiled, and said, "Umm, sure, go ahead!" So that was all there was to it.

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.

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 seamier sort. 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.)

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.

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.

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.

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.

I am not exaggerating a bit, the noodles were nearabouts the finest thing I've ever eaten in Singapore. The noodles were al dente, 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!

Autonson Soup - II

2010-05-31T20:53:00.280+08:00

[Continued from Part I]

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.

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.

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 (AWWT-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.

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 [sic] 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. Chef du jour 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.

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.

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.

And if you haven't guessed by now, it's hot-and-sour soup.

Autonson Soup - I

2010-05-30T20:40:00.014+08:00

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.

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.

Yet their tepidness towards the past is just that, tepid. Cities like Delhi exhibit what I once described 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 Big Bazaar and a solitary Cafe Coffee Day outlet (housed in the same complex, incidentally).

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.

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.

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.e. 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?

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.

Even areas that ought to sustain greater demand (such as Ravenshaw University 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.

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.

[Continued in Part II]

Dorm Cooking 01: Chicken Curry for First-Time Cooks of Non-Veggie

2009-08-23T20:58:00.003+08:00

[Guest-Post by Anita Dixit]

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.

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!

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

11. Remove from fire, garnish with lots of coriander leaves. They taste good, and they look very good too!

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.'

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...

Dorm Cooking 00: Prefatory Note

2009-08-22T20:43:00.005+08:00

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 policy update, 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 Tagine, or the Japanese the right way of making Borscht. 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.

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.

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.

Incidentally, I find this genre of cooking has garnered some wider recognition even. Heidi Swanson's 101 Cookbooks blog recently featured an article on "dorm food ideas". 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.

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.

List of Articles:

Chicken Curry for First-Time Cooks of Non-Veggie (guest post by Anita Dixit)

Thaksin Beef Noodles - II

2009-08-08T17:55:00.000+08:00

[Continued from Part I]

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.

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.

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 Travelling Hungryboy 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!

In his comment on Part I, 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 umami 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.

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.

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.

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.

Thaksin Beef Noodles - I

2009-06-15T18:09:00.005+08:00

Truth be told, I'm getting a little bored of Singapore food. When I first came here, I was impressed with the variety every hawker-centre seemed to offer. After nearly two years here, I have come to a paradoxical conclusion - that mostly it's the same sort of variety they feature. Go to your first food court, you'll find at least ten different kinds of stalls. Very impressive. Go to the next one, you'll once again find ten different varieties of stalls, but at least six in common with the first one. Go to your third, fourth and fifth, and gradually the truth dawns on you - like an expert cardsharp the city's been dealing you the same set of outlets all along without you realising it!

Few hawker-centre stalls in Singapore rise above the average. Some exceptions have carved a niche for themselves through dint of sheer culinary excellence, and aided largely by word-of-mouth advertising. The legendary No-Signboard Seafood Restaurant has made a remarkable transformation into a chain of upscale restaurants. Some like Sin Huat Seafood Restaurant have remained true to their hawker-centre origins, though they charge heftily - a plate of Crab Bee Hoon sells for S$ 45, no less! Still others plod on with their old ways, charging reasonably, largely unknown beyond a select circle of foodie-loyalists. The beef kway teow shop on Lorong 9, Geylang still offers a near-ambrosial experience at five Dollars, but how many know about it?

These shops have all taken decades, literally, to achieve their present eminence. In contrast, Thaksin Beef Noodles is clearly in a hurry. The sheer outré cheekiness of the name is enough indication of this. Set up a Thai (to be precise, Thai Muslim) food stall and name it after the most controversial Thai around, what could be a more surefire way of attracting attention? The brazen note also finds reflection in the tagline, admittedly nowhere near so funny - "We are bullish about beefing you" (italics in original). Below the main signboard at the Seah Im branch lies a second, smaller one. This contains mention of the other branches (two others listed, and as far as I know at least one more not stated); and a gloat about press coverage ("5 Totally Independent & Unsolicited Editorials (sic) in 3 years").

Thaksin is situated in the eastern half, towards the adjoining Harbourfront MRT station. Very few Chinese outlets in this part; most seem to be Halal. Just a coincidence, or was it planned that way?

The Seah Im Food Centre is located next to Telok Blangah Road (and the elevated West Coast Highway running above it), right opposite the HarbourFront Centre.Thaksin offers a startlingly limited menu. It comprises all of two main items, listed as "Beef Noodle" and "Pad Thai Fried Kuey Teow". Both of these are available with a variety of trimmings and garnishes, but the only distinct side-dish on offer is rice! Perhaps this tightly focussed menu is part of their gameplan - targeting a (very) niche market. We can draw credence from the curious legend right where the bill of fare abruptly ends: "Traditional Thai Beef Noodle Soup served with succulent beef cooked with herbs & spices WITHOUT the use of tenderizer preservatives or added MSG." Informative, despite the idiosyncratic construction. Correction, not even very informative. Because the first time we went there we couldn't figure out which of the two items it referred to! This was of course in my days of relative ignorance.

[Continued in Part II]

Policy Update

2009-03-31T07:46:00.009+08:00

As regular readers may recall, the FoodScapes blog was born in response to an attitude that is steadily distancing us from our roots. Best summed up by the Hindi adage that privileges eating mangoes over counting trees, it embodies not so much a love of success as a contempt for all that is extrinsic to one's myopic objectives. The realm of food plays host to arguably some of the most virulent manifestations of this phenomenon - think faux-ethnic and other 'trendy' eateries intent solely on exploiting prevalent fashions to make a quick buck. In conscious reaction to this, this blog has set out to understand food in its larger frame of reference; it thus addresses not only the proverbial mango, but also the number of trees, the kind of trees, the location of the orchard, and all other such circumstantial details that impart meaning and context to the fruit.

I have come to realise that confining this blog to only food can be counterproductive. Some of my most interesting foodie adventures have occurred in the course of travel. And addressing just the food part in isolation from its larger background, namely my travel experiences as a whole, surely defeats the very purpose the blog was set up for! Take my recent trip to Kelantan in north-east Malaysia, the main cause of this present self-realisation. The deep impact the expedition had on me was due as much to its wonderful people, its culture, its way of life generally as to its food. Indeed, people, culture, and food intermesh so deeply and profoundly that it actually hurts to write about just one in isolation from the others. It follows naturally that the blog will remain meaningful only if I expand its remit to cover travel in general as well.

There is another reason for this policy change. A few months ago I acquired another camera, a DSLR this time. Pundits brand the Canon EOS 450D an "entry-level" model, but I strongly feel that's a load of hooey. Considerable differences exist between it and the next model the 50D, but upon close inspection these differences are what I consider peripheral to the core of photography, and certainly to the kind of photography I enjoy doing - people, travel, urbanscapes and so on.

Yet another layout redesign, within months of the previous one. I am very comfortable with the present one. True, it's a simple design, does not incorporate either the stylistic cues or the techniques I have devised over the recent months. At the same time, it is uncluttered, well spaced, and generally easy on the eye. I think I'll stick with this one for some time.

Sinar Pagi Nasi Padang

2009-02-28T23:40:00.026+08:00

At half past eight in the evening, Geylang Serai Food Centre wore a deserted look. It is a huge place, mainly a wet market around whose periphery lie enough food stalls to comprise a largish hawker centre in their own right. By evening the wet market activities grind to a halt, as do most of the food stalls. The action shifts further southwest along Geylang Road - action as in food stalls as well as other uh, pleasures of the flesh.

This shifted action was partly the reason I was at the Food Centre. I have come to the conclusion I share a strange affinity with Malaysia and Malay culture. Something about the very place sets my pulse racing. Right before reaching Geylang, I was at the KTM station at Keppel Road, enquiring about trains to Kota Bharu. The station is in almost all respects a Malaysian outpost - the people; their clothes; the language spoken; the bustling, slightly chaotic food stalls whose tables spill over onto the platform, even the the toilets are marked "Tandas".

All this evoked such a powerful nostalgia in me that going over to Geylang Serai, the other Malay stronghold in town, was almost natural. (I wanted to travel a bit that day, which is why I didn't stick around at the station itself.) Likewise, once at Geylang, I decided to avoid the "action areas", where Chinese culture and cuisine dominate, and proceeded to the less glamorous predominantly Malay hinterland.

Sure enough, I couldn't spot a single Chinese stall at the Food Centre. Indian stalls there were aplenty, likewise Malay stalls advertising exotic-sounding preparations I hadn't heard of before - Kacang Pool, Kebab Tornado, and Briyani Tomato. Of the few stalls still open, only Sinar Pagi Nasi Padang at #209 seemed interesting. Nasi Padang is not Malay, strictly speaking. Padang, from which this culinary genre originates, is in Indonesia, south of Singapore.

Unlike most hawker-centre stalls, this place had a certain personality. A white placard proudly proclaimed: "Theirs is the Kapau Indonesia style . . . rich, spicy and not adulterated for 'softies' (ie those who can't take spicy stuff) with very little use of sugar." It also listed some of the outlet's specialities, and stated that the authentic Kapau style uses for Rendang a harder, textured beef. Lined up just above the placard were an impressive range of reviews and certificates, including one from Makansutra.

The person running the place, a most amiable gent called Mohammed Effendi, asked me to wait a little while as he had run out of rice. I said I was very hungry, and could he just give me some meat. So he waved me towards the glass-fronted cabinet and asked me to make my selection, as per usual Nasi-Padang-meets-hawker-centre custom. I didn't pay much attention to the several interesting fish and veggie preparations on display - I was in an aggressively carnivorous mood that day.

There were two kinds of Rendang on offer - chicken and beef - as well as something called Dengdeng Belado, or marinated sliced chilli beef. I was hard-pressed for choice. Initially I thought I'd settle for Belado and Chicken Rendang. Then as he was ladling the Belado, I suddenly thought why not? and asked for Beef Rendang instead of chicken. Lots of red meat, but so be it. I also asked for a helping of Acar (pickle). Effendi then remembered he had just a little rice left, enough for a half-portion, which he served to me without charge.

I'd describe the Belado as "interesting". It was hard and chewy, as the placard promised. While this made eating slightly laborious, it was not as irritating as, for example, the badly cooked cheap cuts at CLE African Restaurant. The rich meatiness was complemented by judicious if strong use of spices.

Funnily enough, I didn't think the Rendang meat was all that hard, though maybe it benefited from an inadvertent comparison with the Belado. It was firm, yes, but easily chewable. And the gravy had been reduced to a thick, glutinous consistency over low flame, so that it formed a viscous, richly flavoured layer around the meat chunks like rapidly-melting chocolate coating on a biscuit. It made for a pleasant change from some recently encountered Rendang, more soup than stew even. I wouldn't call it the best Rendang I've had, but it came very close.

The meal was a brief one, mainly due to the miniscule amount of rice I was given. Nevertheless it was quite enjoyable, thanks to the cooking as well as the relaxed surroundings. Oh yes, I also immensely enjoyed surreptitiously gawking at the strange-looking (and even more strangely dressed) people hanging aound all over!

CLE African Restaurant

2009-01-16T00:18:00.009+08:00

Lovely weather it was. The surroundings were noisy as Little India always is, and yet strangely reposeful. A clear, crisp day, rare in Singapore, had given way to a twilight of deep mystical blue. Against this backdrop stood rows of quaint old houses, chocolate-box pretty, and painted in cheerful colours. And what was I doing in such a charming atmosphere? Trying to finish, in decidedly hostile surroundings, the most miserable meal I've ever had in Singapore, that's what I was doing. Welcome to CLE African Restaurant.

The place is located behind Mustafa's. Go out through the rear exit, left towards Rangoon Road, then first right at the Chinese food-court at the corner. Don't suppose the location of the place matters, really. One, I don't recommend it to anybody; and two, the management (such as it is) didn't seem too keen on outsiders intruding into what was clearly intended as a meeting-place for Africans.

Like most cheap eateries in Singapore, the tiny shop-space contained only the kitchen and the counter, and tables and chairs were laid out on the sidewalk. As I approached the counter, I could feel suspicious stares boring into me from all sides. Even the guy at the counter, though not exactly rude, didn't seem particularly disposed to chat. I ended up not even asking him which part of Africa he came from.

Older writeups list a more extensive menu, but when I went there the bill of fare was limited to about five dishes. Chicken and beef sold for two Dollars a helping, rice sold for a Dollar, and there was something called Suji, also priced at two Dollars. Back home in India, Suji is what we call semolina; I wondered what it meant here. So I asked the manager. He paused a bit and said, "You know, semo . . . uh, semonlina?" Oh.

(I shouldn't have been so surprised, actually. Once I had tried to explain to Jacinta, a friend from Uganda, what clarified butter was. After listening about ten minutes she brightened: "Oh yes, we also eat it back home. We call it Ghee." I'm not sure how these words have infiltrated Africa. My guess says, through generations and generations of Indian shopkeepers.)

As is my habit, after placing my order (Suji and beef), I fished out my camera and started taking pictures of the surroundings. That is when the other customers' sullen discomfiture at my presence flamed into outright belligerence. Some five of them, each about a foot taller than I, walked up and said, "We don't want you taking pictures of us." Clearly there were immigration issues involved, so I didn't pry further. Instead, I pointed out I was clicking only the surroundings, and that at no time had I pointed the camera at them. That had them only half-placated. They continued to glare at me and mutter, "No pictures of us." Even the manager strode up to me and asked me not to take pictures. That's why I don't have any pictures of the shop itself.

This unwonted hostility only served to trigger off my perverse genes. I set the camera to maximum wide angle, and contrived to "accidentally" get those customers somewhere within the frame. Evidently they were not familiar with wide angle, because they didn't catch on. Except one guy who covered his face when I pointed the camera not too far from where he was sitting. But even that, I think, was just being careful.

The food arrived. On a large plastic basin was placed a plate with a lump of Suji and two smaller lumps of beef charred almost black. Next to it was a bowl of stew made with okra and dried fish. I learnt later the basin contained hot water to wash one's hand in at the end of the meal. The Suji was doughy and tasteless, but that was only expected. Its pristine white colour indicated no spices had been added to it. I figured out, correctly as it turned out, you were supposed to tear off small pieces and dip them into the stew. The stew itself was decent enough. It smelled of dried fish, but not too much. The Okra masked the smell and complemented the flavour. I could smell tomatoes and garlic, but nothing much more. The meat was the wost I've ever had, fully as unappetising as it looked. It was dry, flavourless, and mostly cartilage. Even the little bits of meat were tough and chewy beyond belief. Beyond a little salt, I couldn't discern any spices at all.

While I was eating a guy came over and sat next to me. I forgot his name, but do remember he was from Nigeria. Unlike the others, he seemed to be eager to talk, and I had a shrewd idea about the reason why. Sure enough, after initial pourparlers, he asked me just why I was taking so many pictures. I pointed to one of the old houses, and started talking of scrolls, foliations and sconces. If you've read Jeeves discoursing on cow creamers and other silverware, you will know just where I had sourced my terms from. Happily, this friend was unfamiliar with architecture and Wodehouse alike, and swallowed my bullshit with little demur.

After a while he asked me if I were an architect myself. I decided to play it safe, and said I study law at NUS. Immediately came a very suspicious "So how come you know so much about architecture?" Hey, I knew that was coming! Had known it even when I was confessing to being a law student. Which had given me loads of time to invent an architect friend back home who'd asked me to take pictures for a project he was doing. Satisfied there was nothing fishy about me, the guy then lapsed into a sulky silence.

A little footnote: When I went to pay for my meal, the manager asked for five Dollars. I said Suji and meat came to only four bucks. He pointed out I was given that stew as well. True I hadn't asked for it, but people who order Suji always have stew to go with it. I decided not to argue. He wasn't overcharging me; I did get something for that extra Dollar even though I hadn't asked for it. At the same time it served to underscore just how uncomfortable the entire experience had been.

GNU Look for the New Year

2009-01-14T00:01:00.007+08:00

Happy new year to FoodScapes readers! I decided to commemorate the occasion through a design revamp. This was in fact long overdue. Circumstances had compelled me to start the blog rather precipitately, which meant I had to jerry-rig a design at very short notice. At that time I didn't own a digital camera, and was also a complete newbie at tweaking blog templates. The result was a rather plain layout, low on graphics (I refused to use pictures sourced from the web or elsewhere), a layout that just about passed muster, but not something I was terribly happy about.

Several times I ventured experiments with alternate designs. Resounding failures, they all were. One reason for that was, I had become used to the old design, jerry-rigged as it was. Ultimately I decided to compromise. I took elements from the old design, and incorporated them into a new setting. The design is nowhere near final, in fact I intend to further tweak the masthead as soon as I have time. But at least now I'm satisfied with the basic concept.

One of the more interesting things I did last year was to go almost completely open-source. And this policy finds reflection in the redesign too. I sourced the background texture from Free Seamless Textures, and did the graphics using GIMP on a laptop running Kubuntu. And of course, all the surfing, downloading, uploading and posting was done on Firefox, but that's hardly news. Very few people of my acquaintance use Internet Explorer any more, 's all I can say.

For a long time I wanted to write about a particular Dim Sum shop. It was one among a scruffy-looking bunch of outlets, mostly motorcycle dealerships and estate agencies, at the corner of Alexandra Road and Commonwealth Avenue. I had chanced upon it soon after shifting to Gillman Heights, and found their dumplings to be excellent.

The other day I walked past that area after a long time, more than two months. To my consternation and extreme disappointment, I found the entire row of shops had been demolished, and some sort of a luxury condo beginning to germinate on the site. Yuck! I really wonder where that Dim Sum place has shifted to.

Carl's jr serves the best mass-produced hamburgers I've eaten so far. I prefer them even to Relish's "gourmet" versions. And I think I've found a way of optimising the experience there.

I went there there other day, ordered some sort of a burger combo, and up-sized the drink and fries to medium-size. After I had paid for all this, I noticed the the bill-of-fare proclaimed an "All You Want drinks bar" or thereabouts. I asked the lady at the counter if that meant free refills. She said yes. Not unreasonably, I asked her what the upsize was all about, then. She said, "you get a bigger packet of fries." Which was pointless as far as I was concerned. I enjoy fries in only limited quantities, and I had opted for the upsize solely to get a bigger drink.

This set me thinking. If I remember correctly, the combo came for $12.30; with the upsize added, I paid $12.80. Don't recall exactly how much a burger sans fries or drinks costs, but it was somewhere under $10, say $9.50. A small drink comes for $2.70. "Small" is of course meaningless here, thanks to the free refills.

So my strategy is, if I buy a stand-alone burger and a "small" drink, I end up paying less than the price of a combo. I don't get any fries, but that is actually an advantage - it frees up more stomach-space for the drink. Two or three trips to the iced-tea dispenser, and I not only more than break even, but also get to fill my stomach with the things I like, instead of those superfluous fries. Smart, innit?

Java Kitchen on Christmas Day

2008-12-28T02:25:00.022+08:00

The other day I had one of my nicest meals in Singapore. Now my foodie-adventures tend towards exploring other cultures and cuisines. Seldom do I encounter anything that reminds me of home. But that's how I ended up feeling after this meal at an Indonesian restaurant, of all things! A tiny joint it was, hidden away in Lucky Plaza - a sleazy mall and in my opinion Orchard Road's leading eyesore. (It is chiefly notorious for cheap clothes, cheap perfumes, cheap jewellery, tacky souvenirs, and grey-market electronic goods hucksters.) So what was I doing there looking for interesting eateries, on Christmas day, lunchtime? Go figure.

It started with an impromptu decision we took, self and fellow research-scholar Xing Li. We had no prior plans for Christmas lunch, and Orchard seemed as good a place as any. Which was nice in a way, because we caught the tail end of the Christmas parade. There was one float made up like a boat, inside which were a bunch of people dressed in white and blowing wriggly trumpets. I could't make out what it was meant to depict, Noah's ark or Joshua and the walls of Jericho. Some time later, Xing Li drew my attention to what she called "Muslim Santa Clauses". I explained they were meant to be the Three Wise Men of the East, but it didn't register with her. Maybe she hadn't heard the story.

Shortly thereafter, I spotted this signboard for Indonesian food hanging down from a portico, and pointed it out to Xing Li. We had already tentatively decided on Western food at a nice place like Food Republic. Getting there was a problem, because the parade was still on and we needed to cross the road. And we were uncomfortably hungry by then. So when we saw this interesting alternative, we both jumped at it.

I was surprised to find there was much, much more to Lucky Plaza than I had earlier thought. Its tourist-trap outlets were situated mostly on the first two floors. The rest contained a vast number of shops catering to immigrants specifically from ASEAN countries. Indonesian and Filipino departmental stores, maidservant and other employment agencies, parcel services, money remittance centres, even agencies where you could pay for motorcycles delivered to your family back home. Eateries also, in wide variety and profusion. I intend to go back there and try out Filipino fast-food some day.

According to this review posted on its blog, Java Kitchen opened in Jakarta about fifteen years ago. Today it comprises a large chain with three outlets in Singapore, at Tajong Katong, Vivocity, and here at Lucky Plaza. It specialises in Javanese home cooking, reputedly more nutritious than other Indonesian cuisines. I learnt all this much later, while doing the last bits of research for the blogpost. Indeed, I wrote much of this piece before I read this review. And it is nice to see how well our experience tallied with what the proprietor had set out to achieve.

The Lucky Plaza outlet is situated at Level 3, away from the main lobby and surprisingly quiet and homey. The decor is clean and unpretentious to the point of severity - grey tiled floor, white walls decorated with posters and bunches of artifical flowers, simple wooden furniture painted dark brown and, for good measure, plain white porcelain tableware. At one corner lies the cashier's counter, flanked by glass-fronted cabinets containing trays of prepared food.

I found the staff pleasantly informal. They were happy to supply details of what each set meal, and did not show any discomfort as we dawdled over the menu. Neither did they object to my incessant photography, very rare in Singapore!

The bill of fare tends towards home-style cooking, and mostly full meals at that - no Satay and other street-food. Possibly this is because it caters mainly to immigrant workers staving off homesickness through the stomach. And a good thing too. It ensures the cooking is authentic, Just The Way Mother Made It.

Authentic or not, it was delightful. Xing Li opted for Rawon, a Javanese beef and black-nut soup. I wanted to order it myself; it was drizzly and overcast outside - but deferred to her choice. So instead I went in for Nasi Rames, a set-meal comprising white rice, Beef or Chicken Rendang (I asked for beef), Balinese Egg, and "traditional vegetables". The proportions didn't look like much, but they filled our stomachs nicely. Both were priced at six Dollars, very reasonable for the amount (and quality) of food it got us. We both ordered avocado juice to go with our meal - comparatively expensive at $4, but what the hell.

My order arrived first. Very pretty it was too, a square of banana-leaf covering the plate, with the various preparations heaped on it. There was a helping of white rice at the centre, surrounded by the Rendang; the Balinese Egg; some thinly shredded yellow veg (turned out to be pumpkin); some greyish veg I recognised as unripe jackfruit; peanut; and a slice of cucumber topped by the most ferocious Sambal I've yet encountered. Xing Li's Rawon was considerably less prepossessing. A large bowl of dark brown soup flecked with lighter brown in parts, still boiling away when they served it. Next to it was a plate with a helping of rice; two crackers; half a salted egg; and some of that incendiary Sambal.

