The Jungle Reviewed

Some of us colleagues and friends went over to Jungle View once again the other day. The place is so deeply ingrained in our psyche, that it has become effectively a default option any time any of us wants to celebrate. The occasion this time was Ramakrishna Das's wife Ashwathi's first visit to Cuttack. Poor Ram had a tough time arranging the trip, or at least, getting all members of the gang to agree on the date and time. It was not just a matter of prior engagements. In the best Odiya traditions, the more pious among us observe a strict vegetarian diet on certain days of the week, on which days they don't find Jungle View so attractive a proposition. I wonder why.

Winter this year has been unusually warm, but even so, the balmy mid-November weather made lunch a much more interesting option. I noticed several changes this time around. The ghastly cloth awning that covered the central open dining area has been replaced by a smart-looking prefabricated aluminium roof. This time we opted to sit in a airconditioned prefab cabins, more out of a desire for privacy than anything else. In fact, after a point we got them to switch off the a/c even. And I don't know why I never noticed that big signboard up there. Nice of them to also write the name in (slightly inaccurate) Bangla. Or maybe it is because Bengalis frequent the place regularly. Not surprising, given its meat-intensive bill of fare.

I had intended this trip to be a follow-up to my earlier post on the place, that is, to to check out, and photograph, all the stuff I had missed out on the last time. Alas! my grandiose plans were almost completely frustrated. Both Emu and patra poŗā mutton were off that day. I don't know what they have against patra poŗā; it never seems to be available though the people there insist it's still a part of their regular repertoire. The saving grace: they could muster some hāņdī poŗā mutton. But more on that later. First, a brief digression on the Odiya word poŗā. The term literally means 'charred' or 'scorched', a singularly unappetising appellation for one of the most glorious cooking style one can encounter anywhere. Perhaps 'baked on embers' conveys the idea better. Briefly, the idea is that the thing to be cooked is either placed in some sort of receptacle (bamboo logs and earthenware pots constitute popular choices) or wrapped in leaves. Then the receptacle or parcel, as the case may be, is placed directly on smouldering embers, and the stuff inside slow-cooks over some hours. The combination of smoke and direct, yet gentle, heat does all kinds of wonderful things to the thing being cooked. It enhances the natural flavours of meats and imparts a delicious  smokiness to them, a sweeter, much more subtle smokiness than a Tandoor or a brazier's naked flames do. Mutton responds particularly well to this style of cooking. It remains slightly tough, and firmly textured. And its juices intensify to impart a rich gameyness. But this is not to say this method is good only for meats. Chhenā poŗā, to my mind Odisha's single most monumental contribution to the culinary arts, is also prepared in this way.

Bamboo Mutton

Handi Pora Mutton

In contrast to the hoopla Jungle View associates with Bamboo mutton, where the log is brought to the table and the meat ceremoniously extracted in the presence of the customers, they tend to serve hāņdī poŗā mutton in distinctly low-key fashion. hāņdī poŗā literally translates to 'charred (baked, whatever) in an earthenware pot', but you never actually get to see the pot itself. What they serve up on the table is nothing more than a portion of meat on a stain-less steel plate. Even at first glance, though, differences with Bamboo mutton are manifest. Its colour is darker, for one, which indicates they don't add so much turmeric to it. Neither do they seem to use mustard oil, since it lacks the faint pungency of the latter. Which is perhaps just as well: the sharpness of mustard wouldn't have gone well with the deeper, earthier notes of hāņdī poŗā. And it certainly does exude deep, earthy, even gamey notes. It is also smokier, and the meat a shade softer too. Perhaps earthenware pots diffuse heat better than bamboo logs do? Suffice to say that it has become an immense favourite with me, perhaps even more so than Bamboo Mutton has. And that's one massive endorsement.

