Nizamuddin 06: Nahari at Moniskda

[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.

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Nizamuddin 05: Moradabadi Biryani

[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.

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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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Nizamuddin 03: Political Economy - III

[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]

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Nizamuddin 02: Political Economy - II

[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]

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Nizamuddin 01: Political Economy - I

[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]

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Nizamuddin 00: Prefatory Note

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

1. Political Economy - I
2. Political Economy - II
3. Political Economy - III
4. Ghalib Kabab Corner
5. Moradabadi Biryani
6. Nahari at Moniskda Hotel
7. Rajdhani Hotel
8. Parvez Grand Restaurant
   

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Hari Mirch Keema, Rewri ke Samosey

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.

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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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Makkhan Wali Chai

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.

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Mallu Joints at INA

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.

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Haji Noora

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.

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Nahari at Turkaman Gate

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.

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Majnu ka Tila

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!

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Daulat ki Chaat

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.

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