Having grown up in an enchor-worshipping household, I inevitably began with the jackfruit. It was quite unlike the way we Bengalis prepare it - boiled with virtually no spices and just a hint of garlic. This allowed the natural flavours to come forth, and boy, was it good! It was made just right, neither undercooked nor mushy, and retained the moist Umami flavour of unripe jackfruit. This flavour is simple and direct, and disappears if overcooked. So was the pumpkin just right - juicy, crisp, and slightly sweet. I think what made them truly special were the quality and freshness of the vegetables used. I cannot imagine departmental-store veggies tasting anywhere near as nice.

They even put the Rendang in shade. Which is pretty remarkable because (a) I'm a diehard carnivore; (b) as FoodScapes regulars know, Rendang is one of my favourite meat dishes; and (c) the stuff they served was pretty decent its own right. It was slightly different from the others I have encountered (and written about). It was lot less oily, and spiced a little stronger. The taste of coconut was noticeably subdued, which allowed greater space to the meaty flavours. The meat itself was of good quality, tender and not very fibrous.

The Balinese Egg was very similar to the Dimer Jhol we get back home - whole boiled egg first lightly fried and then cooked in a thick gravy of tomato and onion-paste. It slightly different, no doubt owing to the spices used, but still reminded me of home. An unexpected and very pleasant surprise! it was good too, lightly spiced, neither oily nor over-fried.

Xing Li's soup tasted much better than it looked. The meat was just boiled, not browned, and yet it did not have that funny smell one gets from boiled meat (we Bengalis call it "botka", can't translate). It was also tender and of excellent quality. Minimal amounts of lemongrass and galangal could be discerned.

The avocado juice was a visual turn-off - sizeable tumblers of a green liquid shot through with brown chocolate syrup. To our surprise, the two flavours blended well (or at least much better than they looked!). The juice was very thick, thicker than most milkshakes, and barely sippable through a straw. Alone, it would have come close to filling our stomachs. In conjunction with the amounts of food we ate, it stuffed us something something cruel!

Honestly, beyond perhaps a limited range of dishes, and especially of snacks and light eats, I cannot think of a single downside to our experience. Comfortable atmosphere, friendly staff, quick service, excellent cooking, the freshest raw materials, very reasonable price, what more could one ask? As a matter of fact, it went more than that. It reminded me of home. And not just because of the unripe jackfruit and the egg curry. The entire meal, especially the vegetables, was pervaded through with the delicacy and sensitivity one usually associates with home cooking. A truly memorable, heartwarming (not heartburning) experience, somehow fitting that it occurred on Christmas day.

Silly Saison for Rocket-Burgers - I

2008-09-18T21:06:00.011+08:00

Cluny Court is a lovely, sprawling, beautifully maintained old building at the junction of Cluny Road and Bukit Timah Road. The first floor (Level 2 in Singaporespeak) is given over to Relish, an eatery specialising in exotic beers and gourmet hamburgers. Self and fellow-foodie Wangui had gone there a long time ago, April or thereabouts.

I had been meaning to write about it for a good while now for several reasons, not least because I took lots of photos that day. As is evident, photos in profusion are entirely appropriate to the nature of the post. It's not often that I dwell at such length on an eatery's decor. But then, it's not often that I come across such curious decor either.

It was dark inside. As in really dark, dark as a sleazy nightclub in Geylang. The bar area had lots of light fixtures attached, which wasn't saying much.The counter had orange backlighting. Behind it the shelves were backlit white. Rows of beer bottles were arranged on them, too evenly spaced and uniformly sized to be anything but decorative. As a matter of fact, the same could be said of the entire bar lighting scheme as well; it sure didn't help us see things better!

The rest of the restaurant was serviced by stray pink lampshades that drooped down from the ceiling at random intervals. The ceiling itself was too high to reflect any light, not that the wholly inadequate bulbs in the lampshades emanated a lot of light to reflect.

Sheet-metal lanterns, with ornate designs cut out of their sides, hung from brackets at strategic points on the walls. Once again, they seemed to serve a purely decorative purpose. The perforations projected very pretty patterns on the walls, but illuminated little else, not even people sitting inches away.

Did the decor work? That's a difficult question. The effect was very pretty, no doubt, clearly done by a professional designer. The disparate elements did not clash. This could be because the ornate wall-mounted lanterns and the purple teardrop lampshades hanging from the ceilings were both too feebly lit to intrude into each others' spheres of influence.

My reservations were twofold. First, the arrangement did not make use of the natural characteristics of the building. To my mind, if a location offers certain intrinsic advantages, it makes more sense to design around these, and let the rest of the design flow organically from them.

To get a fairer idea of these advantages, I took a picture with the exposure raised a full two stops. And goodness, what a difference that made! A high, vaulted, half-timbered ceiling, a feeling of space, of airiness, an edifice you'd feel comfortable to breathe in, let's put it this way.

And not one bit of this found reflection in the decor. The ceiling was the darkest portion of the interior, for good measure even some of those wonderful exposed cross-beams had been painted white! I wouldn't call the decor impersonal, but it did seem entirely disjointed from the structure of the building. It can be transplanted in toto onto any mall or "country club", and would be none the poorer for it.

My second grouse was that the dim lighting made the place a lot less convivial. It did not comfort me, didn't reassure me, didn't make me feel welcome to linger over the food or the beer. All it did manage to do was intimidate me, make me feel alienated from the surroundings. And of course, it made photographing the food an unmitigated headache.

[Continued in Part II]

La Petite Cuisine

2008-09-15T20:31:00.023+08:00

In an earlier post I had mentioned Evans Lodge, my erstwhile doss house/concentration camp. It is located in the Botanical Garden area, which is otherwise home to some of the priciest real estate in Singapore. You don't get too many hawker centres in these parts, not surprisingly. But by way of compensation you encounter numerous eateries of the more upscale types. Relatively upscale, that is. While some, like Sushi bars, are expensive by any standards, the rest are places an impoverished student can visit now and then. And since well-heeled expats form a large segment of the area's population, you get a glorious variety of food in this price-band - specialty restaurants, niche cuisine outlets (like Curry Wok), sidewalk cafes, pubs, coffee-and-cake-shops, even gourmet hamburger joints.

La Petite Cuisine is located in the Serene Centre complex next to the Farrer Road flyover - coincidentally, just round the corner from the French Embassy at Cluny Road. Coincidentally because it is modelled directly on the French bistro concept. Tables placed outside in the passages; checked tablecloths; a chef replete with thick grey handlebar moustache and equally thick accent (for good measure he's called Bernard) - clichés even by TV sit-com standards. I was very apprehensive the first time I went there.

As soon as you sit down they place before you a hard roll, warm and moist from the oven, together with a blister-pack of excellent French butter. A charming practice. Cynics might claim, though, it's a palliative-in-advance, given the tiny portions they serve.

The first time I went there I ordered something-Mediterranean-or-the-other I can't recall the name of. It turned out to be three sausages doused in vinaigrette dressing on a large pita bread, and covered with roquette and other salad leaves. Described so baldly it does not sound particularly appetising, but it actually made for a rather tasty meal.

The sausages were of good quality, plump, and fried just the right amount. While the pita was unremarkable, the roquette was fresh and juicy. And the vinaigrette possibly the best I've ever had - balanced, not too tart, and well blended. All in all, not a very filling meal, especially not for ten Dollars, but still satisfying.

I went there again a few days later, this time with Ananth, friend and then-roommate. I ordered steak with potatoes au gratin, which was a mighty disappointment. I mean, I had not expected the portions to be big exactly, but that scrap of meat they gave me would have barely covered a playing card.

I was so surprised I forgot to take pictures, and remembered only when I had finished half of it. The accompanying photo was taken at this point. From the half-steak it does show, it is easy to figure out how big the other half was.

Ananth fared much better with his grilled fish and rice. They gave him a respectable portion of dory, plus an equally decent helping of rice sautéed in butter with bits of onion and all. Of course, I got all sorts of extras with my steak - potatoes au gratin, some more of those roquette leaves, even a dab of excellent mustard.

The cooking was impeccable. They made my steak medium-rare, just the way I had wanted it. Juicy, tender, flavourful, with the rare (read uncooked) flavour emerging only occasionally. The potatoes were well done too, evenly cooked and with loads of cheese.

Ananth enjoyed his fish too. It was firm and flaked beautifully at the touch of the fork, soft, delicately flavoured. Not overdone, the way some people cook fish and kill its flavour, and yet free of the unpleasant odour of undercooked fish.

This is not to say the cooking has uniformly been above par. Recently a friend went there and tried pork chop with spaghetti. The chop was too hard for their steak knives, even; she ended up eating only half of it. My personal experience, though, has always been pleasant. I got my food within reasonable time, the service was both prompt and attentive, and the atmosphere of the place was delightful. Now ah, if only, only they could do something about the size of their portions!

Rendang

2008-06-22T10:24:00.018+08:00

Good to be blogging once again, after a hiatus of two months to the day. In the last few weeks I went through a bout of intense work-related pressure. Now that it's over, I can wallow in the pleasure, the relief, of dwelling on non-curricular priorities. Priorities like food, sleep, and the gentle art of doing nothing. Cocooned in this glorious mellowness, my mind is drawn to one question that has vexed me ever since I came to Singapore - the dearth of good Malay food available here.

Before I landed here, I thought I had a clear idea of the various categories of Singapore cuisine. The dominant was (Singlicised) Chinese food, of which Peranakan or Straits-Chinese was a subset. Indian-inspired stuff like Roti Prata and all, I had discussed in this blog before. And then there was Malay food, with trademark preparations like Nasi Goreng and Otak-Otak.

[Aside: I once read in Readers' Digest about an Indonesian restaurant serving Nazi (sic) Goreng. Dunno, maybe they meant Hermann Goreng. Of course, Emperor Nazi Goreng has since been immortalised for building the Great Wall of China. To keep rabbits out. Seen the Bigpond commercial?]

Anyways, it took me a few months in Singapore to realise things didn't quite work that way. The Bukit Timah Campus cafeteria does not yet have a dedicated Malay food stall. The soup joint occasionally serves Laksa (which is apparently Peranakan in origin anyways). Along with the usual Roti Prata, Briyani (sic) rice and Thosai, the 'Muslim' stall sells Nasi Goreng and Nasi Lemak. (I tried their Nasi Lemak once. They handed me a plate with a fried chicken wing, a slice of cucumber, a spoonful of Sambal, and a portion of what looked, smelled and tasted exactly like plain rice - not even a whiff of coconut.)

At the Adam Road hawker centre, you have Peranakan stalls selling Nasi Lemak, Mamak stalls selling Nasi Goreng, Malay-run stalls selling both Nasi Goreng and Mee Goreng (traditionally a Mamak staple). On my trip to Penang I had encountered a Chinese-run shop at Batu Feringhi that sold Nasi Goreng and Mee Goreng (and nothing else, as it turned out).

I guess this blurring of categories is due to several reasons. One is that Nasi Goreng and Mee Goreng have become almost generic preparations across communities, ubiquitous all over the Straits area. Secondly, due to this very ubiquity, they represent a feasible method of broadening customer-bases beyond one's own ethnic group. When a Tamil shop-owner, for example, seeks custom from other communities, what easier a way than generating a fried rice or fried noodles alongside his Thosai and Briyani rice?

This leaves several questions unanswered, though. Like why it's so difficult to get anything even remotely out-of-the-way in Malay cuisine. At any hawker centre you get a truly bizarre variety of Chinese-inspired stuff - chicken rice, oyster omelette (discussed earlier), even pig's organ soup. Mamak stalls offer their own respectably diverse range. But Malay food? Try looking for a Rendang at a hawker centre.

It is all the more surprising because Rendang is not exactly unknown in Singapore. Most caterers have it as an option, as do several upscale'ish restaurants. Funnily enough, though it is considered a creation of the Minangkabau people (thus properly indigenous to the Archipelago), the Peranakan seem to've co-opted it into their cuisine. As this review, or even this one, will testify.

My first proper encounter with Rendang also took place in a Peranakan restaurant. For almost a year since my arrival, my sole contact with the stuff was through the Rendang Burger at Burger King! Then last month I discovered this place called Curry Wok. It's located on a little lane off Bukit Timah Road just before Coronation Plaza, ironically walking distance from the Uni. Three more eateries neighbour it. One sells Thai, the second Penang cuisine, both fairly classy joints. The third is a typical chicken-rice joint, somewhat run-down and distinctly downmarket.

Curry Wok is certainly not downmarket. It is bright, well-kept, cheerfully informal. The service is genuinely warm; they seem to enjoy chatting with customers. I had a long conversation with a lady called Cat (short for Catherine!), who took pains to find out what selections from the menu I was likely to enjoy.

The solicitousness was not uncalled for; the place did have a diverse menu. Peranakan dishes such as Curry Fish Head and Sambal Sotong predominated. In addition it had Chinese-leaning items like braised pork knuckle and Century Egg Tofu, hardcore Straits stuff like Sayur Lodeh (a coconut-and-vegetable stew), and even chicken curry, whose roots can be traced, somewhat tenuously, to India.

I wasn't bothered with any of this, not after spotting the Rendang. It was not cheap, at $8 a plate. I ordered it together with a helping of rice (a Dollar extra) and an iced tea (don't remember how much it cost). The size of the helping was a shocker when it arrived. It was disappointingly small, mingy, almost miniscule! and no amount of shredded green onion sprinkled on top could make up for it. I chose a picture with a fork and spoon so as to give an an idea of the scale involved.

Rendang involves meat (lamb or, as in this case, beef) made with coconut milk and spices. It is left to cook slowly for hours, till the liquids thicken just short of drying up completely. Something like the Bengali Kosha Mangsho (which is undergoing a revival lately).

The respective spices and condiments used make a world of a difference, though. Kosha Mangsho eschews coconut milk and uses Garam Masala, cloves and cinnamon, making for a sharper, spicier experience. Rendang, on the other hand, uses lemongrass and Galangal, which adds a note of freshness to the dark, meaty flavours of the beef and the fattiness of the coconut milk.

I must say the Rendang was pretty well cooked. The sharp taste of lemongrass did not predominate, nor was it smothered under by the coconut milk. The meat was tender, but not the gooey paste that inexperienced cooks turn Kosha Mangsho into. Notwithstanding its dryness, it was pleasant to eat with rice. The small helping was just about enough for the helping of rice given. It did not fill up the stomach, which made the walk back a pleasant experience.

Will I be going there again? I honestly don't know. For now, I'm trying to locate other places that serve Rendang of the same quality, but with bigger helpings for the price. I'm sure such things exist!

Of Street-Walkers and BBQ Crocodile - II

2008-04-22T11:19:00.026+08:00

[Continued from Part I]

The food, now. We trooped down the entire length of Lorong 11 right down to Geylang Road without finding a single interesting eating place. Our choices were circumscribed by our own predispositions. Jacinta flat-out refused to eat at a 'place that looked like a food court', as she put it. I could see her point; we'd all had a tough week or two, and pampering ourselves to something plushy, quiet and air-conditioned place seemed tempting. Of course, those notorious KTV Bars along Geylang Road fulfilled all three criteria, but the girls sitting outside them scared us. And they didn't seem to serve much food either, certainly not at reasonable prices.

Geylang Road had lots of other options, but figuring them out was tricky. Virtually everything was in Chinese - signboards, menucards displayed outside, even the waiters didn't speak much English. We went into a place only because a poster mentioned the figure $12.50 - what it sold for the price we had no idea, but it fitted our budget just right.

Turns out, it was a steamboat joint. An interesting one too. It had little burners fixed into the tables; the steamboats were placed on top of them and kept at boiling point. The food must have been spectacular - the place was quite crowded - but we none of us were in the mood for steamboat. Walking east along Geylang Road, we finally came across LDM Charcoal BBQ Restaurant at #260.

The place was unpretentious in terms of decor. Air-conditioned, true, but rather minimalist all the same. Its walls were painted bright red and grey, with virtually no ornamentation. High-backed faux-leather sofas imparted a measure of privacy. It was clearly very popular with the local clientele. Finding a table wasn't as difficult as in the steamboat place, but that could have been luck. Another thing - customers tended to linger over their meal, ordering second, third and even more helpings. Surely a good sign.

The clientele was interesting in its own right. Courting couples (the girls were clearly 'non-professional'), families, young professionals meeting up after work, students like us - in short, a very commonplace motley crowd gathered together for a relaxed evening in congenial, low-octane surroundings. Now what was this sort of crowd doing right next to the seediest aspects of Singapore? I have previously commented on the city's remarkable capacity for coexistence (as also Delhi's dismal record in this regard). This, I guess, is yet another example.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect about the restaurant were the tables. They were made of sheet metal, with little grills built in - rectangular troughs or wells set inside a raised border a couple of inches high. Once the orders began to be brought in, a guy would come with a pan of glowing coals, pour them into the trough, and switch on the concealed gas connection. (Yes, a fairly modern apparatus.) Metal stands about six inches high completed the apparatus.

The grills were meant more for giving finishing touches to the food, which would be brought from the kitchen already cooked. To keep the food warm, you placed it on the stand. And if you wanted an intense grilling, there were notches cut into the grill wall, into which you could slot the skewers barely an inch above the glowing coals.

Most of the stuff in the menu was sold by the skewer, thin like Satay sticks but made of metal. The waiter handed us what looked like an invoice, with the items printed on the left, and a space on the right where we need to fill in the quantities ordered. Beef, the cheapest, sold for about 60 Cents, mutton (leg meat specified) for about a Dollar, chicken for the same price, different cuts of pork between 80 c to $1.40. Crocodile tail meat was the most expensive on the bill of fare, selling at $2 a skewer.

Can't recall what all we ordered. Loads of beef, some mutton, some pork, and of course some crocodile. Washed it down with Yanjing Beer for Freddy and self, and Sprite for Jacinta. It was wonderful, every last morsel of it. The beef was slightly tough, maybe it had not been marinated too well. The pork was sprinkled over with chili flakes, which added the right amount of piquancy. None of the meat had that unpleasant aftertaste of vinegar so common to Delhi kabab-shops of the more indifferent variety. The beer was mediocre. Very little body to it, even though it was smooth.

I've been so often a victim of exotic food that didn't live up to its hype. The crocodile was a notable exception. It was white, soft, really soft, with a sweetish aftertaste. Had very little by way of spices added to it. The cooks must have simply cut it up into chunks, sprinkled a bit of salt, and let the meat's natural flavours do their job. Loved every bite of it!

One could discern a faint smell of fish. I've always been bothered by this smell; makes me tend to avoid fish despite being born and bred a Bengali. But in this case, the smell combined with the meat's natural sweetness as to actually make it a pleasant experience. We sprinkled cumin powder over it, which enhanced meat's flavour even more.

Along with the barbecued stuff, we had also ordered pork chops and pork-and-celery dumplings. (Look, this was a Chinese shop - they eat pork the way we brush our teeth.) The chops were slightly disappointing. They were excessively dusted over with pepper, tough, chewy, and quite devoid of flavour as such.

More interesting were the dumplings. I'm sure the Chinese parts of the menu had more detailed information about what sorts they were. Going by their shape and size, my guess runs towards Jiaozi than the more common Wonton. The meaty pork and the green, crunchy celery made for an interesting counterpoint. And they were moist. Possibly some of the juices sweated off the meat remained trapped in the dough casing. I'd say it's worth going back just to try those dumplings again.

For our last round, we ordered another round of crocodile (of course!), and half a dozen of what was described as Golden Dragon sausages. They were plump, fatty, and sweetish in flavour, and had deep fluted incisions cut into their sides. When eating the pork chops, Jacinta had collared the only knife and fork around. I was content to eat them with my hands, but poor Freddy didn't like the idea one bit. Finally he borrowed the cutlery from Jacinta, cut the meat into small pieces, and ate them with chopsticks.

When the sausages arrived, Jacinta once again helped herself to knife and fork, I ate them directly off the skewers. This time Freddy decided to innovate. He first slid the sausages off the skewers, then ate them whole using chopsticks. As far as I'm concerned, the sight of Freddy diligently, studiously chewing on sausages with chopsticks was the single most visually arresting part of the evening, bar none. Not even the girls outside came close.

Meal over, we were waiting at the bus-stop, idly looking over the 'working girls' standing there. By this time Jacinta was very curious about the whole business. Particularly how one approached and propositioned them. I said there was nothing to it, you need only ask. Jacinta immediately dared me to talk to one of them. So I went over to this girl standing by a 7-Eleven.

She wasn't especially tarted up, wore ordinary tight jeans and a pink striped t-shirt. For one ghastly moment I got scared she might not be a walker after all. I decided to play it safe and ask if she was waiting for someone. She looked up and asked me if I wanted some 'mazok mazok', which I surmised meant something salacious in Malay. I asked her how much, she said $50 for an hour. That's when the bus came by, so I excused myself.

Later on I felt bad about doing this. Prostitution is easily among the least attractive professions around. Calculated to erode one's social respect, and downright dangerous besides. The threats range across psychotic customers, pimps out for their cut, gangland bosses (I'm sure such things exist in Singapore), law enforcement officers, and the omnipresent risk of HIV and other diseases. And when some smart-aleck starts negotiating just for fun, it surely adds further insult to the insult, and injury, already heaped high on her.

Of Street-Walkers and BBQ Crocodile - I

2008-04-21T23:39:00.010+08:00

Geylang is famous for two reasons. It boasts some of the finest food in Singapore, and it happens to be the town's pre-eminent red-light district. I had heard about it within my first week in Singapore (it's one of the first things you get to learn about the place), but could manage a visit only now. My experience was both (hugely) entertaining and enlightening. What I saw there belied many cherished perceptions of Singapore, especially its claims to strict law-enforcement.

Going there was another impromptu decision. There were three of us sitting at a student lounge at a slightly loose end. We made a nice little United Nations - Freddy's from France and Jacinta from Uganda. Several options for dinner - Holland Village, Little India, Chinatown - were considered and rejected as too humdrum, when I thought of Geylang. Jacinta jumped at it, kept saying she'd never been there but always wanted to go. Freddy was initially apprehensive to the point of panic, but we managed to persuade him quickly enough.

The locality, properly called Geylang Serai, lies along either side of Geylang Road. One of the longest roads in Singapore, it runs from Changi in the east to Kallang towards the west. Little Lorongs or lanes lead off it, the odd-numbered ones northwards to Sims Avenue, the even-numbered ones the other way connecting with Guillemard Road. Our bus dropped us on Sims Avenue, right at the mouth of Lorong 11. (incidentally, both Sims Avenue and Geylang Road are one-way, running in opposite directons.) We made our way down the Lorong towards Geylang Road, and that's when the myths started crashing down.

#1: Prostitution in Singapore is both legal and strictly regulated

According to popular perceptions, the official view is that only licensed brothels can operate, and under strict legal supervision. Condoms are a must, girls are regularly made to undergo medical checkups. I'm not sure of the legal basis of these claims. Sections 146 and 148 of the Singapore Women's Charter prohibit pimping and brothels respectively.

In any case, that's only part of the story. A good deal of prostitution is illegal, and therefore unregulated. Homosexuality is officially illegal, but gay and particularly transsexual prostitution is rife - even in Geylang; Lorong 16 is a famous transvestite pick-up point.

A visit to the Rochor flea market took care of another few myths. Singapore's supposed to be tough on piracy, but there I saw both pirated DVDs and porn (another big official no-no) selling openly.

#2: Prostitution is restricted to the south of Geylang Road

Sources as diverse as Wikipedia and Makansutra assert so. One need spend only a few minutes in the vicinity to realise how hollow the claims are.

#3: Street-walking is illegal

Warren's Singapore presents a pretty picture of how business is done in officially-sanctioned brothels. They have their house numbers painted in red; some have red lanterns hanging outside; you go in and state your preferences, and so on. He admits street-walking exists, but claims they operate only along the even-numbered Lorongs.