Chinguri Pora

We tried chinguŗi poŗā too. 'Charred Prawns' it translates to, though it was not clear how exactly the prawns were consigned to such treatment. The stuff was fantastic too, wonderfully smoky and all. But I feel they added too much turmeric; tends to take away something from the seriousness of the eat, if you ask me. But that is probably because I don't like turmeric all that much, maybe a reaction to being brought up in a typically turmeric-intensive Bengali household. Anyway, the rest of the stuff we ordered were interesting but not remarkable. We asked for two types of Dāl, one with scrambled egg stirred in, and the other without. Rajat, the sole vegetarian among us contented himself with egg curry (even his wife Nidhi cheerfully tucked into mutton and prawn). I had a taste of the egg too. Pretty decent, but not exceptional. All in all, a very pleasant experience, as the group selfie I took just before we left suggests. Pleasant enough, but I still wonder: whatever happened to all that Emu and patra poŗā mutton?

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Dahi Bara Alu Dam

Yes, such a thing exists, and it is exactly what the name suggests: dahī baŗā and ālū dam tossed together. But to explain why I'm writing about it (and more importantly, how is it that people actually eat such a concoction), I'll have to start from Cuttack's reputation as a street-eat Mecca of sorts. Or rather, why I think this reputation is largely bunk. Odisha's culinary heritage is notable by any standards. Its confectionery in particular is justly famous. But much of its junk food is derivative, at best regional variants of stuff whose provenance lies elsewhere. Cuttack's famous rolls are merely a harshly-spiced version of what one gets in Kolkata. Gupchup is only a variation of the pānipūri concept ubiquitous throughout the country. Singra is likewise only a version on the pan-Indian samosā theme, itself a distant progeny of the Persian sambūsak. Ālū Chop? Try the ones in Kolkata to see where the Cuttack variant comes from. And about Chowmien and Chilli Chicken, the less said the better.

Dahi Bara Alu Dam, then, can be considered Cuttack's one true contribution to street-eatery. But oh dear! it's nowhere near so simple. Once yet again, none of its three chief components originates from Odisha. Dahī baŗā (dahī bhallā, thāir vaŗāi), or fried urad dāl doughnuts soaked in a cold yogurt-based sauce, is popular throughout India as a snack or breakfast eat. Ghuguni, chickpea stewed in a thin, spiced gravy, is likewise common to most parts of eastern India. Non-Odiyas spell it with only one 'u'. Bengal boasts several variants, including one containing shredded mutton; the Odiya version is closer to the stock Bengali preparation. Ālū dam, potato slow-braised under steam in a mild gravy, is not even a snack. It is very much a serious eat, and served as a main course in Bengal, Kashmir, Punjab, most other parts of North India, and even Odisha.

So if all three components are prevalent outside too, then how is it that Dahi Bara Alu Dam itself is considered exclusively to Odisha? Perhaps the fact that such a combination is so strange as to be unimaginable has something to do with it. All three components are considered stand-alone preparations in their own right. And the thing about stand-alone preparations is that you usually tend to eat them separately, and not mix them up in one bowl. For good measure, ālū dam and ghuguni are both supposed to be eaten hot, while most Dahi Bara Alu Dam vendors don't even carry any heating equipment with them. Think cold Irish Stew added to pineapple pizza, and then equally cold pasta in marinara sauce poured over it, you'll get some approximate idea just how ghastly it sounds (sounds, mind you - how it actually tastes is another matter). Which is fine, but how did the combine come to exist in the first place? And why Odisha, specifically? Those, alas! are questions to which I don't think anyone has any reliable answers. I am convinced no conscious human thought-process could have come up with something like this. My own speculations tend towards serendipitous origins, maybe some idiot upsetting ālū dam into a basin of dahī baŗā or something.

Some modifications to the basic concepts have been incorporated over the years. Most versions of dahī baŗā use a yogurt sauce the consistency of, say, creamy soup - runny but not excessively so. But here it is thinned down to the consistency of chhāch. Then generally, it's the ālū in ālū dam that is supposed to predominate: the quantity of gravy varies between moderate, to a thick, viscous coating, to near-bone dry. Punjabis prefer to lace it with cream, tomato, even crushed cashew; the Bengali version is more restrained in its flavour, relying principally on aromatic spices like cumin. In Kashmir they tend to make copious use of mild dried chilli, but barring that one exception ālū dam is generally supposed to be mild. The Odiya version in particular is a blameless, innocuous little number that leans towards Bengali traditions. Or at least the ālū dam your next-door Aunty serves up when she invites you for lunch. The one you get with dahī baŗā varies on both counts. It is made up of potato chunks swimming in vast amounts of runny, vilely spiced gravy with great patches of chilli powder-stained oil floating on top.

