Of Street-Walkers and BBQ Crocodile - II

[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.

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Of Street-Walkers and BBQ Crocodile - I

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]

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Nizamuddin 04: Ghalib Kabab Corner

[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.

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Moinuddin Ustad: A Trip Down Memory Lane

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 kiya 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 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.

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