No such luck. Lorong 11 was full of spectacularly-dressed women hanging out on the streets. Some ten of them were crowed together outside a nondescript eating-house in the middle of the street. This seemed peculiar, till I noticed the cheap hotel across the road.

Sitting outside the KTV bars on Geylang Road were some of the most stunning ladies I've ever seen. Stunning and aloof - they didn't even bother to look at us, not even at Freddy with his Caucasian looks and sandy-blond hair. Later we learnt they were BmD (Buy me Drinks) girls. Their job is to cuddle up to unsuspecting customers, get them to stand drinks, hint at good times once the bar closes, generally ensure the dupes keep spending, and disappear about twenty minutes before closing time.

#4: Soliciting is strictly, strictly prohibited

Correction: Soliciting is subdued, low-key, but there all right. While waiting for the food to come, I went out to take pictures of the restaurant's exterior. On the way back, I was accosted by three of 'em women. One started working on me, tried her damnedest to get me to have a 'massage'. (I have no idea if 'massage' meant just that or something more; didn't bother to find out either.) First she tried flirting, then holding my arm, then even flicking her hand over my chest!

Nothing doing. I explained I was with friends waiting for me in the restaurant. Didn't dare tell her I had exactly ten cents in my pocket. Sure, she'd have lost interest more quickly, but then she might have got her pimp to touch up my face just a little. I went back to the restaurant; the food arrived a few minutes later.

[Continued in Part II]

Bánh mì - II

2008-04-05T23:30:00.045+08:00

[Continued from Part I]

Baguette, or at least its Market Street outlet, is not much to look at. Its interiors, typical of small delis in Singapore's business district, seem designed with functional more than aesthetic considerations in mind. White plastic and stainless steel predominate, lending a faintly aseptic air.

As against this, I was mighty impressed with the service. Granted, it was late afternoon, I was the only customer present, and in all likelihood the staff-members were bored out of their collective skulls, but it still felt good. They were courteous throughout, especially the manager Andi (male, despite the 'i' at the end of the name). He was quite forthcoming about the shop and its origins, and humoured my strangest requests with aplomb.

Strange requests I made plenty. The regulation pork Bánh mì sells for $5.50, and you can have an extra slice of ham or helping of paté for a Dollar extra. So I asked for one of them regulation things, a Soda Canh (pronounced Soda Chanh), and a serving of paté on the side. Just wanted to check out what it tasted like. It took me a few seconds to get my request understood. But once it got through, Andi cheerfully scooped out a serving into a little sauce container.

After the meal, I requested an extra slice of ham, once again a cappella. There were three different kinds of ham on display - Asian, Marbled, and Vietnamese Red. I asked for a slice of Marbled. This time, a thoroughly amused Andi took out a slice of Marbled and one of Vietnamese Red, and explained the second was on the house.

The only time he didn't humour me was when I remembered the camera started taking pictures of the shop's interiors. He explained with a smile that company policy discouraged photography, so as not to reveal secrets to rivals. (Luckily I had taken one shot by then, and for some reason he didn't ask me to delete it.) I found this rather puzzling. So far it seems there's only one other Bánh mì shop in Singapore, and even they do it in a different style (I shall, of course follow up on this as soon as I can).

In any case, what will a rival learn from a mere photograph? As we shall see, the secret to a good Bánh mì lies not in its constituents but in the way it is put together. Moreover, most ingredients are widely known and easily googlable. Special ones are either proprietary formulations (like the paté) or difficult to source (the cold cuts), so reveal nothing about themselves to the observer or photographer. And for good measure, they all lie in full view of the customer, directly beneath the glass counter-top.

This arrangement involves several slots of varying length cut into a large stainless-steel shelf. Trays containing different ingredients sit on these slots. Somewhat reminiscent of a Subway outlet, except that all the stuff in view goes into about two or three varieties of sandwich. You don't need to waste any time over options here.

In the centre of this arrangement are the three largest trays, in which are kept the cold cuts mentioned earlier. They are flanked by tubs of paté and mayonnaise. To the rear are smaller compartments containing the garnishes - red chilli, pickle, and this green leafy thing Andi insisted on calling parsley even though it looked, smelled and tasted exactly like cilantro.

Bánh mì's deceptive simplicity finds reflection in the way it is put together. First, a small crusty French loaf about a foot long is fished out from the inner recesses of the shop. It is slit lengthwise almost right through, into which is smeared thick layers of paté and mayonnaise. Then they take a slice of each variety of cold cut, and fold them into the slit. Finally, it is stuffed with finishing touches like pickled carrot and Daikon (mooli), red chilli and cilantro.

Though this may not seem so big a deal, it actually calls for a high degree of skill. The ingredients are all strongly flavoured, and in very disparate ways. Only if they are added together in just the right proportion does the resultant appeal to the palate. Now and then they miss the mark. The Travelling Hungryboy sums up his experience in Baguette on the lines of 'close but no cigar'; apparently his sandwich was so thickly layered with mayonnaise that it masked the flavour of the other ingredients.

I was luckier. Don't wish to sound cynical, but when I had gone there they were almost out of mayonnaise, and had to keep scraping the bottom of the tub with a spoon when putting together my sandwich. Whatever be the reason, the sandwich I got was beautifully balanced in flavour.

In musical and culinary contexts alike, the adjective 'contrapuntal' bears well-defined meanings and demands similar exactitude in usage. I have often seen it applied weakly, even casually, in food articles. Perhaps this calls for a minor exegesis.

Musically, counterpoint involves two (or more) distinct melodies harmonically related to each other. Its aesthetic values depend on the fulfilment of three criteria. First, the individual melodies must be aesthetically pleasing in their own right. Second, they must be capable of coexisting as a polyphonic whole. In formal terms, this requires individual notes to be separated only by specific melodic intervals, such as the perfect fourth or fifth, or the major or minor third. Practically it means just that when they are placed together, they must not clash or yield a dissonant cacophony.

Third, it is also expected that the melodic lines must be dissimilar to one another. Replicating a single melody across two related keys is easy. But then the purpose of the exercise is lost. Its beauty lies in juxtaposing disparate, contrasting entities into a pleasing whole distinct from its constituents.

Similar considerations if not formal rules apply to food as well. Related flavours cannot comprise a counterpoint; only contrasting ones may. The Bánh mì at Baguette constituted an exemplary exercise in this regard.

The sweet-sour pickle contrasted with the meaty ham and paté. A buttery moist aftertaste was added by the mayonnaise (together with the paté); this also balanced the crustiness of the loaf. The resultant sweet-sour-umami was pierced through by the red chilli's piquancy. And finally, the considerable quantities of cilantro used made it an ingredient in its own right, and not just a garnish. Its distinctive fresh fragrance constituted an effective finishing touch.

This was all the more impressive because to be frank, the main ingredients were nothing so great individually. The ham slices I sampled were lean, but not as flavourful as the better hams I've tried. The paté was greasy and uh, not so high on flavour either. The exception was the bread - light, crusty and yet not too dry.

Even the Soda Canh was both offbeat and pretty good to drink. It was mainly made of soda, lime juice, sugar syrup and crushed ice garnished with a slice of lime - commonplace ingredients all. However, the addition of a sour plum added to it an interesting new twist . . . uh, imbued it with a 'contrapuntal' tartness. (And that's another thing - if the ingredients reflect unequal prominence, it is the secondary that provides the counterpoint to the primary, never the other way round.)

Bánh mì - I

2008-03-17T20:12:00.032+08:00

A small announcement: I've finally acquired a digital camera. It's a little Canon PowerShot A550, a point-and-shoot with no big-camera pretensions, but with surprisingly good image quality. Some reviews even recommend it as a backup for pro or advanced-amateur work.

Apart from other things, it's also useful for illustrating my posts to this blog. I've always wanted to do so - that is, insert pictures of the food I eat as well as the surroundings it's made and sold in. A fine idea, but I almost forgot about the camera the time I took it to Baguette, a little 'Viet Inspired Deli' in the Raffles Place area.

I have mentioned the place in an earlier post. On that occasion I was with a vegetarian friend. Since Baguette's vegetarian menu borders on the non-existent, we had to proceed elsewhere after a very small snack. But the place had intrigued me immensely, and I resolved to go back there when the opportunity arose.

Opportunities arise in curious ways. The other day I found myself at a loose end in the Raffles Place area, the result of a complicated set of circumstances involving a friend's office, a flight from Kuala Lumpur, and a misplaced library book. At a loose end and fairly miserable - still hadn't been able to trace the damn book! Baguette was situated close by, and seemed a good place to, if not drown my sorrows, then certainly smother them in gluttony.

The place advertises itself as a 'Vietnam-inspired deli'. It restricts its bill-of-fare to popular Vietnamese fast-food. Fried noodles of various sorts, Soda Canh, some desserts, chicken on a stick, and their signature dish, Bánh mì.

Bánh mì is a kind of sandwich, and therefore qualifies as 'fast food'. It's quick to prepare, doesn't involve any cooking as such. But for all that it is deceptively complex. Walter Nicholls of the Washington Post counts it among 'the simplest things (which) often are most satisfying.' I'd say that's as heavily off the mark as you can get. Convenient it may be, simple it is not. Not in origins, certainly not in taste. (Incidentally, the article goes on to call it 'one of the world's great sandwiches', and that I heartily concur with.)

We also find in the same article a brief backgounder to the Bánh mì's origins. When Vietnam was still a colony, its French residents tended to favour sandwiches made of crusty French bread. Wikipedia states these originated in the French 'Salad Sandwich', made of lettuce, tomato, sometimes other vegetables, and dressing served on a baguette.

The French sandwiches purveyed in Vietnam tended to use expensive imported ingredients - butter, pork paté, cornichon, ham and other cold cuts. Much of this was too expensive for the common Vietnamese populace. They began to indigenise the sandwich by using locally-sourced substitute ingredients, a trend that gained impetus after the French left in 1954.

Pickled carrot and Daikon (Mooli to Indians) took the place of cornichon. Local cuts of meat substituted for imported French ham. Even the paté was replaced by an indigenous variant. And most interestingly, they started slathering the bread with a sauce made of egg yolk, cooking oil or butter, and local spices. This they referred to both as 'butter' (in the local parlance) and 'Mayonnaise'; it is not clear which of these condiments the spread was intended to replace. New ingredients were also experimented with, such as seeded chili or Jalapeno peppers, and cilantro (good ol' Dhania to Indians).

South Vietnamese émigrés in the aftermath of the Vietnam War introduced the Bánh mì to the United States. There it gained a quick following, and spread to other parts of the Western world. Even Singapore's introduction to the Bánh mì lies in the West and not neighbouring Vietnam. The owner of the 'Baguette' chain was once a student in Canada, where he encountered this sandwich. He was so taken by it that he decided to start Bánh mì shops in Singapore, and even spent a couple of years researching on it.

Currently the chain comprises only two establishments, one in the Raffles City Shopping Centre near City Hall MRT; and the other, where I went, on Market Street near Raffles Place MRT.

Singapore boasts an impressive array of roads, places, buildings and institutions named after Sir Stamford Raffles - Raffles Avenue, Raffles Boulevard, Raffles City, Raffles Country Club, Raffles Hospital, Raffles Hotel, Raffles Lighthouse, Raffles Link, Raffles Place, Raffles Quay, Raffles Town Club, Stamford Road, Swissôtel The Stamford, and many more. They are mostly scattered at random across the old European quarter, lying somewhat proximate but not adjacent to one another.

To me, this smacks noisily of George Mikes. His 'How to Be an Alien' (available online here and here) contains a delightful chapter on British town planning. A short extract might might prove relevant:

Gather all sorts of streets and squares of the same name in one neighbourhood: Belsize Park, Belsize Street, Belsize Road, Belsize Gardens, Belsize Green, Belsize Circus, Belsize Yard, Belsize Viaduct, Belsize Arcade, Belsize Heath, etc.
Place a number of streets of exactly the same name in different districts. If you have about twenty Princes Squares and Warwick Avenues in the town, the muddle - you may claim without immodesty - will be complete.

Singapore's respect for its heritage extends to retaining street and building names that stem from its colonial past. So this Raffles-related chaos is a creation of its erstwhile imperial overlords, coincidentally Britons; the present government has merely left it untouched. Why does this not surprise me?

[Continued in Part II]

No Century - Bowled Out for a Duck (egg)

2008-03-07T09:49:00.017+08:00

You wouldn't call me a coward, would you? Not in culinary matters, at any rate. Avanthi (the wife) insists I have a dustbin for a stomach. Octopus, oyster, stingray, quail eggs, venison (coming soon) - I've tried them all and lived - lived? thrived, more like - thrived to tell the tale.

I've even told you about my previous experience with century egg. And a pleasant enough experience it was. I longed to try more of them eggs, but they proved surprisingly elusive. Other kinds of eggs - tea eggs, salted duck eggs - were widely available. But I couldn't find anyone who sold century egg. Even the Uni canteen stall didn't keep them any more; not cost-effective, it seems.

The other day I finally ran down some at the local Cold Storage. They were duck eggs too, even better. Much larger than the chicken version I had tried earlier, they came for about $2.90 for a packet of four.

I had initially planned to chop up one egg and add it to the ham sandwich I was making. But curiosity got the better of me, ultimately. I had to first hold it under running water a good while to wash away the coating of mud, rice husk and heaven knows what else. It peeled easily enough. The membrane under the shell didn't stick to the congealed albumen the way it does in your normal hardboiled (chicken) egg. But it was surprisingly tough and difficult to tear.

A preliminary nibble revealed the albumen to be essentially tasteless, true to form. It was also coloured a deep translucent brown, irregularly sprinkled over with those slivery snowflake or 'pine-branch' patterns which are a distinctive feature of century eggs. Lulled thus into complacency, I took a large bite out of the yolk, and nearly threw up.

As it was, the yolk wasn't much to look at. It was greyish green in colour, moist and pasty in texture. And it stank, reeked, niffed to the heavens. Remember chem lab? Hydrogen sulphide? 'Smells of rotten eggs'? That's exactly what it was. Felt like I was chewing through a Kipp's apparatus.

The assault on my olfactory nerves was so lethally intense, it masked out the other flavours of the yolk. I don't know if that was a good thing or not. Didn't give myself the opportunity to find out either. My enthusiasm for them eggs waned drastically round then. At the time of writing it's still reasonably dead.

I wonder what caused the extreme reaction this time. Was it because the egg in question was a duck egg? They are known to be stinkier than chicken eggs. But then again, so are they known to be richer in flavour. This number was nothing of the sort. It was quite bland apart from the smell, when you come to think of it. I only hope it was a one-off experience; the proverbial 'bad egg', so to speak. Maybe my future experiences, if any, will be both tastier and less noxious.

Which is all very fine, optimistic of the future and all. But what do I do with the remaining eggs?

Kari Raisu in Penang

2008-02-17T03:37:00.024+08:00

I've had several strange food experiences over the years. This one stands out, because it was the surrounding extraneous circumstances rather than the food itself that were so offbeat. How else can one describe sitting in a Chinese-owned shop in Malaysia, eating a preparation supposedly originated in India, and popularised in Japan by the British?

Like most all cuisines, Japanese food has also been susceptible to foreign influences. In the 16th century, the Portuguese introduced preparations like Tempura, which has since been absorbed completely into the Japanese culinary culture. Later imports, referred to collectively as 'yōshoku', have retained a trace of their alien identity even though their preparation has become heavily Japonicised.

Even their names are Western in origin, but with delightful Japanese twists. Examples include Furai ( i.e. 'fry' or deep-fried breaded seafood), Katsuretsu (breaded meat 'cutlet'), Omu Raisu (omelette and rice), Korokke (croquet), Hayashi Raisu (hashed-beef and rice) and, the choicest of the lot, Hamubagu or Hanbagu, which resembles a hamburger steak rather than that American patty-in-a-bun concoction.

Kari Raisu also belongs to this genre. The Meiji era, which began in 1868, marked the end of the nation's self-isolation policy and led to a considerable increase in contact with foreigners. Curiously, it is the British rather than Indians who are credited with the introduction of Kari Raisu (around 1910 according to some). That is why Japanese regard it as an Occidental dish despite its manifest Oriental roots. Since it was both tasty and easy to prepare, Japan's armed forces quickly adopted it, and so contributed significantly to its acceptance. Today, it is widely popular as a convenient fast-food.

It is simple to prepare, involving sautéeing meat with vegetables like onion, carrot and potato, and then adding readymade curry roux or powder. The result is a meat stew of sorts, which tastes Indian only faintly. It is naturally less spicier than its Indian counterpart, and also somewhat sweetish.

I had never encountered this dish in Singapore. Not in any Japanese restaurant, not in any food court, not even at the Japanese stall at our canteen. It was only during my recent trip to Malaysia, specifically on a day-long visit to Penang, that I chanced upon it.

From Ipoh, where we were staying, Penang is a two-hour bus ride. I woke up at about 4 AM, reached the Ipoh bus terminus by 5, and discovered the earliest bus left at 8. I hadn't had breakfast, neither did the terminus offer anything interesting. I wasn't worried, though, and contented myself with a packet of chips.

The bus was excellent, haven't seen its like in India yet. It had one row of two seats, and another of just one seat. Huge, spacious they were, with loads of legroom. And for a mere 17 Ringgits. So was the journey enchanting. We crossed small, intensely green limestone hills, over which the mists hadn't yet risen. Mist-shrouded trees I have seen so many times before; mist-shrouded coconut trees were a new experience.

Presently the hills gave way to vast, flat plains, just as verdant. All in all a happy, contented land, I couldn't help thinking. True, it lacked Singapore's smug prosperity. But neither did it exhibit the soul-destroying deprivation one witnesses in every corner of India.

At Butterworth, I had to take the ferry across the Straits to Pulau Penang. A huge queue at the ferry terminus precluded eating anything there. By the time I reached the island, it was nearly 11 o'clock. I did see a few eating joints, but they were all closed.

But eating wasn't my priority just then, beaches were. I asked a taxi driver, and he offered to take me to Batu Ferringhi for 30 Ringgit. I said I'll walk. He was astounded, more or less screamed it was 45 minutes by car. I went back to the bus station near the ferry jetty, and caught this excellent air-conditioned RapidBus to the beach for only 2 Ringgit. I was still not terribly hungry.

The taxi driver wasn't joking, though. On and on, the bus went. It passed several exciting food joints on the way. I made a mental note to check them out on my return. We reached Batu Ferringhi at about a quarter to twelve. The beach was beautiful, if a bit crowded. Nothing much to do there - the water-sports and all were well beyond my pocket. At one o' clock I decided to head back.

I had three options food-wise: go back to town, head for the KFC and suchlike other joints in the vicinity, or try a local joint. I chose option 3. This shack just off the beach boasted an elaborate menu, but virtually everything was out of stock. I ordered a Mee Goreng and sat back. Fifteen minutes later, they had just taken the meat out of the freezer. I said I'll come back some other day, and sprinted to the bus stop. Had just about enough time to buy a packet of nuts when the 1.30 bus back to town arrived.

By this time I was pretty hungry. We passed several eateries, but I couldn't check them out. I needed to go somewhere close to the jetty, otherwise transport back would have been a problem. Finally, I got off the bus at a street called Lebuh Chulia, which I knew was close to the jetty.

Penang is considered the culinary capital of Malaysia, and the sheer range of eateries along the Lebuh lends credence to this belief. Unfortunately, nobody had told me the entire god-forsaken city hibernates during the day. Some six of seven restaurants I went to, and every single one of them was closed. Not even a glass of water. I have no idea what other tourists do. Cook their own food likely as not, I shouldn't wonder.

One ramshackle Chinese place offered me some five-six varieties of beer, but nothing else. After much persuasion, the shopkeeper sold me a packet of peanuts for a Ringgit. These peanuts turned out to be unshelled, and so completely tasteless that I ended up chucking away half the packet even though I was starving by then. The beer was excellent, incidentally. Skol, it was called, originally brewed in Linz but now manufactured in Malaysia by Carlsberg. Light, not too strongly flavoured, and ice-cold, just the thing to have on a hot afternoon. It did nothing to assuage my hunger, though.

Finally I came across this small hotel. It had an elaborate glass front with a faux waterfall of sorts, which had me apprehensive about prices. I needn't have worried - it turned out to be just as reasonable as most everything else in Malaysia. It boasted three separate menus, featuring Japanese, Western, and local dishes. And they were all priced between five and twenty Ringgits. No, make that eight and eleven Ringgits; only the Japanese menu was being serviced at that time of the day, and that too just two items. I forget what the other one was, but Kari Raisu seemed the more filling.

I had a bad moment when the lady who took my order said it will take fifteen to twenty minutes to prepare. To while away the time I ordered an iced White Coffee that the northern part of Malaysia (specifically Ipoh) was famous for. The lady handed me a mug of whitish liquid, steaming hot. I was too tired to argue, so resigned myself to it. It was no great shakes, frankly. Tasted just like very milky coffee. Later on I found out that the name 'White Coffee' is a misnormer, and that Ipoh's famed product yields a brew just as brown as any other coffee. I still wonder what exactly that lady had served me that day!

The Kari Raisu arrived in little over ten minutes. And it was eminently edible. In the fragrant brown gravy I could detect apples in addition to the de rigueur potato, carrot and onion. The curry roux or powder did taste faintly of home, mainly due to the cumin and coriander in it. And the meat quality was excellent, not at all hard or chewy. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a fairly pleasant dining experience, nothing terribly memorable. To a starving man like self, it made all the difference between life and death.

The return journey was harrowing. I had to wait about half an hour at the ferry jetty, the bus I had bought tickets for didn't turn up for forty-five minutes, and the very dense traffic on the highways added at least an hour and a half to the journey time. Nevertheless, it was memorable in its own way, due mainly to the Ramly Burger I ate at a rest area.

Ten Quail Eggs, Fried

2008-02-15T18:21:00.018+08:00

Shocking, the way I've neglected this blog. Nearly four straight months without a post. Lots occurred in the interim, though. Term papers, other course requirements, then I went home to India, got married, returned and immediately plunged willy-nilly into the maelstrom of work backlog, that sort of thing. I've had a few food adventures too in the interim. Not very many in India, some in Singapore. And a couple in Malaysia, where I found myself rather unexpectedly earlier this month.

My friend Arijit's in-laws live in Ipoh, a quiet, verdant, laid-back town surrounded by limestone hills. So this bloke decides to spend the Chinese New Year holidays there, asks me to come along saying we'll drive down, and then quietly buys flight tickets for the entire lot. Ouch! I couldn't even pay him back. When I suggested the idea, he claimed the tickets were part of his frequent flyer benefits, and so didn't cost him anything.

Malaysia is utterly charming. Much more spacious and relaxed than Singapore, it also offers more offbeat variety. For example, I haven't yet found a second-hand bookshop in Singapore, but came across one in my second visit to Ipoh Parade Mall. It even had a stack of P G Wodehouse novels (Wonders of Wonders!), of which I bought two for four Ringgits total. I also had a wonderful chat with the owner, a gentleman of Tamil descent called Raj.

Ipoh Parade Mall is also where I encountered quail eggs. The first time we went there was on the day of the New Year. Most shops were closed, but several stalls had been laid out along the wide central corridors. The food stalls mostly sold preparations not commonly found in Singapore. Arijit's wife Smita introduced me to Mango Rice, just sweet glutinous rice topped with mango. Delicious, it was!