It is no exaggeration to say the preparation is Cuttack's staple street-eat. People eat it for breakfast, as a snack, at times even as a lunch- or dinner-substitute. The city is full of Dahi Bada Alu Dam vendors. Over time some have risen to such prominence and prosperity as to set up regular shops. There's one in Kanika Chhak that ranks among the best you can get. I've been there once, thoroughly enjoyed the experience too, but that's not what the post is about. Here I talk about the itinerant vendors who ply their wares all over town. A few affect 50cc mopeds, but the overwhelming majority prefers bicycles. In fact the bicycle forms an integral part of their equipment. Two large spherical aluminium pots, containing dahī baŗā and ālū dam respectively, are suspended from either side of the handlebar. A smaller pot of ghuguni hangs down from the crossbar. Slung over the side of the real wheel is a jerrycan of water, useful for rinsing spoons and enabling customers to clean their hands. Other peripherals - canisters of chopped onion, sev, spices; metal spoons; a sheaf of donās or disposable sāl-leaf bowls - are tucked about in various crevices along the frame.

A ten-minute walk from our University lies Naraj Barrage, at the spit where the river Mahanadi and its distributary Kathajodi separate. It is a place of much scenic beauty, and is well-known as a venue for leisurely, low-octane, hanging-out. Several Dahi Bara Alu Dam vendors congregate there, including this surly character who charges from his makeshift shop an exorbitant thirty Rupees for six baŗās. To place this into perspective, my favourite vendor, Sh Rabi Sahoo, charges twenty for a plate of ten baŗās, albeit slightly smaller in size. A most affable man who comes over every morning from a neighbouring village, he prefers the traditional method of dispensing the stuff right from his bicycle. He also follows the classical procedure of assembling the thing together. The first thing he does is take off the pot lids and wedge them between the bicycle's frame and chain-guard. Then he takes a donā and scoops baŗās onto it with a long-handled ladle. Once he's got the right number of baŗās, he presses hard on them with the back of his ladle to squeeze out excess dahī into the pot. Next he spoons out a large helping of ālū dam, then a touch of ghuguni, and then sprinkles chopped onion, sev, some spice mixture, and there you are, that's it.

Now the crucial question, how does it taste? Yes, and this is where the weirdness of the whole thing reaches its pinnacle, it tastes bloody good. Some newcomers don't like it much, or complain it's nowhere near what it's made out to be. I don't know about that, I've always found it most satisfying. As to how that incongruous mishmash of standalone dishes yields something so tasty, don't ask me, I offer no rational explanations here. The baŗā's mild tartness contrasts well with the spice levels of the ālū dam; then chickpea combines well with the mushy potatoes, imparting a nuttiness to the latter; the onion and sev add pungent, crunchy counterpoints, and that's it. That's as far as my powers of analysis go. All I can say is, it makes for a delightful snack, and a fairly nutritious one too. Potato, yogurt, chickpea and all are healthy stuff. And while the Baras are deep-fried, they certainly do not exude oil, perhaps they have oil squeezed out of them too. Spice levels are kept to a minimum, since only small amounts of ālū dam and ghuguni are used. Hygiene is another matter altogether, especially given the copious amounts of (untreated) water used for the yogurt sauce. Then again, I don't ever recall Dahi Bara Alu Dam giving me an upset tummy. And hey, if you don't live life on the edge a little, then what's the point of having street food in the first place?

Oh, and one more thing - a minor announcement, in fact. Adding pictures to blogposts has posed a perennial problem. Lugging my DSLR around every time I encounter interesting street eats is clearly infeasible. On the other hand, the phones I've owned all tended to feature lousy cameras. Recently, and most certainly keeping the blog in mind, I've got myself a new phone, for once a model with a decent camera. It's a Samsung Galaxy J5, a joy to use due to its superlative AMOLED screen and capacity for memory cards of up to 128 GB. And I am happy to say that all pictures on this post were taken with it. The camera is decent, like I said, but could have been better. Especially in low light. Why they cannot improve phonecam low-light performance I have no idea.