The quail eggs were the most interesting item on offer, of course. I had seen them sold raw in Singapore's departmental stores. Tiny things, barely an inch across, coloured a speckled light brown. They were reasonably priced too, but I could never muster the courage to buy some and cook them in our rather primitive pantry. This was the first time I encountered the cooked product.

Taking up most of the stall's main table was this large black heated dish. It was pitted all over with little circular depressions about an inch across (I counted twenty-one), somewhat like a golf ball laid out flat. The stall-owner cracked an egg into each pit, its contents fitting snugly into the hollow space. When all the pits were filled, he covered the plate with a glass lid, and let the eggs cook on their own accord.

Soon they were done just so, the whites opaque and firm, the yolks orange-yellow and slightly runny. He then gently prised out the eggs, tossed them into styrofoam boxes, and seasoned them with pepper and a brownish sauce. I initially thought the latter was Soy Sauce, but its taste turned out to be quite different; lighter on the palate, but very salty.

The rest of the gang point-blank refused to try the eggs; Smita said they were 'too eggy'. And true enough, despite their small size they were intensely flavoured. Not the whites, though, which didn't taste much different from their chicken counterpart. But the yolks were different. In texture they were more viscous than the usual eggs fried sunny-side-up. And they had a strong but very enjoyable taste - think egg yolk crossed with liver.

Unbelievably, these absolutely delectable morsels sold at five Ringgits (little more than two Singapore Dollars) for a a box of ten! That day I polished off a carton in no time. I was keen to go for seconds, but we were already late, there was a fair crowd milling around the stall, and the owner had inexplicably disappeared.

The following day I went to the Mall alone; that's when I discovered the second-hand bookshop. I started out with twenty eggs, and then, on impulse helped myself to ten more while going out. Surprisingly, this binge caused no unpleasant after-effects at all, which was very lucky since I took a trip down to Penang the next day.

Pau Buns, and a Romp through History

2007-10-29T16:32:00.002+08:00

Thanks to old school buddy and fellow-blogger Pooja Sharma, I have come to realise what an utter dolt I am. My post on the Pau bun elicited the following comment from her:

surprised to find that there are paus in singapore, and that little detail about them having both yeast and baking powder.
and here I thought it was only maharashtrians who were crazy abt it!

All this while I had taken it as given that the origins of the Pau lay in China. Wikipedia claims the Baozi was invented by the military strategist Zhuge Liang circa 2nd Century AD.

By highlighting its phonetic similarity with an Indian bread, Pooja left me wondering how I could have missed such a blindingly obvious possibility. Namely, that there's more to the Pau story than just blithely attributing it to China. And on reflection, several considerations did occur to make me reconsider this attribution.

Technical ones, for a start. As mentioned, Baozi are made with both yeast and baking powder. The use of yeast as a leavening agent originated in Egypt, at least 5000 years ago. It spread across the Western world; Romans, Jews, medieval Europeans all adopted bread as their staple source of cereal. A whole lot of material on the topic is available on the net, notably here, here and here. But strangely, none of these articles I saw carried any mention of yeast being used in China.

Baking powder is much, much more recent (and occidental) in origin. Some experiments date back to the early 19th century, but it was only in 1843 that Alfred Bird succeeded in developing the substance in its modern form. Clearly then, neither yeast nor baking powder were traditionally in use in China. So where did the Baozi come from?

That's when etymology, the second consideration, kicks in. All my life I have been accustomed to referring to bread as 'Pau-ruti'. In my native Bangla, it is a generic term denoting leavened bread of all sorts. In the western part of India, 'Pao' or 'Pav' means both bread in general, as well as a specific kind of bread, a very soft white segmented loaf with a thin, golden crust. In virtually no other part of India do we come across this word or its variations. In Hindi, bread is known as Double Roti.

The key lies in the Portuguese connection. 'Panis', the Latin for bread, finds reflection in several European languages, notably French ('Pain'), Italian ('Pane'), Spanish ('Pan') and, crucially, the Portuguese 'Pão'. Indeed, the Pao of western India is widely acknowledged to be a legacy of Portuguese settlers of Goa and the Konkan coast. Moreover, a sizeable population of Portuguese and their descendants existed and still exist in and around Calcutta. There's every reason to believe they were responsible for introducing into Bengali culture both the bread and the term.

What about China? Nestorian Christianity reached its shores for certain by the 7th Century AD. In 1271, Kublai Khan sent word to the Pope through Marco Polo asking for a hundred European teachers of science and religion sent to China; this led to the advent of the Franciscans. More interestingly, in 1552 the Jesuit St Francis Xavier came to the island of Shangchuan, but died there before he could reach the mainland. (His body was later shipped to Goa.) This paved the way for the Jesuits, who established a strong presence there in the 16th and 17th Centuries.

Does this mean the Baozi also came to China through the Portuguese, like the Japanese Tempura? Not really. These indications are too tenuous. Moreover, Wikipedia mentions that the term 'Baozi' to denote filled buns found favour during the Song Dynasty, (960-1279 AD) prior to the reign of Kublai Khan. (About Zhuge Liang and his invention, we'll come to it later.)

At the same time, the connections cannot be wished away entirely. Perhaps yeast and baking powder were later innovations, and the proto-Baozi steamed stuffed bun predates them by centuries. In which case, how did the name come about?

A net search suggested an interesting possibility. I came across a scholarly article on the Salar people and their dramatic traditions (enthusiastic readers may find it here and here). The Salar are a Turkic-speaking community living in eastern Qinghai, who claim their ancestors migrated from Samarkand in the 13th century. A significant part of their cultural traditions, notably a type of play known as Döye Oyna, is associated with this migration.

One line of the play goes: 'In Samarkand, our camel ate hard bread and stuffed dumplings. Our camel shits walnuts after eating dates, stuffed dumplings, and fried bread.' [p. 294, or page 8 of the PDF document] Of interest to us are the translated food terms inserted parenthetically in the original - fried bread, referred to as 'Sanzi' in the Salar language; and stuffed dumplings, called 'Baozi' in Chinese and 'Bozi' in Salar.

This leads to two related conjectures: One, that stuffed dumpling of a type similar to the Baozi was popular in Samarkand; and two, that the term 'Bozi' entered the Salar language prior to the migration. In which case, could it be that the Baozi came to China via Samarkand? Or at least the word 'Baozi'? Maybe at a later stage it associated with local steamed-bun traditions to yield the Baozi as it is known today?

The Wikipedia article on the Mantou offers further clues in support of this contention. As mentioned before, the term 'Baozi' gained popularity during the Song Dynasty. Prior to it, 'Mantou' was used throughout China to denote both filled and unfilled buns. Moreover, its usage is restricted to northern China only. Southern China follows the practice of referring to both filled and unfilled buns as 'Mantou'. These facts are entirely consistent with the hypothesis that the term 'Baozi' was introduced to China from the north, probably through ethnic migration.

The article also mentions that Zhuge Liang is credited with inventing Mantou rather than Baozi stricto sensu. It suggests the word 'Mantou' arose out of certain legendary associations; interested readers may read it up for themselves.

Ironically, while our conjecture says the Baozi came to China from the west, the indigenous Chinese Mantou has spread all over Asia, including Korea, Japan, and Central Asia (Turkey, Afghanistan and so on). Even the cuisine of Uzbekistan, home to Samarkand and Bukhara, features steamed, filled, unleavened dumplings called Manty.

And finally, the 'Pau' of Malaysia and Singapore is phonetically more proximate than the Chinese 'Bao' to variants of the Latin 'Pan-', particularly the Portuguese 'Pão'. It is also a fact that the Portuguese had a significant presence there for a long time; in 1511 it conquered Malacca and held on to it till 1641.

Colonisation was inevitably followed by cultural, even culinary interchanges. This did not happen in a straightforward west-to-east manner, as one would have thought. As this very interesting article on Goan cuisine points out:

Goan food today is a fusion of many cuisines, and in many ways it brought the colonizer and the colonized closer. Goan food drew on different influences - Arab, Konkan, Malabar, Malaysian, Portuguese, Brazilian, French, African and even Chinese.

It also claims the Goan dessert Bebinca is a modified version of the Bibingka of Malaysia, Philippines and Indonesia.

So do we have another conjecture now, that the Baozi came to the Straits from China, but subsequent interaction with the Portuguese and other Europeans had its name purified to the more pristine Pau? Maybe, maybe not. In either case, the range of possibilities we explored in this post only serves to emphasise the complexities involved in the dynamics of cultural, and culinary, transmission and assimilation.

Bulgogi at Lau Pa Sat

2007-10-18T12:20:00.001+08:00

Yesterday my friend Onkar and I were in the Raffles Place area when hunger pangs struck. We had the choice of either the upscale Boat Quay, or that magnificent hawker center at Lau Pa Sat a short walk away. Lau Pa Sat won; not a difficult choice for the likes of us perennially stony-broke.

On the way, we stopped by at a little shop called Baguette, which described itself as a Vietnam-inspired deli. They had some interesting items on the menu - pork noodles, Bánh Mì (Vietnamese baguette sandwich), Soda Chanh. Unfortunately nothing vegetarian, which created problems for Onkar. I decided to try out a snack nonetheless. Something called 'Chicken on a stick', selling for a Dollar and a half.

This turned out to be about three or four chunks of chicken on a thin bamboo skewer. Like a Satay, except that the meat pieces were a good deal bigger, closer in dimensions to the Tikka one gets in Delhi. Its taste was quite different from either, though. They used a peanut-based sauce, slightly sweetish. What they added to it I have no idea, but it made for a flavour I had never encountered till then. Really, really good - I plan to go there again as soon as possible!

Arrived at Lau Pa Sat, Onkar was mighty relieved. About the first stall we saw was not only called Dosa Deli, it even advertised itself as Pure Vegetarian. And they have a strange system of payment. "We trust you - pay what you think is fair" or some such guff. Onkar's conscience goaded him into paying seven Dollars for some Roti and Sabzi. I guess that's how it makes for a viable business proposition; for every smart aleck who underpays, it gets several anxious customers who pay extra out of abundant caution.

The Korean stall I went to had no such hangups. It offered several types of plated meals, with the prices marked out clearly. I decided on the famed Beef Bulgogi selling $6.80. A longish wait ensued; Onkar had finished half his meal by the time it was ready.

Now I had an idea that Bulgogi involved grilled meat, onions and stuff, served dry. What they gave me could be a regional variant. The meat, onion and all were placed in a large bowl with a lid, and covered with so much stock it seemed more like a stew than a grill. It came with a little bowl of Kimchi, and a helping of rice.

And the stuff was literally boiling hot. The phrase "bul go gi" translates as "fire meat", and this number sure lived up to its name. The meat scalded my tongue so badly I had to let it go, poke around with my chopsticks, blow into the bowl, then sit around awhile and hope for the best.

Once temperatures had subsided somewhat, the stuff was delicious! The meat was the juiciest I have tasted so far in Singapore. Minimal spicing and allowed the meaty flavours to predominate. Apart from onion and a few shards of some green vegetable, the dish also contained some chewy white noodly things, quite nice. And the broth was simply divine. It was very balanced, strongly but not excessively tasting of meat.

And oh yes, there was hardly any oil used in the preparation, apart from the fat melted off the meat. As a result, it was light on the stomach even though the quantity given bordered on the huge.

Pau Buns

2007-10-13T07:32:00.001+08:00

The Pau is an interesting variation on the bun theme. It is singular that it uses both yeast and baking powder; people are never sure whether to classify it as a bread or a cake. Then, it is almost invariably steamed and not baked. This imparts to it its white colour as well as its distinctive flavour.

The origins of the Pau bun are said to lie in China. At least, that's what Wikipedia claims. Be that as it may, the Pau has spread all over south-east Asia now. And remarkably, it has become ubiquitous to the cuisine of all the regions it has touched. As a self-contained breakfast, a side-dish for lunch or dinner, or a random snack, its popularity remains unrivalled all over south-east Asia.

Singapore is no exception. You get Paus most wherever you get food. You name it - shopping malls, hawker centres, departmental stores, petrol pumps, even the NUS Bukit Timah canteen (the Kopi Tiam counter) for good measure. Indeed, apart from sausages and french fries sold at the 'Western' counter, they are virtually the only quick-bites one can get there. And very convenient too - if you have a class to catch in ten minutes, a couple of Paus and a coffee does you nicely. You can even carry the stuff into class and eat there. Most professors don't seem to mind.

In any case, the minimal waiting time involved is certainly a relieving factor. Not only are they pre-cooked, usually you needn't even wait for the shopkeeper to serve you. They are stored in a hot-case in the front of the shop. All you need to do is make your choices, then open the case and pick up your selections with a pair of tongs.

The cases are quite interesting in themselves. They are roughly cubical in shape, with a large glass door hinged at the side. When you open it you see several shelves that slant downwards away from the opening. The buns are slid into the opening arranged in neat orderly rows, each row dedicated to a single variety. Little stickers on the door glass indicate the varieties. For added precaution in case of a mix-up, they are coded with little dots of food colouring on top.

I just love the taste of Pau. The pristine whiteness of its colour reflects somewhere in its taste too. Moist, faintly sweetish, understated, almost (but only almost) bland. Somewhat like Idli but more light and airy, thanks to the baking powder and yeast. Forms a wonderful base for the more strongly flavoured fillings.

The varieties of Pau available in Singapore serves as an illustration of how cultural factors influence food. I don't suppose the basic preparation methods vary from those followed in China. But the fillings are strongly reflective of local tastes and norms. In deference to the significantly Muslim population (even many of its purveyors are ethnic Malays), chicken (or 'ayam') comprises the most popular filling. The famed Char Siew Pau and other pork variants are rarities.

Honey chicken Pau is a popular variant, but I'm not too fond of it. The ones I tried were a bit too sweet. Doesn't go too well for breakfast, especially not with very strong black coffee. Teriyaki chicken Pau is a far better alternative. My favourite is the black-pepper chicken variant. It's mildly spiced, dusted over with black pepper, and has a creamy texture to it.

Veggie variants include those with lotus-stem and yam fillings. The Curry Pau is another cross-cultural product, this time bearing strong Indian influences. Its stuffing is what we'd call a standard Alu ki Sabzi, lots of potato spiked with Garam Masala and red pepper powder. It makes for a surprisingly effective combination, and is one of the most popular varieties.

Roti John

2007-09-20T15:23:00.001+08:00

There is a cuisine prevalent in Malaysia and Singapore known as 'Mamak cuisine'. The term 'Mamak' refers to the Indian community in Malaysia, mainly Muslims from Tamil Nadu. In fact, even the word is reportedly a corruption of Mama, the Tamil for maternal uncle.

Given its provenance, it hardly comes as a surprise that much of the cuisine derives from Indian food, with interesting localised twists added on. Popular items include Thosai (identical to our Dosa), Murtabak, a thin Paratha stuffed with egg and minced meat (somewhat similar to the Bengali Mughlai Paratha), and the composite Rojak. And, of course, Roti Prata.

Roti Prata can be considered the genre's signature dish. It is uncannily similar to the Parotta one gets in south India; rectangular, flaky and brittle. Prata joints usually sell several versions of this, including garlic, banana, mushroom, cheese, even chocolate, besides something called Italian Prata made of cheese, tomato, mushroom, mutton and heaven knows what else.

[By way of an aside, due to this Islamic predominance, some even refer to the cuisine as 'Muslim' food. Which is rather silly, since 60% of the Malaysian population happens to be Muslim. In fact, Article 160(2) of the Malaysian Constitution characterises ethnic Malays in terms of inter alia their belief in Islam. Or perhaps 'Muslim food' happens to be a uniquely Singaporean term.]

Prata Cafe on Evans Road, also called Mr Prata, is one of the better-known Prata shops in Singapore. I recently discovered this lovely article on it. Of especial interest was an account of its origins. The founder's partner once overheard some students in conversation. They were complaining about the lack of eating places near Evans Lodge, the students' residence they were staying in. His partner persuaded him to open an outlet right next to Evans Lodge, where it still stands.

It so happens, these days I live in Evans Lodge myself. Prata remains the only feasible dinner destination in the vicinity. The NUS canteen closes by 6.30 and the nearest other eating place is at Adam Road, a good fifteen minutes' walk away. Prata boasts the virtue of remaining open 24 hours.

Frankly this fact, coupled with the lack of alternatives in the vicinity, are the main reasons why we frequent it. I've never been impressed by the food. What's more, in contrast to most of Singapore, the place exudes a dowdy, faded air, just as Evans Lodge itself does.

By and large, I confine myself to the simpler Pratas, easy on stomach, palate and wallet alike. The first time I ate there, I had asked for garlic Prata. Reasonably tasty, but a bit pricey at a Dollar and a half. Thanks to a useful tip-off from my roommate Ananth, these days I usually ask for Plain Prata. At eighty Cents it offers much better value for money. Two of these nicely fills you up; three will have you too stuffed to get up properly, even. It comes with as much Dal and fish-head curry as you want (just the curry, no meat), so as such there's no need to order something to eat the Pratas with.

The other day, however, I decided to be adventure. After going through the menu several times, I decided on this peculiarly-named confection called Roti John. Unlike the other things I've talked about, Roti John has its origins in Singapore. The story goes, this guy called Shukor ran a stall at Clementi. Some European customers of his would regularly order omelette with a hunk of French bread on the side. One day he experimented with adding the bread to the omelette while it was frying, and then embellishing it with a special chili sauce. And that's how it was born, Roti John! In Singapore-speak, Caucasoids are referred to by the generic term 'John', which clues us into how the name came about.

The Roti John I got at Prata was somewhat different. I ordered the mutton version, priced at three Dollars. They gave me a hunk of French bread slit on the side, with a layer of mutton inside the slit, no chili sauce, and no egg (omelette or otherwise). It did have lots of mayonnaise on top, though. Now mayonnaise is pretty much a standard accompaniment to Roti John, but this was different. They had it piped to read 'Mr Prata', just like the icing on fancy cakes!

Nice to look at, but didn't do much for the taste. As such I wasn't terriby impressed. My biggest grouse was about the mutton filling. It was bland, and tasted strongly of turmeric. I suspect they had simply taken out some meat from the mutton curry, shredded it, then stuffed it into the bread. The lack of chili sauce deprived it of much needed zing. Even the bread was on the dry side. The mayonnaise was nice; thick and creamy. But that alone was not enough to single-handedly redeem the entire preparation.

The verdict? Average. Pleasant to eat, filled up my stomach and all. The quantity was meagre; for three Dollars I expectd a lot more stuff. More significantly, it was plain mediocre cooking. Nothing remotely inspired about it.

FoodScapes at the University - II

2007-09-15T03:55:00.001+08:00

[Continued from Part I]

Next to the Chinese stalls, the one serving Western food is my favourite. This one does a brisk trade in breakfast, heavier meals, and side dishes. Unlike the Chinese outlets, where mix-'n-match rules, here a plated system prevails. You ask for various 'sets' - pork chop set, fish and chips set, bacon and egg set, and so on.

These sets comprise elaborate affairs. Apart from the main item as advertised, they include some cole slaw, a spoonful of baked beans, a fairly greasy fried (bread) roll, and a huge quantity of french fries. One has the option of asking for rice instead of this paraphernalia. I happen to be inordinately fond of fries, so haven't yet tried this last option. The breakfast platters are smaller, limited to baked beans and a reduced amount of fries.

The beef steak set represents possibly the best value for money. A decent-sized steak plus trimmings at $3.80 for NUS students, $4 for outsiders. The meat is excellent - juicy, succulent, and not a bit chewy. One can cut it easily with the usual cafeteria knives, mildly serrated - no need for steak knives..

The cooking is, well, tasty but functional. 'Well done' is the only option you get. But this lives up to its name. I haven't once found it the slightest bit overcooked. The flavours and texture of the meat remain intact. It comes smothered in a lovely brown gravy. Mopping it up with bits of fries or roll is a pleasure in itself.

My personal favourite, however, is the grilled fish. It's the most expensive single item on the bill of fare, at $4 for students and outsiders alike (the mixed grill, which contains several sorts of meat, is pricier at $7). They give you a large piece of dory fillet, once again of excellent quality - no smell at all. It is grilled so that the outside becomes mildly crispy, and the flesh tender as you please. Then they add lemon-butter sauce to it. I suspect they use Calamansi lime for the sauce. I've detected its distinctive aroma in the sauce once or twice.

I've tried out several other things, including fish and chips, chicken chop, and pork chop. Excellent stuff, all of them. The crumb-fried fish is surprisingly non-greasy, and the pork largely lean. Incidentally, the chicken chop and pork chop come covered in the same brown gravy as the steak.

Breakfast here is disappointing. I tried it only once; ordered bacon and eggs. For two Dollars I got two skinny overfried rashers and an inspid egg, along with the usual accoutrements.

The stall also features several side-dishes. I haven't tried the chicken sausage at 50 Cents each, but the huge load of fries they give for a Dollar is something I always look forward to. Together with the chili sauce on offer as a dip, it makes for a most delightful snack.

[Continued in Part III]

Rational Social Choice: Grilled Stingray and Tiger Beer

2007-09-08T18:28:00.001+08:00

Prof Bruce Chapman, University of Toronto, basks in the dubious distinction of teaching the most incomprehensible course I have ever come across. 'Rational Social Choice and the Law', as it was called, involved Arrow's Theorem, sundry Pareto principles (efficiency and otherwise), bits of game theory, and course-material only knows what else, together with their possible applications to law. And since the course was an 'intensive', he was required to teach all this within three weeks, three lectures a week, three hours a lecture. Twenty-seven hours of classes in total.

This thankless task he managed to pull off with élan. He had the subject at his fingertips, came to class meticulously prepared, and hid his considerable scholarship behind a wry, low-key, unobtrusive teaching style that we all warmed to. On the last day of class, someone (Pavandeep, I think) had the idea of going out for dinner with him. I for one agreed with alacrity.

At last count there were six of us: Pavandeep, Emmanuel (of century egg fame), Shang and Chin Yong, all local residents; and Bruce and self, both rank outsiders. The Singapore veterans collectively voted for Lau Pa Sat, and I have to hand it to them. Seldom have I seen a decision that reflected such good taste.

For one, the place itself is utterly charming. Over a hundred years old, it was originally a wet market before its heritage value and tourist potential had it turned into a food court. The building is typical of Victorian architecture of a certain sort, once reviled but now recalled with nostalgia. Cast-iron columns, high vaulted ceilings, and a red tiled roof surmounted by a cream clock tower - an airy, gracious structure. And like most things in Singapore, impeccably maintained.

Indeed, the market looks hardly a few years old, and there's a story to it. It was dismantled in the 1980s to make way for an MRT underground line. The entire process was monitored by computer, and the important parts, especially those wonderful cast-iron columns, were carefully inventorised. When the MRT work was completed, the market was re-assembled and restored to its former elegance. As good as old, so to speak! I guess that's what they call heritage conservation in these parts.

Boon Tat Street runs alongside it. Every evening it is barricaded, and tables and chairs set up all over it. So one has the option of eating under the stars while taking in what must be a uniquely Singaporean vista - hulking glass-and-steel skyscrapers in the background, their dimmed lights glowering sulkily, fronted by a languid Victorian edifice that looks as spanking new as they do.

We had loads of fun getting to Lau Pa Sat. Chin Yong, who was driving, took a wrong turn and found himself trapped in a maze of one-way streets. To get us out, he managed to break more traffic rules than the average Singaporean breaks in a year. We nipped out of side alleys, took illegal turns, and aggressively cut across lanes. This guy in a passing Mercedes even flashed us an upraised forefinger. Miraculously we weren't fined even once, but by the end we were all reduced to such helpless giggles we could barely walk. Somehow we found parking space, trooped into Boon Tat Street, and settled down at an open-air table with Satay and that lovely, lovely chilled Tiger beer.

To my untutored palate, the Satay seemed above average. Tender, meaty and succulent, both the chicken and the mutton versions were. Don't know what marinade was used, but it softened the meat without unduly affecting their intrinsic texture. Personally, I find the best part of Satay to be the sweetish sauce they brush over the meat. It first absorbs smokiness from the charcoal flame, then it caramelises in the intense heat and fuses to the meat. The sweetness is tempered by the peanut sauce, shredded onion and cucumber, and bland rice-cakes.

The Satay comprised the prelude to the pièce de résistance, grilled stingray (the same sort as killed Steve Irwin). Considered one of the glories of Singapore and reportedly a speciality of Lau Pa Sat, it is usually cooked in banana leaves and coated with Sambal. My guess is, every chef has his own secret Sambal recipe to coat stingray with. This one was just perfect. Unlike most Sambals I've encountered, it was only mildly spicy. Even Bruce, unused to chili as he was, thoroughly enjoyed it. The basil and lime in it gave off a lovely moist fragrance, which complemented the flavour of the fish.

Complemented, because so did the stingray exude a moist aroma of its own, deriving largely from the banana leaves it was cooked in. And a delectable piece of fish it was! As fresh as any I have seen, it didn't smell the slightest. In fact, it didn't taste like seafood at all. Juicy, soft, delicately flavoured and mildly smoky it was; flaked at the touch of the fork. Beneath the flesh lay the hard carapace, from which we scooped out the meat onto our own plates. Stingray on the half-shell, one can call it.

To heighten the flavour, we squeezed lime over it. Lime as in the Calamansi lime you get in Singapore - dark green, with a tough, leathery skin, and a sweet-sour flavour and fragrance so subtle that the lime back in India seems like citric acid. Of course, what really enhanced the flavour was another round of Tiger beer, let's face it! Loads of beer, a stunning backdrop, company as diverse as it was convivial, and that terrific grilled stingray. What more could one ask for?

Matter of fact, we did ask for some more stuff. Chicken wings and squid - Bruce insisted on standing this round. The wings were nice, but not exceptional. The squid rings were more interesting. Soft but chewy, smelling of seafood somewhat, and smothered in Sambal - the spicy variety this time, brought tears to one's eyes. Pretty good, but not a patch on the stingray, which remains a high-watermark of my sojourn to Singapore.

FoodScapes at the University - I

2007-08-27T05:10:00.001+08:00

'Chicken in the house is as humdrum as lentils'
Vikram Seth's translation of 'Ghar ki murgi daal barabar'

I seem to've fallen into this 'ghar ki murgi' trap myself. So many posts on roast duck and oyster omelette and suchlike other exotica, and not a word about the wonderful food I get to eat every day at the National University of Singapore (NUS) campus. As a matter of course even, if you pardon the pun.

All my life I've looked at school and college food with dread. Till Class VIII I was in a school that served lunch. Rotis the toughness and consistency of cardboard; slimy grey-green Sabzi; occasionally a virulent yellow Karhi sour as the cook who made it, dusted over with red chilli powder.

In college, my encounters with indifferent cooking began afresh. I suppose ours was the only hostel around to serve Vindaloo regular once a week. Not the Goan meat-pickle delicacy. This one comprised Bhindi (okra) and Alu (potato) boiled together, then (surprise!) dusted over with red chili powder.

Singapore has given me a fresh perspective on college nosh. Good, tasty, nutritious food goes a long way in enhancing student productivity. True the world over, meticulously ignored in India. Singapore adds a fresh twist to it - variety.

NUS is spread over two campuses, the main one at Kent Ridge, and a smaller one at Bukit Timah where the Law School is located. The spread available even at the smaller campus is reflective of Singapore's multi-ethnic population. Two stalls sell differing types of Chinese food, one seves Western food, one Japanese food, one is devoted to what's known as 'Muslim' cuisine, and the one in the corner deals in tea, coffee, juices, cut fruit, Pau buns, Kaya Toast and the like.

There's also a stall offering good ol' (north) Indian khana. Roti, Sabzi, Daal, Alu ka Parantha, mutton curry, chicken curry, stuff like that. I haven't been there even once till date. 'Ghar ki murgi' trap yet again? I guess so!

Of the two Chinese stalls, the one to the left is the 'economy' counter. You get rice, one veg and one meat for a Dollar fifty, rice with two veg a Dollar thirty, and so on. Inexpensive, yes, but also tasty, hot, nutritious, and light on the palate. Popular dishes include pork in soy sauce, sweet-and-sour pork (my favourite), two types of chicken, sautéed spinach, a mushroom-and-cabbage dish, and lots more besides. Don't even know most of their names. There's always a huge crowd milling about the place, and the guys running the stall don't speak English too well.

Intriguing things, these other items are. One turned out to be pork liver; avoided it! Another was more interesting. Slices of Tofu with half-eggs on top. I asked for one the other day, and the guy proceeded to scoop up a slice topped with regular hard-boiled egg. I stopped him at once, and pointed to the ones with peculiar dark-brown eggs. He gave me a funny look, but did my bidding.

I had thought it was some sort of egg boiled in soy sauce, or maybe a Tea-Steeped Egg (more on them later). But my friend Emmanuel (he's Chinese settled in Singapore) pointed out it was actually a Century Egg, or Thousand-Year-Old Egg, of hoary repute. (He also commended me for trying it out. Apparently most non-Chinese get put off by its looks.)

The yolk was more grey than green or black. It was also the best-tasting part of the egg. The Wikipedia article describes it as "creamy with a strong aroma and an almost cheese-like flavor." The strong flavour was there all right, almost like chicken stock but much more complex. It wasn't exactly creamy, though. In texture it resembled, well, egg yolk more than anything else. The "white", indeed cola-coloured, was comparatively bland, but did have a flavour of its own. Delightful, the whole thing was! I intend to have more!

Soups and hearty stews form the mainstay of the other Chinese stall. Somwhat more expensive, about $2.50 and up. I have their Beef Ball Soup often. A consommé made of stock and spinach mainly, with six-odd hefty beefballs thrown in. Sounds meagre, but is surprisingly filling; keeps you going for hours. And tasty too. The boiled beef is strongly flavoured, and the soup itself exudes a delicate aroma. To make it more interesting, one can add a touch of chili-flavoured soya sauce. In moderate quantities, this extremely spicy condiment improves the flavour a good deal. An excessive dose renders the whole thing inedible.

Haven't tried the Fish Ball soup yet, but the other day the stallkeeper added a fishball to my regular soup by mistake. He was sporting about it, grinned and said it was on the house! It was quite nice, though the damn' thing smelled a good deal. Readers who've known me a long time must be grinning by now. Despite being born and brought up a Bengali, I've harboured a lifelong aversion to fish. Laugh away, you louts! Just wait till I tell you (in a later post) about the terrific Sushi I had today!

The stall also keeps an assorment of side-orders to go with the soups. The fried egg, at 50 Cents, didn't enthuse me much the one time I tried it. Rather bland and overfried. Even generous dousings of chili-spiked soya sauce didn't help. I prefer the slice of batter-fried luncheon meat. Cheaper at 30 Cents, and much more flavourful (if a little greasy).

[Continued in Part II]

Oyster Omelette

2007-08-18T00:51:00.003+08:00

Time was when Singapore used to be a fishing village of little especial distinction. First maritime trade, and then other forms of commerce, transformed it into today's economic powerhouse. Presently, fishing has stopped altogether in Singapore. All the seafood one gets here is imported. A taste for fish remains deeply ingrained among its people, however, and this finds ample reflection in its cuisine.

The hawker centre at Newton Circus is famous for seafood. It is also remarkable for staying open almost round the clock. But as far as I am concerned, its best feature is that it is extended walking distance from Evans Lodge, my doss-house.

Yesterday, I went there for the first time, the result of a mad, impulsive late-night decision. I was in my room chatting with friends Ananth and Samjhana, when round midnight all three of us started feeling hungry. Adam Road, our usual haunt, was closed by then. So were most other joints. And we were in one of those moods where crazy ideas meet with instant approval, and then metamorphose into action faster than one can keep track of.

Newton was an eye-opener. I had never, never ever seen such variety in seafood. There was cuttlefish, stingray, shark fin, lobster, crayfish, squid, cockle, octopus, hulking big tiger prawns, even sea vegetables in oyster sauce. And all this was expensive. Lobster was about $5 for 100 grams. Not so big a deal, just that the smallest specimen weighs about 800g.

Even the non-seafood things were priced quite high. One stall even sold Lemon Chicken Rice for $10; a decent helping at Adams Road doesn't cost more than $4. (I found out later, Newton has a reputation for being a tourist attraction. Old hands at the street-food game tend to avoid the place, preferring less expensive and more authentic alternatives.)

Ananth finally located a moderately priced Satay stall. He bought a plate of beef Satay for $5. Pretty good stuff, even if it wasn't seafood. Samjhana ordered a seafood fried rice. Don't know how much she paid for it, but it contained lots of seafood. Bits of squid, fish of some sort, even baby octopus.

I took my time ordering. Went round the whole place carefully, went through the items advertised at each and every stall, and wondered all over again at the range on offer. Finally I decided on an oyster omelette. This stall near our table sold them in various sizes, priced at five, seven and ten Dollars. I picked the smallest one. 'Small' is of course a relative term. It turned out to be wider even than the respectable-sized plate it was served in - big, yellow in colour, and generously studded with greyish oyester all over.

By this time I had grown fairly proficient at handling chopsticks. I took special pleasure in using them to tweezer out the lumps of oyster, dip them in the flat bowl of chili sauce provided, and pop them into my mouth with all due grace.

And what oysters they were! This was the first time I was having them, and I wish I get amnesia soon just so's I can taste them anew all over again. Like I said, they were grey and lumpy to look at, more like slugs than anything remotely edible. Their texture was wholly consistent with this. Slightly chewy, rubbery. And bland too, hardly tasted of anything much.

But once you get your teeth into them, a wonderful thing happens. All the juice stored inside comes out in one big spurt. Intensely flavoured, and with a strong, overpowering taste and smell, this is what makes oysters so worth it. To some, the very intensity of the taste and smell can be off-putting, may even trigger off gag reflexes. It nearly did mine. But once you keep it in your mouth, and let the complex harmonies play on your taste buds, it's paradise!

If the oyster was such a wonderful experience, the omelette must rank among the worst I've come across. I've had several lousy ones, incidentally. At the seaside resort of Digha in West Bengal, I once had one fried in mustard oil. Down south, coconut oil is the staple cooking medium; the peculiar smell it imbues the egg with has to be smelled to be believed.

This one was in a class of its own. I don't know what oil it had been fried in. But it was so greasy it literally oozed oil. That apart, it was surprisingly tasteless. I could detect the use of no significant spice or condiment apart from salt. Ultimately I had to throw away more than half of it.

By this time Ananth had ordered a chili chicken for himself, and cans of Asahi beer for the both of us. (On the superlative beer available here, more later.) The chicken was, if anything, even more oily. But since it hadn't permeated the meat, it could be brushed off. Also, it was sharply and most interestingly spiced. This tempered its oiliness a good deal. As such the chicken, or at least the few morsels I ate, were most enjoyable. Miles more so than what remained of my omelette once I had eaten the oysters, that's for sure!

Nizamuddin 06: Nahari at Moniskda

2007-08-16T00:34:00.001+08:00

[NB: This is part of an ongoing series on the Nizamuddin locality of New Delhi. For a brief background, please read the prefatory note.]

Nahari seems to be a recurring theme in this blog, almost a leitmotif. I confess I just love the stuff. Have never taken to Siri and Paya. Somehow, the very idea of head meat or trotters congealing in the cold puts me off. But a steaming bowl of Nahari gives me an almost ambrosial kick on foggy winter mornings. Or even on hot, humid July evenings, it turned out.

I had talked of Moradabadi Biryani in an earlier write-up. In this post, I continue from there. We had just come out of the Biryani shop somewhat undecided. The stuff we bought looked rather dry; the accompanying chutney didn't seem too appetising either. All of us present agreed the Biryani needed some sort of gravy to go with it.

Korma was vetoed outright. I looked for a Haleem-vendor. All I could find was a character selling repulsive yellow gunk from an aluminium Handi. I recalled having tried the same guy's stuff once, many years ago; it was so horrible I had to throw it away after a couple of mouthfuls. So that left Nahari, surely a strange combination with Biryani.

I've had Nahari in Nizamuddin before on several occasions. They have ranged from the OK to the downright insipid. But never yet had I come across anything even close to the awe-inspiring heights of Haji Noora's stuff. This time, I decided to ask around. People uninamously recommended Moniskda Hotel. Even Hanif Qureshi Sa'ab of Ghalib did, albeit after a long, tortuous interrogation why I was insane enough to want Nahari at this hour and in this weather.

Moniskda is located near the Mathura Road entrance to Basti Nizamuddin. After entering, one needs to take a left that goes past Zaeqa Hotel, once a favourite of mine. Past Zaeqa, one comes across a bunch of small eateries, including a pretty indifferent Wazwan shop. Moniskda is located somewhere there; one needs to ask around a bit. Business is usually transacted in the common open area fronting these shops. That's where most tables, chairs, cashiers' desks and all are located.

In the case of Moniskda, much of the foodstuff prepared beforehand was also kept out there; great saucepans mounted on a wooden platform. They sell a wide variety of curries - trotter, brain, kidney, liver, Ishtoo, Alu Gosht and Gobhi Gosht, made from both goat and buffalo. Nahari, however, is exclusively buffalo.

I asked for two plates of Nahari, and was charged Rs. 48. Twenty-four chips a plate did seem excessive, even with the addition of Ghee ka Tadka. Even the superlative Nahari from Haji Noora's cost only fifteen with Ghee. On the other hand, the helpings were substantial.

So how was the stuff? Haji Noora still reigns supreme, no two ways to it. That said, this stuff was pretty good. By far the best Nahari I've sourced from Nizamuddin. The meat was tender, juicy, and flaked easily. Slow-cooking precluded the need for marination. It was thus free of vinegary overtones.

The gravy was full-bodied, richly flavoured, and neither oily, nor greasy, nor excessively spicy. Most important, it was permeated with the taste of the meat. I could also detect clear notes of fennel, fenugreek, cumin, and maybe a touch of cilantro in the Masala used. It also had a sweetish aftertaste. (Did they add a touch of sugar to it?) Incidentally, it formed a surprisingly cohesive combination with the Biryani.

So why do I still insist on the superiority of Haji Noora? Perhaps the explanation lies in that mysterious, elusive quality called 'depth'. It is impossible to render this in words. Let's just say this. The Nahari at Moniskda was competent in every respect - good meat, rich gravy, the right spices, proper stewing time, and so on. But the final outcome amounted to little more than the sum of all these factors put together.

In the case of Haji Noora, on the other hand, the whole was vastly and qualitative superior to the sum of its parts. How so, I have no idea. But I have every belief that even a cursory sampling of the two Naharis will establish the difference between them. Beyond this, I cannot say more.

Takoyaki: Octopus Dumplings

2007-08-10T00:59:00.001+08:00

A very special post. Takoyaki was my first foodie adventure in Singapore. In fact, it happened within hours of landing there. I was exhausted (hadn't slept on the flight), mildly jetlagged, thoroughly disappointed with the student accommodation I had been alotted and, for good measure, bewildered, lonely, and generally miserable.

All of this had so far been tempered by the presence of Krishna, a dear friend from college and currently on the National University of Singapore (NUS) faculty. She had insisted on picking me up from the airport, taken me to my doss-house, joined me in bitching about my room, and then dropped me to the NUS main campus for my enrolment process. Now she too had left for her office. The crowd milling in front of the hall was simply enormous, and made me wonder if my turn would ever come that day. I felt alone like I never ever had before.

To my surprise, the enrolment was over in minutes. Research scholars had been alotted a queue to themselves. And it seems most of them hadn't arrived or something, for there was literally nobody in that queue. I strolled in, handed in my documents, signed a form or two, and was handed my student card and the key to my own locker in the Law School.

I was thrilled, elated! Not to mention relieved. I felt like celebrating. Moreover, my stomach had begun to growl its protest over the meagre airline breakfast of a few hours ago. The covered verandah outside the hall was lined with food stalls run by student volunteers. But they were boring, the usual burger-and-hotdog stuff sourced from large chains.

Finally I came across this counter selling Takoyaki. On enquiry, the chap at the counter told me it was a kind of stuffed dumpling, Japanese in origin. Possibly as a concession to the ethnically diverse crowd present, they offered three kinds of stuffing - chicken, prawn and octopus. Later I learnt Octopus was the traditional filling, and the other two were recent innovations.

At that time, of course, I didn't know all this. I felt I just had to try out the octopus, come what may. The counter guy tossed three dumplings into a styrofoam box, added a brownish sauce (later identified as Okonomiyaki sauce), a whitish sauce that looked like mayonnaise (mainly because it was), and a whole bunch of fish flakes. Subsequent reading told me this was the traditional way of serving Takoyaki. Little wonder, actually; the stall proudly sported framed testimonials and awards recognising the quality and authenticity of their servings.

For all this I paid S$2, incidentally my very first monetary transaction in the city. Turns out, even this was not exactly cheap by Singapore standards. But to my famished self, it was manna from heaven. The octopus meat was somewhat rubbery, as octopus generally is. Its flavour was strong, but with none of the subtlety of prawn and crab. But the sauces made it special. Them and the fish flakes. Tuna's always been a favourite of mine. But the smoking and drying processes add an altogether new dimension to it. So all in all, pretty good stuff!

Nizamuddin 05: Moradabadi Biryani

2007-08-08T11:01:00.002+08:00

[NB: This is part of an ongoing series on the Nizamuddin locality of New Delhi. For a brief background, please read the prefatory note.]

Many foodies I know swear by the cuisine of Rampur-Moradabad. They insist it is one of the most refined India has ever produced, and feel it has been unjustly overshadowed by the more glamorous Lucknow. I'd tried to organise several trip to the region, with zilch success. The only time in recent years I actually passed through the place (en route to Nainital), I was in strict vegetarian company. Then years later I spotted this Moradabadi Biryani shop in Nizamuddin. Even then I couldn't immediately try it out. The first time I came across it I was with a dedicated kabab-freak, and the second time the shop was closed.

Last month I finally got my chance. Some family friends had come over from Bangladesh to attend the Urs at Ajmer Sharif. As per custom they were also required to pay obesiance at Hazrat Nizamuddin's Dargah too. I decided to accompany them. The experience was, ahem, interesting. We reached there just in time for Namaz. Magically, the entire crowd veered westwards. Everyone except yours truly, who was standing there looking thoroughly bewildered. This elderly bearded gentleman glared: 'Namaz nahin padhni kya?' I just about managed to shake my head. He took about half a second to digest this astounding statement, and then said, 'OK, you stand to a side.' The rest of the process went off just fine.

Obesiance done, we decided to pack some food for home. I suggested Moradabadi Biryani, and they readily agreed. I had also wanted to try their Shab Degh, but that was not available. So we packed two plates of Biryani, along with some Nahari from Moniskda Hotel, and Mutton Tikka from Ghalib.

Frankly, the Biryani was a disappointment. For 25 Rupees a plate, it had lots of meat, and mutton at that. Fairly soft the meat was, but not exactly rich in aroma. More important, it did not impart any flavour to the rice, which remained bland apart from the occasional whiff of spices.

Moradabadi Biryani is eaten not with Raita, but with a kind of thin, sweetish Chutney. I could detect tomato, coriander, sugar, cucumber and chili powder in it. Adding it to the Biryani did enhance taste levels, but not by much. All in all, therefore, a fairly mediocre concoction, at least the stuff this shop churned out. Maybe it was a bad day for them; after all the Urs crowd was pretty dense that day. I still harbour the dream of going to Rampur to try out the real McCoy.

In view of the disappointing fare, though, I shall refrain from giving directions. At least, till such time I go back there and come out satisfied.

Roast Duck with Kway Chap

2007-08-07T16:38:00.003+08:00

So what exactly is this Kway Chap thing anyways? It took a good while, and several frantic queries to bystanders, to elicit an answer. I was standing in queue at the Adam Road Food Centre, in front of a stall that specialised in poultry. And it sure looked the part. Fat, juicy skinned ducks hanging from hooks, brown hard-boiled eggs on the counter, a fair-sized crowd waiting outside.

The first person I approached said he was not sure, but it had something to do with pig's guts. Not a good idea, what? Then again, there was a picture stuck up there, and it didn't look anything remotely porcine or intestinal. It was a blameless white in colour, swimming in a similarly tranquil-looking soup.

I approached the stall owner, a crusty old Chinese. His response: "You don't know what Kway Chap is? Then I'm not going to tell you!" Recoiling from that spot of gentleness, I almost physically bumped into the Chinese lady standing behind me. She kindly told me what it was, sheet-noodles made of rice, usually served in a soya soup. It is eaten with a variety of things, including piggy entrails. So I guess the first guy was not entirely off the mark.

The shop I was at serves it with roast duck, chicken and pork, and all of them respectable cuts of meat. I wanted duck; never had it in Chinese surroundings. I got a huge steaming bowl of the Kway Chap in soup, and a decent-sized helping of sliced duck meat in sticky, rich brown gravy. For this I paid Singapore $3.50.

The lady behind me then asked me if I knew how to eat Kway Chap. Strange question, given that till a minute ago I didn't even know what it meant. Stranger still was her response to my professed ignorance: "You're very clever!"

I mean, excuse me! A little bit of attitude was OK, but this was quite uncalled for. I suppose she realised it herself, because she thawed down almost miraculously. She was thrilled when I told her I can handle chopsticks, and said I could eat it with a fork and spoon if I wanted, no problem. She also told me to try out the other Chinese stuff on offer at the food court; most stalls served pretty good stuff.

After the big buildup, I was somewhat disappointed to find the Kway Chap tasted more or less as it looked - white, soft and essentially flavourless. The hot soya soup was very nice. Even though the weather was hot and humid, I found myself enjoying it.

The duck was possibly the most fantastic piece of poultry I've ever had. Its skin was crispy, and the meat soft as no chicken could equal. The meat flaked easily, one could actually break it into bite-sized pieces using just chopsticks. (I didn't try; my skills on them are but rudimentary.)

And what flavour! The meat had a strong, livery taste. Not to everyone's liking, admittedly. But once you get used to it, you're hooked. It contains several very strong flavours that somehow manage not to clash with one another. Instead, they combine to create some very complex harmonies. An entirely new experience for me, and a totally addictive one.

I was pretty hungry that day, though. So after finishing every scrap of the duck, I began looking for the next course.

Announcement

2007-08-04T13:31:00.002+08:00

As many of you know, I've relocated to Singapore for about a year. So it's Bye-Bye Delhi Grub, at least for the time being. And yes, it's also Hello Singapore Grub, la! Fully intend to keep the blog up and running, that's for sure. When conceptualising FoodScapes, I had avoided restricting it to specific geographical locations such as Delhi. So the structure of the blog gives me enough space to write about any place I want to. (This was a deliberate move on my part, actually; I knew I was going to Singapore soon.)

And indeed, Singapore food is sure worth writing about. The variety is not just huge, it's downright heady! At times literally. The pork sausages I had for breakfast seemed marinated in something respectably alcoholic.