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Sucharita, or that Random Road-Trip to Konark

One of the nicest things about my marriage is the ease with which we have been accepted as a couple. Avanthi commands a much higher standing among my relatives than I do. And her relatives have been unstinting in the love and affection they have lavished on me, something I am most thankful about. More to the point, our respective friend circles have not merely accepted but duly absorbed the other into them. And over time we as a couple have befriended other couples. Sucharita Sengupta and Adnan Farooqui are an instance. They both teach political science at the Jamia Millia Islamia - bright, socially motivated, warm-hearted, and generally terrific people to hang around with. Suchi and I share a common interest in photography. She also happens to be distantly related: her first cousin once removed married a first cousin to my grandmother. So going by the nomenclature prevalent in India, that makes her my aunt. Anyways, Auntie and husband had a wedding to attend at a resort just outside Puri. Which was excellent news, because it had been a while since I had met them. Then Adnan welshed out, so that left only Suchi and self, since Avanthi and the little 'un were in Bangalore.

Even then we nearly didn't meet. Suchi's hosts had organised a bus for her and other guests directly from Bhubaneswar airport. And another bus to take them straight to the airport once the festivities concluded. Which didn't exactly leave much bandwidth for meeting up. That's when I had this splendid idea of taking a day's leave from the University, borrowing Millan's car, picking up Suchi from the airport, showing her a bit of Bhubaneswar and, eventually, driving her down to Puri. She cheerfully fell in with the idea, Millan readily agreed to part with his car for a day, and the rest of the plan fixed itself up almost by default, as it were.

[A word about Millan's car, now. It's a little Maruti 800, a bit long in the tooth, but well maintained. The engine especially is in good nick, certainly sound enough to sustain a day-long romp to the coast and back. I share an emotional relationship with it. When buying it he took me along; at that time he was not confident of handling the traffic around Badambadi. So I was the first person who drove it after the purchase. And Millan is most generous about lending it out. We have this informal arrangement: whenever I need it I let him know a day or two in advance, and if not inconvenient to him he happily chucks the keys over.]

The day didn't start too auspiciously. I got late reaching Millan's house, not a big surprise. So I was about halfway to Bhubaneswar when Suchi called up to say she was waiting for me, and that too outside the airport building. Damn! I did manage to reach the airport in half an hour. And the revelry started in earnest right away. I suggested getting some mandatory sari-shopping done first. She declared she was most impressed with Avanthi for having me trained so beautifully! To her credit she didn't take a whole lot of time over it. A quick snack later, we were on our way. Actually, no. Suchi said she had never seen Konark, something she badly wanted to do. We didn't have a whole lot of time with us, so that's where we headed directly. In the process forsaking Bhubaneswar's numerous attractions (which for the most part fell within the genre 'touristy', so the loss was not a big one).

The journey was delightful. Beautiful if slightly congested roads, the car behaving beautifully, and the sheer joy of catching up with a valued friend, all added up to yield a most memorable experience. We didn't take too many photographs, we had so much to talk about. Particularly foulmouthing our spouses, who had chosen to miss out on this wonderful experience. And besides I needed to keep an eye on the road and unruly traffic too. One picture I did take was of a minivan laden with bananas. Laden is too mild a term, it had bananas everywhere: crammed full on the inside, and then more on the roof, bunches stacked one on top of the other with long bits of stem curving up and outwards like so many improbably green-coloured flamingoes. It brought back memories of Belafonte's definitive 'Banana Boat Song': "Six-foot, seven-foot, eight-foot bunch!! / Daylight come and me wan' go home".

Konark was another delight. It was well past midday now, and fairly hot, but to the camera-obsessed, such considerations are at best peripheral. We spent the better part of two hours there.