I've had a few more culinary adventures already. Won't be a spoilsport and reveal details here. Instead, shall keep posting as often as I can. Shall also write about all the Delhi experiences I've had but haven't posted on.

As usual, my standard valedictory request - stay tuned!

Street Food and the Law 04: A Strange Article

2007-07-11T11:26:00.001+08:00

Sinful to serve in the same jhutah, glass without washing it after a drink, taste for saltiness with the cooking spoon, not wash mouth after each eat, talk while prepare food leading to invisible accidental spit on it, touch the person serving food while eating, on bed eat … are a few taboos.
Jayati Gupta, 'Unhygienic Street Food Addiction is a Health Hazard'

I'm glad I'm not the only one working on street food. Found this article on the net. Up until now, practically all the material on the subject I've come across espouse the cause of street food. Here, for a change, is something from a contrary viewpoint.

Uh, viewpoint? I wouldn't be too sure there. While the author's strong aversion to street food is manifest, her reasons why remain obscure. Even if one succeeds in parsing her English prose into something approaching sense.

She starts with the premise: 'In reality street eat is not typical Indian background. Trace the same to the ancient and also not so ancient Indian austere food intake culture.' And then:

Strict kitchen regulation and rigid habits, practiced throughout years now worn away with carelessness or compulsion of modernity (pseudo) egg on, malicious under cover diseases.

Apparently, street food may look deliciously attractive, surely not to public good health. Particularly when such structures clog pathways, it is like fungus or diphtheria infection that choke gullet.

Presumably she herself knows what a '(pseudo) egg' means, and how it relates to modernity. But for the likes of us a few footnotes would have been welcome. A stern warning follows: 'Encourage street food is encourage slow poison. Illiterate vendors under unhygienic conditions operate, hit, and run. That he has mostly flying customers it is hard to trace the stomach upsets …'

To her credit, the author does show some concern for poor vendors:

However, applying the need to survival, innovative design concept is a must for the hawker trying to etch out a living with literally no help from administrative.

Surely, with space management plan, free zones in every postal area – in marketplace – food courts for the grub hawkers to carry on their activities as per traditional hygiene should help to breathe clean.

Spot cooking on demand only in permitted areas confirm safety for both the vendor and consumer. Eat, sleep, excrete, urinate, and bathe on the street may find attraction to those who thrive in indiscipline.

This one's truly magnificent:

Some roar at Rich express of affection on podium as offensive; however forget own vulgar street-side display. Men women washing under public glare, sometimes even next to Shulabh facilities.

It is time to wake up to the rich heritage in real sense and not to the beck and call of seedy novo rich, some, from abroad who wish to lap up cheap gains as perhaps master of “who knows what?” nexus selling space belonging to others. Hafta extort agents are sure poor, cashing regal for the invisible or masked individuals, what a pity.

This begs the question, what has our 'vulgar public display' of 'men women washing under public glare' got to do with the 'seedy novo rich' (may god bless them)? As for '“who knows what?” nexus selling space belonging to others', that's where I give up.

Last thought: Maybe it's not for nothing that boloji.com classifies this under the generic category 'Ramblings'.

[NB: All excerpts from the article have been directly copy/pasted from the original, and are thus verbatim reproductions of the latter. This expedient allows me to avoid marking out blunders with a [sic]. Had I done so, this post would have been about twice its present length.]

Nizamuddin 04: Ghalib Kabab Corner

2007-07-08T20:31:00.001+08:00

[NB: This is part of an ongoing series on the Nizamuddin locality of New Delhi. For a brief background, please read the prefatory note.]

I get irritated when people ask me why I don't use Google Maps or other online guides to mark out featured eateries. I did try out Google Maps some time ago, when writing the 'Makkhan Wali Chai' post. It turned out simply far too limited in its detailing. And when discussing obscure eateries even local denizens might not know about, exactitude in directions is surely vital. I am naturally not against 'bells and whistles' per se, but unless they add meaningfully to the blog, I see no reason to include them and unnecessarily clutter things up.

Take Nizamuddin. For me, those wonderful narrow, smoky, twisting, labyrinthine alleys quivering with life are among the most evocative aspects of the locality. And for newcomers, a source of confusion more than anything else. Google Maps chooses to depict it as a barren grey-brown lump with not even a single lane marked out. To what end, I wonder. Useless as a direction-finder and, for good measure, callous to the beauty of the place as well. Thanks for nothing, mate!

The 'satellite' view gives a better idea of how vibrant Nizamuddin is. (Unfortunately, it does not support zooming at the highest level, and is packed with too many distracting details. Hence it too is of little use as a guide.) Indeed, very few localities in the city can match it in this regard. I know; I've been a Nizamuddin regular for upwards of 22 years.

Ghalib Kabab Corner is where it all started. I remember my father taking mother and self there when I was eight. Those days, we could take our '62-vintage Fiat 1100 inside the alleys right up to the shop, park, eat, and have enough space to turn the car around. On that occasion, we propped our plates of Tikka and Seekh Kabab right on the bonnet.

This was necessary; the shop was too dingy and cramped for comfort. It was also a rather jerry-rigged affair. Crude benches, faded rexine flooring and, usual for most shops in the vicinity, saucepans of food placed on platforms of sunbaked earth. An irascible man in kurta-pyjama and a greying stubble sat behind the saucepans and kept barking orders. We ate to our hearts' content for six Rupees, even in those days an absurdly low figure. I can still recall my father chuckling.

Today, the place has revamped itself completely. Spotlessly clean, brightly lit, it even exudes a feeling of airiness. Narrow, rather uncomfortable benches flank mica-topped tables. The walls are lined with coloured ceramic tiles. Pictures of Mecca share wall space with framed testimonials certifying they had supplied food for Iftar parties at some of Delhi's poshest hotels(!). The old man, by name Haneef Qureshi, is still going strong, as dour as ever. (Except now and then he unbends slightly to welcome a regular, for example - heh heh - yours truly.)

One thing that has not changed is the reasonableness of the prices. Mutton Seekh Kababs and Tikkas still sell for thirty-six Rupees a plate, while their buff counterparts sell for sixteen. One word of caution, though. The buff Tikka is made not of meat as we know it, but of heart muscle. This Qureshi Sahab himself told me one day. It should have grossed me out, but did not. I promptly ordered a plate.

The stuff was far softer and juicier than the Tikkas other shops generate. In other respects it was hardly different in taste from regular meat. As a matter of fact, it was more succulent, juicier, and far richer in flavour than most buff Kababs I have eaten.

Kababs (in which class I also include Tikkas) are the specialties of the house. I don't know what they use for marinating the meat, but the end products have none of that overpowering vinegary aftertaste common to Kababs even from significantly higher-priced outlets. At the same time, the meat comes out much more tender than usual.

Ghalib's output does not aspire to the melt-in-the-mouth sophistication of Kakori Kababs. Short of that, they rank among the most wonderful you can get get in the town. They are surprisingly tender, and not the slightest bit chewy. Ghalib's makes them the traditional way, with skewers mounted on braziers. Drops of fat melting from the meat and dropping onto the coals impart a natural smokiness to the Kababs. (Punjabi cooks are wont to shove 'em skewers into tandoors, which prevents this, and so makes the Kababs more insipid.)

Spice levels are comparably low, though if you want the cook will happily smother it in red-pepper powder. This way, the natural flavour of the meat comes through nicely. The Kababs are thus juicy, never dry. The mutton tikkas are made from regular goat-meat (no heart-stuff). They may reek of vinegar at times, but I've had this happen to me only rarely.

In recent times, the shop has tried to expand its horizons, with mixed results, Their mutton Korma's pretty good, though oily. The Biryani's average, rather dry. Somehow the meat juices don't permeate through the rice. The only time I bought chicken Tikka I was sorely disappointed. The same vinegar problem, magnified tenfold due to the chicken's delicate natural flavour. Indeed, the vinegar smothers out the taste of the meat completely. These days, Ghalib's also sells what it calls 'Tandoori Chicken'. Fortunately, this is nothing but chicken legs grilled on braziers. I've never tried it, but people who have say it's pretty good.

Never ever try their Shami Kababs. They are doughy, bland, and about twice the thickness of regular Shamis; in dimensions they resemble ice-hockey pucks more than anything else. Chomping through the chickpea paste, one can detect the occasional whiff of meat, but only just. My hunch says they've been outsourced from McDonalds.

Possibly the Firni is also outsourced, but it sure doesn't disappoint. Light, not too sweet, and very easy on the palate, it makes for a wonderful end to a heavy, meaty meal. And at ten Rupees a good-sized serving, it also represents excellent value for money.

Nizamuddin 03: Political Economy - III

2007-07-07T02:05:00.001+08:00

[NB: This is part of an ongoing series on the Nizamuddin locality of New Delhi. For a brief background, please read the prefatory note.]

[Continued from Part II]

Post-Ghiyasuddin, such threats receded into the past. Mohammad bin Tughlaq recognised Nizamuddin as a spiritual guide. After the death of the seer, subsequent rulers right up to the time of Bahadur Shah Zafar made it a practice to pay homage at his shrine. Nizamuddin, the locality, continued to prosper in other ways too. It established itself as a centre of piety, culture, learning and the arts. Many chose to be buried in the vicinity, notably emperor Humayun; Abdur Rahim Khan-e-Khanan, the multifaceted genius - general, poet, astrologer, translator and food connoisseur; Ghalib, possibly the greatest Urdu poet ever; and Jahan Ara, the favourite daughter of emperor Shah Jahan.

It became one of the most important pilgrimage centres of the country. For one, it started attracting the devout on its own standing. Further, a tradition was established that pilgrims attending the Urs of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti of Ajmer must also pay homage to the shrine of Nizamuddin Aulia.

A steady flow of pilgrims ensued over the centuries. Eight hundred years of political stability make for ideal conditions in which to incubate local commerce. Inevitably, an industry developed to care of pilgrims' needs. Nizamuddin gained, and sustains even now, a reputation for hotels, travel agencies, souvenir shops and, most important, food outlets!

And as with all pilgrim centres, most of these cater to the lower end of the market. Especially the eateries. Karim's forms possibly the sole exception, and endeavours to provide a fine dining experience in the true sense of the term.

Today, Nizamuddin offers you easily some of the best food deals in the city. Years and years' worth of competition has kept prices low and quality high. I have seen very few shops or kiosks lacking for customers. High turnovers usually means only fresh food is sold. (I'm not sure, but I think leftovers are usually turned over to the Dargah to feed the poor.) Certainly, in the twenty-odd years I've frequented the place, I don't recall even once getting an upset stomach from Nizamuddin food.

Some joints have jazzed themselves up to an extent. They feature coloured ceramic tiles on the walls; prices marginally raised (but still laughably low by Delhi standards) ; and soft-drink coolers strewn in the background. Others resist such trends. These range from the spartan-but-clean to the downright dingy. A few don't even run to concrete structures. They make do with a few rickety benches in thatched courtyards, and large steaming saucepans mounted on raised earthen platforms.

Whatever be the decor, ambience, or price range, one thing is for certain. Nizamuddin gives you an opportunity very few other places in the sub-continent can provide, the chance to bite into eight hundred years of unbroken tradition.

[Concluded]

Nizamuddin 02: Political Economy - II

2007-07-06T11:24:00.001+08:00

[NB: This is part of an ongoing series on the Nizamuddin locality of New Delhi. For a brief background, please read the prefatory note.]

[Continued from Part I]

Unrest and discontinuity thus characterise the history of the Walled City. In a span of 273 years from 1638 to 1911, it witnessed the decline of the Mughal empire from the glorious days of Shah Jahan and Aurangzeb; the weak later Mughals; internecine fights and succession squabbles; sackings by Nadir Shah and Ahmed Shah Abdali; gradual intrusion by the East India Company; the 1857 Revolt and its bloody aftermath; being sidelined; and finally, reduction to playing second fiddle to New Delhi.

In contrast, Nizamuddin's existence of over eight hundred years has been relatively placid. Owing largely to the Dargah of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya, it has come to acquire considerable spiritual significance over the centuries. This has also served to protect it, especially from invaders and other plunderers.

Historians note that most emperors of Delhi actively sought the patronage of Sufi saints. The holy men guided them in matters both religious and temporal, and interceded on their behalf for divine beneficence. As a result, the monarchs invested the saints and their monasteries with a considerable degree of protection.

Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia's turbulent relationships with reigning monarchs constitutes an exception to this. Nizamuddin lived through one of Delhi's most unstable times. His life spanned no less than three major imperial lineages, namely the so-called Mamluk dynasty, the Khiljis and the Tughlaqs.

Parricides and fratricides were the order of the day. Loyalties changed frequently and viciously. And the enormous influence wielded by the mystic only added to the ruler's insecurities. To add to this, Nizamuddin remained steadfast to his principles throughout his life. He treated all human beings as equal, irrespective of caste, creed or birth. Moreover, he refused to kowtow to any temporal ruler.

Alauddin Khilji was convinced Nizamuddin intended to seize power at the first opportunity. He tried to test Nizamuddin, who rebuffed him asking him not to waste his (Nizamuddin's) time on temporal matters. Alauddin's successor Qutubuddin Mubarak Shah repeatedly asked Nizamuddin to pay obeisance at his court. Nizamuddin refused each time. When things became particularly ominous, the seer is supposed to have said:

The king will not be victorious over me for I have had a certain dream. I saw that an animal with horns was attacking me. Upon it coming closer, I took hold of its horns and threw the animal on the earth in such a way that it was killed.

That very night, Mubarak Shah was killed by his catamite Khusro Khan.

Relations with Sultan Ghiyasuddin Tughlaq were especially discordant. According to one account, the Sultan was wont to make a show of donating money to Sufi orders; the recipients were expected to return the amount in full later. Nizamuddin instead distributed the money amongst the poor, as was his practice.

Another version has it that when the emperor began to build his capital Tughlaqabad, he pressganged all available workers to work on the site, and forbade them from working anywhere else. At that time, Nizamuddin was getting a Baoli built, and refused to stop work.

Some even say the workers so loved and respected Nizamuddin that they volunteered to work at night by the light of oil lamps. In response, Tughlaq banned the sale of oil. Nizamuddin ordered water from the well be poured into the lamps; miraculously, this fuelled the lamps and kept them lit. By then, the emperor's behaviour had infuriated the seer enough to condemn the new capital city to barrenness:

Ya rahe usar, ya base Gujjar
(May it be deserted, or become a dwelling for Gujjars)

[NB: At the time of Nizamuddin Auliya, and to an extent even today, the term 'Gujjar' denoted a community of semi-nomadic herdsmen]

The Sultan was at that time fighting a campaign in Bengal. He sent word he would deal with the 'turbulent priest' as soon as he returned to Delhi. To which Nizamuddin riposted, 'Hunuz, Dilli duur ast (Delhi is yet far away).'

[Interestingly, the same momentous phrase was uttered on another historic occasion. In 1739, when the plunderer Nadir Shah was poised outside Delhi, the sybarite emperor Mohammad Shah 'Rangile' responded to his generals' warnings with an identical 'Dilli duur ast'. Whereas the seer's prophecy paved the way for abiding peace, the emperor's complacency led to one of the most horrific carnages of all times.]

Nizamuddin's predictions proved remarkably accurate. On the emperor's return from Bengal in 1324, his son Mohammad bin Tughlaq organised a grand parade just outside Delhi to welcome him. There, a canopy mysteriously collapsed and killed him; historians credit this to a conspiracy allegedly hatched by the son. In 1327, three years after ascending to the throne, the parricide emperor shifted the administration to his own capital, Jahanpanah. Tughlaqabad was reduced to a ghost town.

[Continued in Part III]

Nizamuddin 01: Political Economy - I

2007-07-05T00:08:00.001+08:00

[NB: This is part of an ongoing series on the Nizamuddin locality of New Delhi. For a brief background, please read the prefatory note.]

It started with a joke, the substance of this post. I was having a big argument with Nasir, a friend and former colleague. Like all denizens of the Walled City, he was incapable of contemplating anything beyond Jama Masjid as a source of Kababs. So Nasir was rattling on and on as usual about Matia Mahal Kababiyas. After a point I felt compelled to interject and advance, tongue firmly in cheek, an argument rooted in history and political economy to demonstrate the superiority of Nizamuddin kababs. Nasir didn't like it one bit!

Later on it occurred to me, this might be an interesting idea after all. Lots of studies have been conducted on the sociology of food, how societal and anthropological factors determined what people ate. So the question what people sold as food, and how socio-economic considerations influenced it, could make for a pretty interesting area of investigation.

Old Delhi or the Walled City became the capital of India in 1638. From then on, it gained importance as a political and commercial centre and, thanks mainly to its splendid mosques like the Jama Masjid, as a religious centre as well.

But did all this boost the food business? Difficult to say. Satish Jacob mentions: 'The tea houses in the walled city were frequented by intellectuals, poets, royal courtiers and scholars who would spend hours discussing the topics of the day.' Ghantewala, the legendary confectioner's, also dates back to that era.

Against this must be set the fact that fine dining as we know it didn't exist as a concept then. Presumably, most eating houses catered to travellers, working men, artisans, and others to whom food purchased from outside comprised a necessity, not a luxury. The city elite took enormous pride in their private chefs, and would rather die than purchase food from outside.

As mentioned earlier, even Ghantewala was not an eatery in the proper sense, merely a sweets shop. Moreover, it was established in 1790, when the empire was at its steepest phase of decline. Legend has it that Shah Alam II himself patronised Ghantewala. To my mind, this is is as telling a commentary on the emperor's poverty as on the sweetmaker's excellence. By then the empire had dwindled literally to the level of a standing joke:

Az Dilli ta Palam/ Badshah Shah Alam
(loose translation: 'From Delhi to Palam/ Reigns Shah Alam')

[NB: For those not in the know, Palam is a hamlet on the outskirts of Delhi, and presently home to the eponymous airport that services the metropolis.]

Delhi's misfortunes reached their lowest ebb in the years immediately following the 1857 revolt, when the capital shifted to Calcutta. By this time, the city had been reduced to a provincial town.

It began to regain some of its glory in the following decades. First it was made the capital of the Punjab province. Then in 1911, the capital of India shifted back to Delhi. A new city adjoining Old Delhi was established in 1930. The Walled City continues to exist as an enclave of what is known as the National Capital Region (NCR). It remains an important commercial centre in its own right.

These upheavals in the city's political economy find a startling resonance in the food business. The history of Karim's, without doubt the best known eatery in the Walled City, is a case in point. The progenitors of its founder, Haji Karimuddin, were cooks in the Mughal emperors' palaces. During the 1857 revolt, they remained loyal to the emperor. Once peace was restored, they were forced to run away from Delhi and seek shelter in outlying towns, often in disguise.

In 1911, Karimuddin moved back to Delhi. He decided to cash in on the business opportunity the Durbar generated, and opened a Dhaba to cater to visitors. The bill of fare was limited to Dal, Alu Gosht, and Rumali Roti. Its humble beginnings notwithstanding, the venture proved so successful that in 1913 he re-cast it on a firmer footing. That's how Karim's Hotel was born.

[Continued in Part II]

Nizamuddin 00: Prefatory Note

2007-07-04T02:07:00.001+08:00

Surprising how self-styled custodians of Delhi's cultural heritage tend to ignore the uniqueness of Nizamuddin. At best, they harness it into a backdrop for Sufi Music Festivals. Or club it with Tughlaqabad, the Old Fort and the Qutub Minar as remnants of the city's Glorious Past.

No doubt, Nizamuddin's contribution to our culture is immense. A staggering proportion of the finest philosophy, literature, polemics and music ever produced in our country has its roots here. But it is much, much more than that.

In a city pockmarked by violent upheavals and discontinuities, Nizamuddin stands out for its uninterrupted, unbroken eight hundred years of existence. It comprises Delhi's last living link with its past, right upto the Khilji era. It embodies a living culture, a living spiritual tradition, where the past merges seamlessly with the present. And this is the point those custodians miss.

Any living entity must grow organically, or die. Other parts of the city could not manage organic growth. So they sprang up, and then died. A recurring feature of Delhi's history involves a strange, savage violence perpetrated by the present on its own mute past. Encroachments in Tughlaqabad, fountains near Darya Khan's tomb, modifications to Lutyens' bungalows, we seem congenitally incapable of coexisting with what we once were.

Nizamuddin, on the other hand, has evolved organically over the years. It has made its peace with its past. The old and the new coexist, both flourish in equal measure. The Nizamuddin Dargah neighbours the present-day shrine to Hazrat Inayat Khan. Poets Amir Khusro, Rahim and Ghalib, born in the 13th, 16th and 18th Centuries respectively, lie interred within furlongs of each other; for good measure, the modern Ghalib Academy is also situated nearby.

Respect for life, peace and coexistence finds expression in commerce too. Prêt-à-porter outlets; crafts shops; bookshops; perfumeries; little kiosks selling compasses (for devout Muslims) and Chinese toys; travel agencies; florists and abattoirs all thrive cheerfully cheek by incongruous jowl. As do eateries of various descriptions.

And yes, the food! Nizamuddin has on offer Kababs and Tikkas that rank among the finest in Delhi. I have also encountered indifferent Nahari, downright inedible Haleem, varying grades of Biryani, Korma, Shirmal, Ishtoo, and much much more. Political and economic developments have led to the introduction of new cuisines. I remember a short-lived Afghan shop, an odious little place that seemed to specialise in leftovers. Presently, Kashimiri and Rampuri shops appear to be doing decent business.

In this series, I seek to explore in its larger context Nizamuddin's culinary wealth. As with the Street Food and the Law series, this prefatory note will also feature a list of articles. Other articles, as and when they are posted, will be hyperlinked to it.

List of Articles

Street Food and the Law 03: Standards - II

2007-06-20T11:32:00.001+08:00

[Continued from Part I]

NATIONAL STANDARDS

In India, the nodal agency liaising with CAC is the Directorate General of Health Services, Ministry of Health and Family Welfare (MOHFW). In accordance with CAC guidelines, the Ministry has brought out a Training Manual called 'The User's Manual on Codex: A Contemporary Approach to Food Quality and Safety Standards'.

A characteristic of the manual is its wholesale endorsement of the CAC Codes. Acknowledging that 'The Codex Alimentarius Commission (CAC) has done commendable work for ensuring the safety of street food and has brought out a Code of Hygienic Practice for the preparation and sale of street food,' [p. 228] it goes on to refer to the 1997 Code.

Much of its recommendations flow from the 1997 Code. For example, the note at pp. 233-34 is a verbatim transcription of Note HA referred to above. [p. 7] Significantly for us, the manual reiterates the 1997 Code’s recommendations about storing food at either below 5°C or above 60°C, [p. 233] as well as about serving hot food at 70°C. [p. 235]

TWO QUESTIONS

At this point, a peculiar issue arises. On the one hand, we have the ban on cooking. And on the other hand, it is clear by now that heating is essential to food safety. In the light of the latter, the question arises what purpose the ban on cooking serves. Is there indeed such a vast distinction between cooking and heating to justify the ban on the first when the second is so critical to food safety? And indeed, does the ban on cooking permit heating, or does it prohibit both?

Before going further, I think it is expedient to say something about the right to equality under Article 14 of the Constitution. Over the years, this has evolved into a number of tests or principles. The one relevant to us is that of nexus with the objective. This means that individuals not on the same footing may be classified into different categories (and consequently treated differently) provided that (a) there is a discernible objective behind the classification, and (b) the classification actually furthers that objective.

The question before is, what is the nature of the classification that the ban on street cooking seeks to achieve? Does it prohibit the heating as well as cooking of food? Given that the question of heating finds no explicit mention, let us for the sake of argument proceed on either possibility.

Possibility 1: Heating is Permitted

Let us first suppose that heating is permitted. This provokes the question, how is heating to be distinguished from cooking? A precise distinction is necessary, or else the ban will fall foul of another test associated with Article 14, namely that of intelligible differentia. This means the distinction between the classes to be treated differently must be clear-cut and unambiguous. Hence, unless a definite criterion is provided for distinguishing between cooking and heating, banning the first while permitting the second will not be tenable in law.

Then again, what is the objective to be served by discriminating between heating and cooking? Surely the other arguments against street cooking discussed earlier (viz. public hygiene and the beautification drive) apply to heating as well as cooking. Moreover, there is nothing to indicate that cooking is more unhygienic than mere heating.

Lastly, the arrangement leaves unanswered significant questions of implementation, especially malfeasant implementation. Our police personnel and municipal inspectors are not the least corrupt of public servants. And the fine distinction between heating and cooking will give them a fantastic opportunity to harass vendors. The mind automatically conjures visions of them running amok, shouting: ‘That’s not heating, you’re breaking the law! Pay us or we book you for cooking!’

Possibility 2: Heating is Prohibited

The other possibility is that cooking and heating are both banned in equal measure. This is, of course, nothing short of ridiculous. Given that most street vendors cannot afford to buy fridges, it is manifest that heating constitutes the only practical way of ensuring that street food remains within safe temperatures. Thus banning heating while permitting street food as such will, instead of making the food safer, actually enhance the risks associated with it!

In other words, the ban’s objective (i.e. food safety) and inevitable consequences turn out to be polar opposites of each other. On this basis, the ban can be challenged as inconsistent with the ‘nexus’ requirement discussed above. Furthermore and much more significantly, by prohibiting practices that make food safer, the ban actually poses a threat to the physical well being of the people. Hence we may even contended that it violates our right to life under Article 21!

CONCLUSION

The entire debate on street cooking can be reduced to a single question: how responsibly has this ban been drafted? Moreover, on what basis did the Supreme Court and MCD reached their conclusions? Given the wealth of material that advocate safe food temperatures, we may conjecture that they had before them an equally formidable corpus of expert opinion that led it to come to the opposite conclusion.

Or did they? Were at all doctors, food safety experts and other authorities consulted? We may note in parentheses, seeking such information through the Right to Information Act might make an interesting first step to a fresh legal challenge.

More important, if it transpires that expert opinion was not sought, then possibly a challenge can be mounted on that ground alone. There’s lots more to be said on the issue. Stay tuned!

[Concluded]

Hari Mirch Keema, Rewri ke Samosey

2007-06-19T12:35:00.003+08:00

Chance discoveries are perhaps the best part of foodie life. Hari Mirch Keema and Rewri ke Samosey were both chance discoveries. My friend Kaushik and I had gone to the Walled City in pursuit of old favourites, Dhage Wale Kababs at Matia Mahal and Moinuddin Ustad's Seekh Kababs. I also wanted to introduce him to Makkhan Wali Chai.

On the way to Matia Mahal from the Chawri Bazar metro, we passed a man with a large basket full of what looked like white coloured Samosas. It turns out, they were actually a form of Rewri, called Rewri ke Samosey. Essentially thin circular sheets of Rewri, the edges folded back to approximate an isoceles triangle with a bulging tummy, and with a dollop of hard Kheer inside as a filling.

They sold at two Rupees apiece, five Rupees for three. We bought a tenner's worth, and had them on the way to Matia Mahal. The stuff was nice enough, but cloying in its sweetness. As happens so often, the taste of the final product didn't quite match up to the novelty of the concept.

The Dhage Wale Kabab was an unqualified success, conception and execution alike. It fully deserves a post to itself, so I refrain from any further comment here. We ate decent amounts, then proceeded to Moinuddin's for the next course. Here we were in for a disappointment. The Ustad had run out of raw stuff, and was in the course of packing up for the evening when we arrived. So we had to look around for other forms of nourishment.

When you come to think of it, Lal Kuan has little reason to justify a bustling trade in food. Other foodie gold-seams like Nizamuddin and the Jama Masjid area are important tourist centres. Pilgrims, businessmen and sightseers haunt these places in droves, and this forms the main impetus for the food business. The best that Lal Kuan can brag of is a bunch of ironmongers' shops.

Neither does it lack for variety. One would have thought a diverse range of customers is a prerequisite for this. But no, a single set of habitués, largely local residents, seems enthusiastic enough to make the variety viable.

Moinuddin Ustad's let-down compelled us to explore this variety at first hand. Lining the pavements on either side of the road were pushcarts, cycle-rickshaws and little kiosks. Many featured rudimentary seating arrangements alongside. For the most part, they consisted of a strip of oilcloth flanked on either side by cotton sheets, similar to the 'downmarket Dastarkhwaan' arrangement at Haji Noora's. The more upmarket versions featured rickety rexine-covered tables and metal benches. It was to one of these places that we went.

The youngster running the stall offered a choice of Gobhi Gosht, Alu Gosht, Dal Gosht, Hari Mirch Keema, and a few more names I cannot recall. Kaushik and I could only keep looking at one another. Not surprising, since neither of us had even heard of all this before. Against my better judgment, we ordered two half-plates of Hari Mirch Keema because it sounded the most intriguing.

Against my better judgment, I say, for two reasons. First, low-scale eateries tend to use the worst grades of Keema (mince meat) - tough, gristly, more cartilage than meat, and usually slaughtered off the most elderly buffaloes. Secondly, I have an aversion to excessively spicy food. Several times in the past I'd been hoodwinked into acidity by the most innocuously-named preparations. Here the damn' thing actually got its name from Hari Mirch (green chili pepper)!

This place, I'm glad to say, gave lie to both apprehensions. The chili used was the large, pale green variety they make pickle with, not the smaller and darker type that has one calling the fire brigade. It imparted to the preparation a subdued piquancy, and its green crunchiness made for an interesting visual and tactile counterpoint to the Keema.

The meat itself was soft, mildly chewy, and virtually free of cartilage. It was also richly flavourful, most likely the result of a slow-cooking process. Kaushik and I had extra helpings, and two Rumalis besides. And this on top of a hefty Dhage Wale Kabab session. The meal set us back by less than fifteen Rupees each. We topped the meal with Makkhan Wali Chai, as planned. An entirely satisfying, and also educative, experience.

Street Food and the Law 02: Standards - I

2007-06-06T22:24:00.001+08:00

Introduction

I noted in the previous post that several justifications have been cited for prohibiting cooking on the streets. One that has recently gained legitimacy rests on grounds of hygiene and the health hazards it poses for those eating it.

This raises the question, is cooking on the streets indeed so harmful to the consumer? And is pre-cooked food really the answer? In this post I examine what health and food safety bodies have to say on the matter.

International Standards

It is reassuring to know that international bodies accept street food to be an inescapable reality of urban life, especially in less affluent nations. They also recognise its beneficent consequences. As the FAO notes on its website:

Besides being cheap and convenient, street foods can also be nutritious. A study in Calcutta found that an average 1 000 calorie meal contained about 30 grams of protein, 15 grams of fat and 180 grams of carbohydrates. And at an average cost of about five Indian rupees, street food is probably the least expensive means of obtaining a nutritionally balanced meal outside the home, according to the study.

Considerations such as these have encouraged the bodies to take a stand that is both mature and practical. Rather than calling for its prohibition, they have instead chosen to draft guidelines to ensure conformity with basic food safety requirements.

Codex Alimentarius

In 1963, the FAO and WHO jointly created the Codex Alimentarius Commission (CAC) to 'develop food standards, guidelines and related texts such as codes of practice under the Joint FAO/WHO Food Standards Programme.' Among the food safety standards that the Commission formulated, two pertain to street food.

'Code of Hygienic Practice for the Preparation and Sale of Street Foods (Regional Code: Latin America and the Caribbean)' dates back to 1997, and was revised in 2001. (It may noted that some confusion exists about its original date of adoption. While the parent webpage lists the date as 1995, the document itself bears the date 1997.) The second, titled 'Revised Regional Guidelines for the Design of Control Measures for Street-Vended Foods in Africa', was adopted originally in 1997 and redrafted in 1999. For the sake of convenience, we shall refer them to the 1997 and 1999 Codes respectively.

Section 6.2 of the 1997 Code specifies requirements for food preparation. Guideline 6.2.3 is directly relevant to us, and is reproduced verbatim:

6.2.3 The time between preparation and consumption of foods should be as follows:
6.2.3.1 - Up to 6 hours when foods are kept at a temperature above 60°C.
6.2.3.2 - Up to one day when foods are kept at a maximum temperature of 5°C.
6.2.3.3 - Reheat only once refrigerated food completely to a temperature of 70°C, immediately before consumption.

Note HA on the same page [page 7] states:

Microorganisms are sensitive to heat to a degree depending on biological type and on form and duration of exposure at detrimental temperatures. However, cooking in kitchens is not sufficient to sterilize foods. The remaining bacteria can multiply exponentially at room temperature and their final number will depend on the time of exposure at inadequate temperature.

(I mention in passing that in the original document, Note HA is produced entirely in capital letters!)

Similarly, Section 8 ('Protection and Sale of Foods') contains the following:

8.2.3 - The food and beverages displayed for sale should be well protected and kept at an appropriate temperature.
8.2.3.1 - When hot foods have been chilled, reheating must be at above 70°C.

From the foregoing, we may glean the following points:

Cooked food must not under any circumstances be kept at room temperature;
The appropriate temperature for storing cooked food is either less than 5°C or more than 60°C;
If food meant to be had hot is kept refrigerated, it should be heated to above 70°C before being served.

The 1999 Code is much more comprehensively drafted, and genreally entails more strnigent standards. For instances, it addresses in considerable detail issues like the location, design, construction, customer facilities and so on of street food centres, [Section VI (sic IV), p. 11-14] issues that the 1997 Code does not mention. Dwelling on these matters poses a pleasant temptation, but is not really relevant to the present topic.

In respect of storage temperatures, the Code marginally relaxes standards for cold foods. The bar for hot foods remains the same. Section 5.3 contains [at p. 16] the following:

Ready-to-eat foods intended for continuous serving should be protected from environmental contamination and kept at the following holding temperatures:

a) for food served hot......60°C or above;
b) for food served cold......7°C or below;
c) for food served frozen..–18°C or below.

[Continued in Part II]

Moinuddin Ustad: A Trip Down Memory Lane

2007-06-02T04:41:00.001+08:00

One great thing about writing for your own blog is that you can reminiscence as much as you want, there's nobody to stop you. This piece, for example, recounts events that happened nearly two years ago. It is not even a food story in the strictest sense; the culinary bit comes right at the end. It has more to do with a lunatic quest for a specific eatery.

Nevertheless, I thought I'd write about it here, if for no better reason than that it happens to be a favourite of mine. It certainly involves much that is dear to my heart - classical music; food; vast quantities of beer; inoffensive madcap capers; the Delhi Metro; and rejuvenating a much-cherished friendship.

All this happened somewhere around July 2005. My friend Pranjal had come back to the country after a long while, and we were to get together after a hiatus of four to five years. We arranged to meet at Palika Bazar in the afternoon.

At that time the metro was in a most exciting phase of nascence. The second line, from Central Secretariat to the University, had recently been inaugurated. To most people, it was still very much a novelty. Heck, even I hadn't tried it till then. So I resolved to take my first metro ride that day, a short two stops from Central Secretariat (a.k.a. C Sec) to Connaught Place.

On the way, I discovered I was not the only one thrilled about the metro. Walking past the Press Club to reach C Sec, I overheard a member, apparently a University professor type, telling the Club parking attendant: 'See that black car over there? That's mine, do keep an eye on it. From now on I'll park here and take the metro to college. Aur waapas aake Club mein hi lunch khaaya karoonga, meri biwi se mat kehna! (and on my way back, I'll have lunch at the Club, please don't tell my wife)'

[Explanatory note: the Press Club is one of the best places to drink in Delhi. Small wonder he didn't want his wife to know!]

Meeting up with Pranjal was as joyous as expected. After the initial round of profanities was over, we decided to go to the Pegasus Bar at Nirula's (now defunct, alas!). Apart from a good crowd and hardly any piped music whatsoever, it also featured Sandpiper Draught, one of the few bars in town to do so. I figured that if we stuck to beer and french fries, we could shamelessly let go and not worry about cash supplies.

The beer was just lovely. It set the mood for a long, leisurely afternoon binge as nothing else could. Settled down to the pressing business of catching up on each others' lives, we soon lost count of time and gallonage. By the time we emerged, both of us pleasantly buzzed, it was evening. At Pranjal's suggestion we went to a nearby coffee shop, and had cold coffee with a truly bizarre array of desserts.

That's when I had my Great Idea. I recalled having come across an article on a legendary Kababchi somewhere nearby. In our beer-tinted enthusiasm, we resolved there and then to dig it out. Unfortunately I had read the piece a long time ago, and forgotten most of the details. For one, I got his name wrong; thought it was Nooruddin. More significantly, I messed up with the location as well. For some reason I had got it into my head that the guy operated from GB Road, Delhi's fabled red-light area! That, of course, added to the general lunacy of the entire venture. We set off as soon as we could.

On the walk from Turkaman Gate, we had the time of our lives politely asking passers-by if this was the way to GB Road. Once we reached GB Road, we faced a peculiar problem. Nobody seemed to believe we were after Kababs. Pranjal claims he was twice waylaid by pimps. I was spared that fate, but encountered other forms of disbelief. For instance, I asked a man at a sweet-shop, and all he did was keep exchanging knowing smirks with his assistant.

Some kindly soul directed us to a place called Gali Shah Tara. We walked from one end of the Gali to the other without encountering a single Kabab-wala. Food shops there were aplenty, lots of saucepans and Deghchis mounted on counters. At this point, we were on the verge of giving up and settling for Korma or Biryani instead. We had walked for miles, and were hungry and tired in equal measure. Then I spotted a shop with a picture of a Tabla on its window.

I still don't know what made me do it. Maybe it was the beer, maybe just a disjointed sense of fun. Anyways, for whatever reason, I barged in and asked them if they sell Tanpuras. The two persons behind the counter looked at me very suspiciously, and said no, they don't sell Tanpuras, they deal only with Tablas, and where had I come from? I ignored the question, and patiently explained to them I was looking a specific kind of tanpura: gent's model, six strings instead of the usual four (in the style of Ustad Amir Khan), rounded Jawari, German wires, a stem of length at least five feet - I had the specs down flat.

That baffled them a bit. They couldn't quite fathom what I was up to. Clearly I had a background in music, and yet there seemed to be something not entirely kosher. So they repeated their question.

I said, 'You've heard of Ustad Murshid Quli Khan, I'm sure?' (tug-tug-tug at earlobes) [NB: the only Murshid Quli Khan I know of is the character who founded Murshidabad]

One of them falls for the gag and duly blurts out, 'Yes of course we've heard of Khansahib, but you . . .?'

'Oh, I'm a disciple of his.'

'And . . . is he . . . I mean, did he . . . umm, send you here . . .?'

'As a matter of fact he did, yes.'

That did it for him. He thawed down completely, repeated they didn't deal in Tanpuras, and offered to give me the address of a friend in Kashmere Gate who crafted them. I excused myself, said it was too late to go there anyways. Then the other chap says, 'Koi aur seva (anything else we can do for you)?' So I mention this Kabab seller called Nooruddin we were looking for. He says, go down this lane, there's a building called Hamdard. At the entrance to the lane opposite the building, this famous Kababiya sits, go and try his Kababs. We thanked him and left.

Once outside, we stood by a corner and collapsed into helpless, hysterical laughter. Pranjal was especially hard hit, he stayed doubled over for a good few minutes. Eventually, the shrieks subsided into intermittent giggles, and we proceeded to this Kabab stall. And surprise, there he was, the one we were looking for! I recognised him straight off from his picture in the newspaper article.

There was a fair crown milling around the stall, so we duly stood in queue and watched him and his son in action. The son acted as cashier, and also kneaded the meat-mixture onto the skewers. The father would then take them and place them on an angeethi (charcoal grill). He had several skewers lined up in different stages of readiness. So had the fire been stoked into varying intensities along the length of the grill. Indeed, most of the old man's time was taken up in fanning the fire. And he did it with so much care and absorption it was a treat to watch. I suppose the varying heat levels constituted an essential component of his culinary art.

At the left end, where the fresh skewers were placed, the fire was little more than a few embers glowing sullenly. Further to the middle, it perked up. The Kababs placed here would settle down to a dignified broil. The final touches were administered towards the right side of the grill. Here the fire spat tongues of flame at the meat, scorching it and causing drops of fat to fall onto the coals. This further enraged the flame into angry, hissy sputters, which imparted to the Kababs their heavenly smokiness.

About the Kababs themselves, I can say little beyond the fact that they were the best I've ever eaten. Pranjal agrees with me, to this day. They were soft, succulent, flavourful, slightly smoky, and melted in the mouth. For some reason, that day they were spiced quite strongly. This must have been an aberration; on subsequent visits I found spice levels to be well within acceptable tolerance levels. In any case, it did little to prevent us hogging ourselves silly. A round of flavoured milk at the end of proceedings took care of things nicely. Then a rickshaw to Chawri Bazar station, the metro till C Sec, a long bus ride - and I was home, completely sated and exhausted.

Epilogue: The following day I looked up the article on the net, and realised just how inaccurate my memory had been. The Kababchi was called Moinuddin Ustad, not Nooruddin, and his stomping grounds were at Lal Kuan, literally miles away from GB Road. I sent Pranjal the link, and was treated to a yet another choice selection of invective. Bloody ignorant Bong, don't you have any shame? You didn't even know that lane was Gali Qasim Jan, where Mirza Ghalib lived? I bowed my head in contrition. Mea culpa.

Street Food and the Law 01: Legal Background

2007-05-25T19:52:00.004+08:00

NB: An earlier version of this article appeared as 'Food Court: Government Policy Leaves Hawkers' Future in Balance', Down to Earth 31 May 2007.

Introduction

The issue of hawkers cooking food on the roadside has become unexpectedly prominent, not to mention confusing. Not long ago, the media carried reports that the Supreme Court had agreed to the Municipal Corporation of Delhi’s (MCD) contention that hawkers cooking food on the roadside need to be banned in order to beautify the city in time for the 2010 Commonwealth Games, and also because such food constituted a health hazard to people eating it. This provoked strong reactions across sections of society.

The Supreme Court later clarified that it had imposed no such ban, but merely directed the MCD to provide infrastructure for the maintenance of hygiene. Recently, however, newspapers carried reports that the Court has accepted the bulk of the MCD recommendations. The only exceptions it permitted were in respect of tea and coffee vendors.

Inevitably, this veritable spectrum of judicial opinions gives rise to more questions than answers. What is not so apparent at first sight is that it reflects negatively on the attitude of the executive, specifically local municipal bodies. For decades, hawkers have constituted a convenient target for their ‘beautification’, ‘hygiene’ and other such knee-jerk drives. The drives themselves camouflage the fact that municipal bodies have so far failed to frame a clear-cut, rational and, most important, sustainable policy in respect of hawkers.

Early Cases

Not surprisingly, such ‘policy’ initiatives have spawned intensive litigation. Back in the 1960s, the Supreme Court in Pyare Lal v. NDMC [AIR 1968 SC 133] held that the sale of cooked food affected public hygiene. Clearly, the health risks they posed for the consumers themselves did not constitute an issue here.

In the 1985 decision Bombay Hawkers’ Union v. Bombay Municipal Corporation [AIR 1985 SC 1206], the Supreme Court passed strong remarks about how hawkers had steadily encroached upon pavements and roads, and how vested interests prevented municipal bodies from preventing them. [para 1] However, it refused to ban the outright sale of food as an unreasonable restriction on the freedom of trade: ‘There are several working families in Bombay, belonging to different strata of society, which depend upon the food supplied by hawkers. We do not see any valid reason why hawkers should not be allowed to sell cooked food, cut fruits and the like. [para 10]’

Recent Trends

Maharashtra Ekta Hawkers Union v. Municipal Corporation, Greater Mumbai [AIR 2004 SC 416] marks a new approach to the issue. Here, a distinction was carved between hawkers selling pre-cooked food, and preparing food in the stalls or kiosks. Moreover, this distinction also underscored a difference in approach between the executive and the judiciary. The respondent Municipal Corporation (known as BMC) had framed rules that prohibited even the sale of cooked food, cut fruits and the like. The Supreme Court struck down this rule, but upheld the prohibition on cooking: ‘We are unable to accept submission (sic) that cooking should be permitted. We direct that no cooking of any nature whatsoever shall be permitted. [para 14]’ Interestingly enough, the Court did not specify the grounds behind this pronouncement.

In February 2007, the Supreme Court examined various aspects of the implementation of the 2003 decision, and ventured towards a cohesive policy on the issue of hawkers [Maharashtra Ekta Hawkers Union v. Municipal Corporation, Greater Mumbai - Manupatra citation MANU/SC/0901/2007]. As such, it did not say anything specific in respect of the sale of food, pre-cooked or otherwise. From its approval of the rules framed in the 2003 decision, we may gather that the distinction between cooking in the stalls and selling pre-cooked food continues to hold good.

Conclusion

The judgments referred to above give us a clear indication of how judicial perspectives have altered over the years; first from emphasising public hygiene to construing roadside food as a threat to consumers’ health; and secondly in gradually carving out a distinction between pre-cooked food and food cooked within roadside stalls.

While the Court has been unequivocal in emphasising this distinction, the fact that it has not specified the reasons behind it is significant. Media reports mentioned earlier suggest public hygiene, and factors not wholly unconnected with the ‘beautification drive’ preparatory to the Commonwealth Games, constitute predominant considerations.

The situation is only muddled further by the Court’s earlier clarification that it had not banned cooking on the roadside in its entirety. If that were so, then its later acceptance of MCD recommendations must amount to a volte-face. In any case, the two orders together provoke the question: does cooking on the roadside cause so deep an impact on public hygiene that it ought to be treated on a different plane from selling already cooked food?

Beyond a point, the same question holds true in respect of the ‘personal health of consumers’ argument also. Common sense tells us that cooking by the roadside is less hygienic than selling pre-cooked food. But is the difference in hygiene levels so great as to justify a ban on cooking alone, and not the sale of cooked food? Especially given that hygiene regulations are rarely followed in packaging cooked food? Then again, if pre-cooked food is not kept in proper storage conditions, it might prove much more harmful than freshly-cooked food.

Suffice it to say, therefore, that unless these issues are explained, the rationale behind the Court’s various decisions will not become clear.

Street Food and the Law 00: Prefatory Note

2007-05-24T13:42:00.001+08:00

It's official, finally. The Municipal Corporation of Delhi (MCD) scheme for banning cooking by the roadside has received the assent of the Supreme Court. The implications of this are manifold. It affects food-sellers, it affects the working populace who are unable to afford meals at more "respectable" eating places on a daily basis, it also threatens a vital part of Delhi's rapidly dwindling cultural heritage.

On the other hand, what does this scheme seek to achieve? For that matter, what does it achieve in actual terms? Given the government's dismal record of implementing laws, will the scheme be at all enforced effectively? Or will it be used as yet another means of harassing vendors and extorting more bribes from them? Indeed, the plethora of questions and debates the scheme provokes is staggering, no less.