This was followed by the most picturesque part of the journey. The East Coast Road connecting Konark and Puri is a dream. Beautifully maintained, largely bereft of traffic, and replete with interesting twists, it acts as a lure to local hotbloods bent on showing off their driving skills at high speeds, often with tragic consequence. But who would want to drive down such a picturesque road at high speed? And not take in the vast, untidy charm only mangrove patches can claim for their own? Or the pristine deserted stretches of beach interspersed between the mangrove clumps?

These beaches were so beautiful that at one point Suchi insisted we stop and take pictures. A wise choice, and a particularly attractive stretch of beach at that. I was charmed, but then in the last one year or so I had encountered plenty of beaches. The impact it had on Suchi, on the other hand, was nothing short of electrifying. She was thrilled, absorbed, engrossed, and she went beserk with her camera. So much so that she didn't realise she had gained an admirer. Woof! And any time I need to pull her leg, this is the photo I remind her of. It never fails, believe me.

Crab

Prawn

By this time we were quite hungry too. Suchi craved seafood beyond anything else (Adnan's vegetarian, which means she can't make it at home too often either). I had promised to take her to Chung Wah, one of Puri's finest attractions. Which was fine with her; the place is justly famous for its Chinese-style seafood. But as we were bouncing down the East Coast Road, she spotted a signboard advertising fresh seafood. Further signages led us to the Lotus Resort at Ramchandi Beach. By mutual consent we agreed to keep things (very) simple: crab, prawn, and any other species of seafood the place could yield. No rice, chapati, noodles, vegetables, or other inessentials. Perhaps because we had arrived at an odd time, they could offer only a limited selection. We opted for um, don't recall what it was called, but it was in substance crab fried in some sort of spicy chilly sauce. Suchi loved it. So did I, but with some minor reservations: I did think it was a trifle overcooked, and also not as big as I have encountered in so many eateries in Odisha. The prawn, on the other hand, was an unqualified success. At the manager's suggestion we asked for it to be gently fried with a touch of coriander. It did come laced with an incongruous assortment of vegetables, stir-fried and raw, which didn't quite fit in. Then again, they did not succeed in undermining the flavour of the prawn either, so could be happily ignored. The chopped garlic and coriander, on the other hand combined to subtly influence the prawn in the nicest way possible. The prawn itself was fresh, and cooked just right. So it retained its crunchy texture, and its unique flavours. And oozed rich, aromatic, downright intoxicating juices the moment you sank your teeth into it. It revived us no end, we had  become quite tired by then.

The rest of trip was uneventful. I dropped off Suchi at the wedding venue. We spent some time out there, once again spewing maledictions at our respective spouses for not joining us. I then set off for Cuttack, promising Suchi I'll be ever so careful. Not that she needed a whole lot of reassurance; the day's worth of driving had left her most appreciative of both car's and driver's capabilities. The car's behaviour all through the day was particularly remarkable, and fully justified the confidence reposed in it. At no point did it create the slightest fuss. On the return journey too it behaved magnificently, and ferried me home with aplomb. Which places me in a dilemma: should I let Suchi know it didn't have a spare tyre?

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Jungle View: Bamboo Mutton and Emu in the Odiya Hinterland

Odisha's a strange place when it comes to food. Especially urban centres like Bhubaneswar and Cuttack. Not that they are starved of eateries, far from it: I guess food lies in the second rung among lucrative business ventures, right after clothes. But invariably, the array of preparations they turn out tends to be - call it what you will, homogenised, standardised - I call it boring. The same old stuff: mostly misbegotten "Mughlai" and faux-Chinese, a few hackneyed Odiya dishes like Dalma and Mutton Kassa, perhaps one or two equally hackneyed Bengali fish preparations, and that's it. The State's rich, diverse culinary heritage gets showcased so rarely in these joints that it's futile to expect them to display any true identity or personality. At best they'll have a couple of signature items they do really well, and then beyond that the same old gunk. Even Jungle View, one of the few truly offbeat eateries I've encountered in the vicinity, now stoops to quasi-Chinese preparations. Incipient Kaliyuga, that's what it is.

The place's name is entirely appropriate: it is sandwiched between Nandan Kanan and the adjoining Chandaka Elephant Reserve. You may not get to see (or 'view') much jungle, but that is a minor nit. The point is, it is located miles away from anywhere, literally, even the most recently urbanised parts of Bhubaneswar. So how do they manage to run a prosperous eatery business so far away from cities, that too cities not especially known for offbeat dining? Tourists from Nandan Kanan cannot contribute all that much by way of custom. As a matter of fact, most diners seem to come all the way from Bhubaneswar or Cuttack, or even farther places, just to eat there.

It started out as a nondescript dhābā , then evolved to offer a nice little line in local meaty preparations or, as this blog calls them, 'rustic tribal delicacies'. These include mutton - technically chevon or goat meat - cooked in bamboo logs, in earthenware pots, and wrapped in leaves of some sort. Over time the place's reputation began to spread through word of mouth, it expanded its repertoire to include Japanese quail (locally called gunduri) and emu, apparently sourced from a farm in Ganjam. Also, to accommodate its steadily-growing upmarket clientele, it took over an adjacent tract of land and converted it into an open-air dining space where you get the same food at marginally marked-up prices.

Let's face it, the upmarket side of things is tacky in the extreme. Mainly due to the excessive use of moulded concrete masquerading as unfinished log. Right at the gate you encounter this rude post-and-lintel arrangement made even more hideous by the two concrete birds perched on top and looking slightly bored. Inside, you have a garden with two thatched gazebos, each capable of seating about twelve. Rather pretty, really, and for once the concrete used there looks like concrete. Beyond lies the central dining area. This comprises a vast awning propped up on concrete pillars trying their best to look like bamboo clumps. Beneath the awning lies a marble dining table large enough to seat thirty-five comfortably. Around it are concrete benches looking vaguely like split logs. The backrests are even more strange, featuring moulded concrete trelliswork made to look like er, what? Mangrove roots?

After you cross this you encounter another stretch of garden with more creative landscaping, notably a hill made of concrete and boulders, which reminds me irresistibly of grottoes I have seen at some churches. This stretch also contains cages full of birds, mainly gunduri, which also features prominently in the menu. Along the left edge of the tract run a series of air-conditioned prefab cabins, available to groups at no extra cost. Each can seat about twenty or so. Spartan furnishings notwithstanding, they do provide a modicum of privacy and comfort especially in the summer months.

So much for the decor - it's obvious that's not why we keep going there. We go there for the food and, despite the distance, we've been there so many times I've lost count. Most of the photos posted here are from an impromptu visit last March. There were five of us, including colleagues Bishwa, Millan, Ram, and Sudatta. We had little work that afternoon, the weather was still pleasant, so it was not difficult to persuade the rest of the gang, particularly Millan who readily agreed to get his car along. The drive was most pleasant, two long halts at level crossings notwithstanding. On this occasion the air-conditioned cabins were not available. We sat beneath the central awning instead, and passed time most convivially taking pictures and cracking stupid jokes till the food arrived. Emu was off that day, much to our disappointment. We contented ourselves with Bamboo Mutton, quail, some Dal with egg in it, some Dal without egg. And Naan and rice.

The mutton is clearly the place's signature dish, and also the most expensive at around four hundred a serving. Small chunks of mutton are liberally smeared with spices, ginger, garlic and (very discernibly) mustard oil, and then stuffed into hollow bamboo logs. The logs are then sealed, tossed into smouldering embers, and left there for the meat to cook. Once done, the logs are fished out of the embers and brought directly to the table, where a waiter ceremoniously scoops out the meat onto a plate. Cooked this way, it remains chewy, even tough at times. It absorbs the smokiness of the embers, and the bamboo imbues it with its own subtle grassy fragrance and moistness. The mustard oil's pungency also remains discernible, albeit subdued. The result is surprisingly harmonious, perhaps because the individual notes are all understated. All in all, the preparation as well as the final results are not something one is likely to encounter elsewhere. Definitely a high-point of my stay in Odisha.