It scarcely needs to be said that the scheme also calls for a concerted, mature response from all and sundry. To this end, the Foodscapes Blog intends to carry a series of articles examining this issue from the constitutional, legal, sociological, and other perspectives.

This present post will also feature a list of articles. Other articles, as and when they are posted, will be hyperlinked to it.

List of Articles

Makkhan Wali Chai

2007-04-30T17:09:00.001+08:00

At the beginning, a disclaimer. This post is not about the Tibetan yak-butter tea, but a more plebian, in-your-face iteration a shop in Lal Kuan sells. I confess I am inordinately proud of it. One, it makes for a fantastic drink, especially on a cold winter evening. Then again, the idea of huge amounts of butter dissolved in tea is so absurd, most people refuse to believe it is actually fit for human consumption. But most importantly, I take sole and exclusive credit for its discovery. No newspaper article, no tip-off from friends, nothing!

I chanced upon it a little more than a year ago. We had just shifted to a new house, and some electrical fixtures we had bought turned out to be defective. So I went to Bhagirath Place to get them changed. The evening was so pleasant that taking the Metro from Old Delhi (now Chandni Chowk) station on the way back seemed downright boring. Instead, I decided to take a long walk past Fatehpuri and Lal Kuan, down to Chawri Bazar station.

At twilight, the food-stalls in Lal Kuan were just waking up. The individual smells of Kababs, Biryani, Korma, and strange curries unique to that locality were discernible, but only just. Behind the stalls, the metal and hardware shops continuted to do a brisk trade. To my disappointment, Moinuddin Ustad's hadn't opened yet. From another little kiosk, I treated myself to some run-of-the-mill buff Tikka at one Rupee a skewer. I was about to amble off, when I spotted this tea shop with a big sign saying "Makkhan Wali Chai". Now what the hell?

The shop's ratelist stoked my curiosity still further. It advertised regular tea for three Rupees fifty, Taj Mahal tea for four, regular coffee for five, while Makhhan Wali Chai and Coffee were marked ten bucks. I asked the character behind the counter what this was all about. 'Just the same as your regular tea or coffee, except that us mein makkhan milaya jaata hai (we add butter to it).' This sounded so, well, off-putting that I decided I simply had to try it out. I ordered a Chai, and stood back to see what the character did after that.

And oh, the character sure didn't disappoint me! From a spout in the coffee machine, he let fly a jet of boiling water into a steel jug, and tossed in a tea bag, sugar and milk. While the tea was steeping, he ran across the road and came back with a regulation 100 gm slab of your ordinary table butter. This he proceeded to peel and chop into four equal chunks. He tossed one of the chunks into the jug and stirred it in thoroughly with a spoon. Once he was satisfied that the right consistency had been achieved, he poured the concoction into a styrofoam glass and handed it over to me.

My gag reflexes were working overtime by then. Twenty-five grams of butter was bad enough as it was; now how the hell was I supposed to drink the lot?! But then, I couldn't bear the thought of ten Rupees wasted. As it happened, I was particularly hard up at that time, and heck, ten Rupees meant a lot. Commending my soul to St Benedict of Nursia, the patron saint of poison victims, I ventured a sip.

It was a revelation, is all I can say. The butter added an altogether new dimension to what was essentially a very ordinary cup of tea. Its fattiness counterbalanced the coarse tannins of the tea, yielding a brew surprisingly light on the the palate. Even the salt in the butter played a useful role; it negated the overpowering sweetness characteristic to this sort of tea.

On another occasion, I tried out the Makkhan Wali Coffee. I had expected it to be something even more spectacular. In this, I was disappointed. It was palatable, yes, but nothing extraordinary.

I've had many glasses of Makkhan Wali Chai since that day. My friends and I acknowledge it as the perfect cap to an evening of uninhibited Kabab-bingeing. As indeed do the local denizens. Its popularity continues unabated, amidst Kabab-walas jostling for space and the clatter and confusion of neighbouring ironmongeries. Incongruous surroundings, and housing a truly incongruous discovery.

Mallu Joints at INA

2007-03-15T03:12:00.001+08:00

Thankfully, the latest spasm of 'civilisation' intended for INA Market has yet to materialise. Recent demolition initiatives seem targeted only at illegal encroachments, which is actually laudable. Nonetheless, it does raise significant issues. Delhi has a history of riding roughshod over its cultural heritage. They did it with the Kabaadi Bazar behind the Red Fort and the Phatphati (or motorcycle rickshaw); they all but installed a fountain near Dariya Khan's tomb; what they will do to old markets like INA I shudder to think. It was a fortuitous coincidence, then, that my stomach led me to INA on February 16, just a week or two before the demolitions started.

My jaunt there had what must be the least likely of beginnings for a food adventure. This organisation called the National Federation of Indian Women (NFIW) had asked me to give a talk on a particularly dreary subject, the laws relating to prostitution and immoral trafficking in women.

I reached the venue (Gandhi Peace Foundation, near ITO) with a whopping sore throat. Downing several cups of tea didn't help much. For that matter, three straight hours of explaining abstruse points of law to a novitate audience didn't help much either. I came out drained both physically and mentally, my throat hurt like hell, I couldn't speak above a whisper, and so I decided I wanted a special treat for lunch.

Alas, the ITO area proved a singular disappointment. A cursory looksee yielded nothing more interesting than the usual Chhole-Bhature or Idli-Dosa, which I was just not in the mood for. Even the day was gloomy - a cold, mildly drizzly February afternoon.

Then a 502 dawdled by, the way private buses tend to do. (NB: The one interesting thing about the 502 route is that INA Market falls on its route.) It rekindled memories of the many Malayali eateries INA's famous for, and I decided that was exactly what I wanted. A short sprint and running jump later, I was on my way.

Arrived at INA, I selected the least pretentious-looking joint I could discern, reasoning that the food there must be pretty good to compete with the snazzier places. It was typical of low-scale eateries found down South; soot-stained walls, bench seats and all - didn't even have a name or a signboard.

Despite it being a weekday, the place was jampacked. I shared a table with a very sweet family. Gentleman wiry, thickly moustachioed, and perpetually smiling; the lady quiet, with twinkling eyes; and their toddler looking bored and generally not interested in the food. They had two full steaming thalis in front of them. In addition, Hubby ploughed through a plate of chicken curry, while the wife demolished a fried fish with unholy gusto.

Me, I confined myself to beef curry and Appam, the way I used to back in Bangalore. Explanatory note: Appams, also called hoppers, are pancake-like things made of fermented rice-flour. They are fried in tiny little Kadhais, called appachatti, which gives them their distinctive shape - thin and crispy on the outside, and thick and spongy near the centre.

My order took its time to materialise, about twenty minutes. Given the crowds present, though, it was neither surprising nor deplorable. The food itself was your robust Mallu fare. Reasonably priced, fairly if not spectacularly tasty.

The meat was on the chewy side, but flavourful. The gravy was thickened with coconut, and generously flavoured with pepper. Admittedly not to everyone's taste, but ideal for a sore throat, what the hell. The waiters displayed an endearing propensity to stroll over every few minutes and top up my bowl with gravy. I finished three Appams and still had a bit of gravy left over in the bowl.

And oh yes, the Appams were best part of the meal. They were made just the right way. The outer parts were crispy, and yet melted in the mouth. Bits broken off from the fleshy middle were ideal for mopping up the gravy.

I spent thirty-two Rupees for the meal, and was quite satisfied. All in all, a good experience.

Haji Noora

2007-03-05T14:06:00.002+08:00

There exist a few select shops which transcend mundane notions of 'good food' or 'value for money'; and attain downright extraordinary heights. Moinuddin Ustad of Lal Kuan does, no doubt about it. As do the dhage wale kabab vendor in Matia Mahal; possibly Ghalib Kabab Corner in Nizamuddin; and even the quirky makkhan wali chai shop also in Lal Kuan. And of course Haji Noora's nahari shop in Bara Hindu Rao. I have been to Haji Noora's shop twice, and my experience has been uniformly joyous across both occasions.

Unearthing the place was a feat in itself. I first heard about it in yet another Rahul Verma article. Some time in October 2006, together with my friend Hemanshu, I decided to try it out.

This first expedition of ours proved a flop. We had assumed, naturally, that Bara Hindu Rao, the area, would be adjacent to Bara Hindu Rao, the hospital. So we hit the hospital, got misdirected more times than we could keep count of, and finally blundered our way to the Bara Hindu Rao area a good few miles away.

There another anticlimax awaited us. The shop was shut, apparently due to Eid the previous day. We also learnt that a clan feud had engendered a split in the family business as well. A nephew on the distaff has set up a bigger and better-located shop a few feet away. He even calles it 'Al-Noor', which heightens the confusion a good deal.

Thanks to the pains taken then, locating the shop on subsequent occasions posed no problem. And the food there is so wonderful that I, for one, consider myself to have been amply rewarded for all that we went through on that day.

Admittedly, Haji Noora's shop looks less than impressive. A tiny hole-in-the-wall outfit, with an entrance comprising a narrow passage between two raised platforms. The one on the left houses a tandoor for the Rotis; the other one serves as a base for huge steaming saucepans of the right stuff.

Beyond this lies the sitting area. Two long bedsheets - once white, now a dingy grey smeared with Nahari stains - flank either side of an oilcloth stretching across the breadth of the room. Customers sit on the sheets and keep their plates on the oilcloth, to complete what one might call a downmarket Dastarkhwaan.

The tableware (OK oilclothware) they use looks just as disreputable. Both times our Nahari came in chipped enamel dishes and the Rotis in cracked melamine plates. Aluminium glasses and water jugs lined the oilcloth.

The food itself makes up for everything and more. I prefer the 'special' variety of Nahari they dish out, the one that comes laced with ghee. Slow-cooked through the night, perfectly spiced, on either occasion it fully lived up to all our expectations. The meat was soft and succulent, and yet not bereft of texture. The spices made their presence felt, without smothering the rich natural flavour of the meat. Even the gravy was a treat. Even on a fullish stomach, mopping up the gravy with pieces of Roti was a pleasure.

The first time, we paid fifty Rupees for three plates of Nahari and four Tandoori Rotis. On the following occasion, Two plates of Nahari and four Rotis set as back by 38 bucks. Would have been cheap at three times the price. Needless to say, we stuffed ourselves like pigs.

The wonderful experiences I've had there only makes me wonder, what are the conditions that enable and/or impel Haji Noora's to maintain such high standards at low, low prices? Certainly not the high expectations of the denizens of that area. The other outlets there are at best decent, in no way out of the ordinary.

There are a few bakeries there, which sell you rusks for fifty Rupees a kilo. I make it a point to buy half-a-kilo every time I go there. Several sweetshops in the vicinity do a brisk trade. The Sooji ka Halwa I sampled at one of them was good, but not anything to write home about. The tea shops in the area range from passable to downright bad. I remember one shop that gave me tea with a dollop of what they called Malai in it. Forget the tea, even the Malai tasted more watery than the tea one gets at any rural railway station.

Last thought: Must try out the nephew's output some day.

Nahari at Turkaman Gate

2007-03-04T00:47:00.001+08:00

Delhi's climate has long given up all claims to rationality. The unseasonal chilly rains we're facing currently is a case in point. Normally, cold weather in Delhi is something to look forward to. But so unpredictable have things become that most perceive the rains as portents of a gruesome summer that must surely lie ahead.

Making the best of a bad job, a friend and self decided on an impromptu Nahari-hunting expedition the day before yesterday. We devised the plan the previous evening, finalised it a couple of hours later, and set off at six in the morning. Some time ago, I had heard of a famous Nahari shop near Kali Masjid in the Turkaman Gate area. We decided to check it out.

The Masjid itself is quite interesting. It was built in 1387 during the reign of emperor Firozshah Tughlaq, close to his capital city Firozshah Kotla. Razia Sultan's tomb also lay nearby. Situated on a little hillock in what was then open ground, it was later subsumed within the walled city of Shahjahanabad. Habitation sprang up and ultimately surrounded the mosque as well as the tomb. Today, the Masjid has no compound to speak of, at least none outside its walls. Houses, built higgledy-piggledy and perpetually threatening to cave in on one another, have spread like tentacles around and over it.

Finding the shop was no problem. In fact we had passed it on our way to the mosque. The food itself was good, just about; nothing exceptional. Though soft and well-cooked, the meat lacked the rich flavour so essential to good Nahari. Neither did the spices seem to make their presence felt. And at 36 bucks for two helpings and three Rotis, we felt we could get better value for money elsewhere. Certainly not worth getting up at six and squelching through rain, muck, and semi-dissolved horse dung.

Majnu ka Tila

2006-10-27T23:34:00.001+08:00

In the wake of the 1959 Chinese takeover of Tibet, more than a hundred thousand refugees accompanied the Dalai Lama to India. While most settled in Dharmasala, Himachal Pradesh, some decided to make Delhi their home. They were given land at a place called Majnu ka Tila, compressed into 'MKT' by generations of students from nearby Delhi University.

Over the years, by dint of sheer hard work, the settlers survived and prospered. The Buddha Vihara area near ISBT became well known as a market for trendy clothes, handicrafts, and smuggled goods. Another popular trade was food. Tiny, inexpensive eating shacks sprang up all over MKT, and gained popularity with the University crowd. Their bill of fare comprised quintessentially Tibetan preparations. And of course, Chhang.

For those not in the know, Chhang is a kind of beer made of fermented rice. In spite of its disagreeable smell, it constituted a favourite tipple for many, mainly because it was cheap and only mildly alcoholic. Then the Delhi Police decided to ban its sale. The Dalai Lama concluded it brought Tibetans a bad name, and offered its sellers a generous compensation package in exchange. Ultimately, the Chhang trade at MKT was wound up.

My own acquaintance with MKT - and Chhang - dates back to 2000-01, about the time of my brief stint at the Delhi University Law Faculty. One day, a class was cancelled unexpectedly and I found myself with spare time on my hands close to noon. For some unearthly reason I have forgotten by now, I decided to walk down to the place in the midday heat.

The walk was long, ardorous, and quite unnecessary. Its primary outcome was to instill in me a raging thirst that cried for immediate attention. I barged into one of those small eateries looking for something to drink. The waitress, a cute little girl of not more than twelve years, rattled off the usual litany of soft drinks. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added they also sold Chhang, the ordinary stuff for ten Rupees and the special type for twelve.

Twelve bucks a glass did seem exorbitant. I thought Chhang was supposed to be cheap! Even most most soft drinks sold for ten Rupees a bottle. I asked for a cola, and she said they also sold half-portions for six Rupees. That seemed reasonable, so I settled for it instead. She presently reappeared with a glass and a plastic jug, and proceeded to plonk them both on my table. I reminded her I had asked for a 'half'. And she sweetly assured me it was indeed a half-jug she had given me. HUH?!!!

So the twelve Rupees was the price of a whole jug, was it? Good to know Chhang was not as expensive as I thought. Which was all very fine, but how the hell was I supposed to finish even that half-portion? The half-jug totted up to a fair amount of liquid. And its sharp, sourish smell didn't exactly help things either.

By then, though, it had become a matter of my dignity and self-respect. I made a tremendous effort, heaven knows how, and managed to get it all down my hatch. A fairly pleasant experience, it turned out to be. The Chhang had a sweetish aftertaste, and induced only a gentle buzz despite the amount I had drunk.

Along with Chhang, I also tried out Sukuti, or strips of dried buff (buffalo meat) fried in onion, garlic, and green pepper. Quite a nice snack it turned out to be, even if the portion given did seem a bit small for the price.

Somehow, MKT seemed to fade away from my life after I left Delhi University in 2001. Till the other day, when a friend and I happened to be driving past ISBT. On impulse I suggested a detour to MKT. It was a long time since I had been there, and I wanted to renew my acquaintance with Sukuti.

At eight in the morning, the area was just waking up. Only one or two of the innumerable food joints had anything at all on offer. We finally settled on this place run by a wiry, mid-30ish gentleman called Chhorten. He said Sukuti was not possible before ten, since that’s when the meat seller came. Instead, he offered us the usual gunk (Chowmein, Chilli Chicken) and Momo besides.

As is well known, Momos are the Tibetan take on dumplings. Made of stuffing (vegetables or meat of some sort) encased in a thin envelope of dough (in this case crescent-shaped), they are usually had steamed. In Delhi, many shops sell fried Momos too, but I suspect that’s a bastardised version.

So, mutton Momos it was, and pretty toothsome ones at that. Steamed too, thank goodness. Twenty-five Rupees for a plate of eight, containing respectable amounts of stuffing, served with the usual fiery red sauce and bowful of stock. My friend even claims the stock did his sore throat a lot of good.

I promised the owner I’ll come once again for the Sukuti. He even offered to take me to the meat seller so’s I could buy some of that lovely dried buff. More on this later, stay tuned!

Daulat ki Chaat

2006-10-26T14:28:00.001+08:00

Several of us have read Rahul Verma's article on Daulat ki Chaat. My own reaction was mainly surprise that such a novel, delicate thing could exist in Delhi's streets in these coarse times. Beyond this, I guess we none of us gave it much thought.

Then one morning in October 2006, my friend Hemanshu and I were walking down Chawri Bazar on the way to Karims. We passed a street vendor carrying a large flat basket mounted on a cane three-legged-stand arrangement. I confess my mind was too full of the intended Nahari to give this guy much notice. Hemanshu, bless his eyesight, jerked back and bade me take a closer look. I still wasn't impressed. It looked like some sort of a white creamish thing - fruit cream, maybe, I concluded. Upon asking him, he said, 'isey "malai makkhan" kehte hai.' Seeing no reaction on our part, he went on to say it's called by that name in UP, and Delhiwallahs call it Daulat ki Chaat. That caught our attention all right.

There's no point in describing how he put together a dona of the stuff. Rahul Verma's narrated it pretty well already. Suffice it to say, in short order he proffered two donas of the stuff. 'Ambrosia' is a much-clichéd term, but in all honesty that's just what it tasted like. It was silky in texture, understated in sweetness, and imparted the feeling of being fatty and insubstantial at the same time. The nearest I can get to it is ice cream that vaporises in your mouth as some sort of practical joke.

Even its price seems like a practical joke. Ten Rupees a dona was all he charged us, heaven knows for what joy or profit margin. We greedily polished off two donas each, savouring every scoopful we popped in. I don't know why we did such a silly thing, but we neither asked the kindly vendor his name nor took a picture of him. Aah! inexperience, I guess. Will surely do better next time.

2006-10-25T00:44:00.005+08:00

Article Series

Dorm Cooking
Street Food and the Law
Nizamuddin

Chronological List

2010

Chilli Frog and Kway Teow at Geylang (*)
Autonson Soup - II (*)
Autonson Soup - I (*)

2009

Dorm Cooking 01: Chicken Curry for First-Time Cooks of Non-Veggie [guest-post by Anita Dixit]
Dorm Cooking 00: Prefatory Note
Thaksin Beef Noodles - II
Thaksin Beef Noodles - I
Policy Update
Sinar Pagi Nasi Padang (*)
CLE African Restaurant
GNU Look for the New Year

2008

Java Kitchen on Christmas Day (*)
Silly Saison for Rocket-Burgers - I
La Petite Cuisine
Rendang (*)
Of Street-Walkers and BBQ Crocodile - II (*)
Of Street-Walkers and BBQ Crocodile - I (*)
Bánh mì - II (*)
Bánh mì - I (*)
No Century - Bowled Out for a Duck (egg)
Kari Raisu in Penang (*)
Ten Quail Eggs, Fried (*)

2007

Pau Buns, and a Romp through History (*)
Bulgogi at Lau Pa Sat
Pau Buns
Roti John
FoodScapes at the University - II
Rational Social Choice - Grilled Stingray and Tiger Beer (*)
FoodScapes at the University - I
Oyster Omelette (*)
Nizamuddin 06: Nahari at Moniskda (*)

Tako Yaki: Octopus Dumplings (*)
Nizamuddin 05: Moradabadi Biryani (*)
Roast Duck with Kway Chap (*)
Announcement
Street Food and the Law 04: A Strange Article (*)
Nizamuddin 04: Ghalib Kabab Corner (*)
Nizamuddin 03: Political Economy - III (*)
Nizamuddin 02: Political Economy - II (*)
Nizamuddin 01: Political Economy - I (*)
Nizamuddin 00: Prefatory Note (*)

Street Food and the Law 03: Standards - II (*)
Hari Mirch Keema, Rewri ke Samosey (*)
Street Food and the Law 02: Standards - I (*)
Moinuddin Ustad: A Trip Down Memory Lane (*)
Street Food and the Law 01: Legal Background
Street Food and the Law 00: Prefatory Note
Makkhan Wali Chai (*)
Mallu Joints at INA (*)
Haji Noora (*)
Nahari at Turkaman Gate

2006

Majnu ka Tila (*)
Daulat ki Chaat (*)
Contents Page
Opening Statement

Opening Statement

2006-10-24T13:42:00.001+08:00

What kind of activity is cooking? In the Norwegian food discourse the domestic cook is described as a scientist, an artist, an expert, a perfectionist, a patriot, a protector of nature, a politician, a gourmet, a good mother, a good wife and a domestic mistress. This makes daily cooking something more than routine housework, it is also a significant part of self-presentation and identity formation.
Annechen Bahr Brugge, 'Cooking - As Identity Work'

In today's world, this statement rings true more in the negative. Take a city like Delhi, where this blog was born. By and large, restaurants here fall into what I may term the generic classes 'hype' and 'rip-off'. They advertise the most exotic, far-flung cuisines you can think of, and then make everything taste just the same. More often than not they can't even get their menu spellings right. And yet their mediocre food pegged at vastly inflated prices never seem to lack for takers either.

Admittedly, most ventures in this city catering to the finer things in life routinely inflict their share of philistinery on the people. Bookstores sell fifteen-year-old editions at current Dollar prices; art galleries hawk indifferent paintings at ten times what they are worth. Classical music impresarios promote second-rate star progeny as the next 'happening thing on the music scene.' Worse, all this is routinely accepted without much overt demur.

In the case of food, however, the contrived hype and glamour are also symptomatic of a deeper malaise. If food engenders identity formation, what is the identity our restaurants represent? Troubled, contrived, all that and more? The identity of the rootless, of those whose roots lie sacrificed to an unrelenting 'go where the moolah is' mindset?

Fortunately, there exist several exceptions. Even in an arid city like Delhi, as in other places. By and large, they display three characteristics. First, they are free of what we may term shallowness, and are keyed to motives more interesting than the crassly mercenary. Examples include a culinary tradition the owner seeks to uphold, a socio-cultural milieu, or even the desire to innovate with food.

Secondly, they tend to offer you a good deal for your money. This is a purely subjective notion, but a palpable one. The number of times I have felt cheated at Delhi's more pretentious eating joints I have lost count of.

The third characteristic is also subjective but important. Since they are shorn of pretentiousness, the eateries we focus on tend to be fun places to visit. Seldom do you go to one of them and not end up having a rattling good time.

Unearthing and locating each example in itself forms a quest, and has yielded several thoroughly enjoyable adventures. As have visiting these places, eating in them, learning more about them, their provenance, their goals and objectives. Indeed, our pursuance of these offbeat eateries has been a genuinely enriching experience in all the senses of the term.

In this blog, we relate our encounters with such outlets. It features articles and discussions on eateries of all sorts, which broadly conform to the characterists outlined above. Since cheaper places tend to be less pretentious, they form the mainstay of the blog. But this is by no means a hard-and-fast rule.