Braised Emu

I am not so fond of quail. It is a bony bird, with not all that much meat on it. Its flavour is interesting but not remarkable, at least not to my palate. The chefs at Jungle View coat it in a spicy paste, and then cook the bird whole in loads of oil (not mustard oil, though). The spice levels do little to help matters; for one, they tend to block out much of the meat's intrinsic flavour. Still, an interesting preparation, and justifies an occasional foray if only for novelty value.

On subsequent visits I had occasion to sample the other stuff on the menu. The Emu wins hands down, beautiful stuff it is. They serve it boneless, braised in much the same spices as go into the quail. But the meat's darker, discernibly more gamey flavour goes well with the spices. It is pricey at about 260 Rupees for a small plate, but more than worth the spend. The mutton cooked in earthenware pots is also excellent. Once we tried some prawn. It turned out to be so spectacular we promptly ordered another plate. I don't know how they cook it, but it was soft, not over-spiced, and had this distinctive smoky flavour. I have not managed to try the leaf-wrapped mutton yet. Certainly the next time I go across I shall make it a point to try it out, and also renew my acquaintance with all the stuff I have only mentioned in passing here. Do stay tuned for an update.

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Patel Bakery

Cuttack's Buxi Bazar on Diwali night exhibits a curious mixture of gaiety and desolation. Shop-fronts festoon themselves with decorative lights, even the ones in Muslim-dominated neighbourhoods. But since this is primarily a business district and people tend to celebrate Diwali at home, you find few people around barring stray groups of revellers lighting crackers on the empty streets. This is so dramatic a contrast to the unending, viscous stream of noisy, unruly traffic that you usually encounter on these streets, it is actually disorienting. Disorienting, but not disconcerting. That is an epithet I reserve for the rows and rows of closed food shops that greeted this very hungry soul that evening.

Finally I located a seedy joint offering Biryani (turned out to be ghastly) and Chicken Tikka dyed bright red. As I came out of the place, I saw Patel Bakery, still open at close to 9 PM. I was suprised. Not because of the late hour (shops in that locality stay open till ten normally); not even the fact that apart from that seedy eatery it was the only shop in that row open that day. No, what surprised me was the utter absence of customers queued up.

Patel Bakery is an institution in Cuttack. It is a singularly unglamorous looking shop. And its bill of fare is restricted to simple, homely stuff like bread, sweet buns, rusks, and tea-cakes. But over the years it has built up such a reputation for quality that right from early evening you see long queues of customers seeking to buy its produce as fresh as possible. Even near closing time you'll find customers' queues haunting the place. So when that night I found, for the first time ever, the place bereft of customers I thought they were in the process of closing. But no, they were still open, and I was welcome too.

I took advantage of this dearth of customers to get chatting with the proprietor, a sweet, thickly bearded old gentleman by name Abdul Rehman Patel. And from this conversation I was able to gain some insights into his personality. He was a disciplinarian of the old school, who simply could not tolerate any dereliction from what he considered minimum norms of etiquette. Standing in queue and waiting for one's turn was an uncompromisable aspect of this credo. It was made clear to me almost at first-hand, when another customer barged past me and tried to shout out an order. In an instant Mr Patel's mild-mannered affability transformed into a snarling belligerence I have rarely seen outside of the Delhi Police. He stood up, made it amply clear to the transgressor he could bloody well get lost if he didn't have the patience to wait; and then, once the customer cowed down, treated me to a homily about Indians' lack of civic sense, and why it is holding the country back. So, I inferred, was keeping his shop open that day a facet of his innate self-discipline. Never mind the lack of customers, never mind it's a holiday, the shop must remain open as long as it is supposed to.

This little interlude was so startling I quite forgot to place my order. I hastily remedied this lapse, and asked for rusks, buns, some tiny teacakes (the shop assistant solicitously informed it had egg in it), and a packet of fresh bread the place is so famous for. Then I asked Mr Patel if I could take some photographs. He was initially a little surprised, didn't seem quite sure how to respond. But then his natural bonhomie prevailed, his sternness melted away, and he sat back and smiled that warm, fuzzy smile of his.

His black cap and sharp features gave him the appearance of a Parsi patriarch, but that was unlikely given his Muslim name. My initial guess was Dawoodi Bohra, but he clarified he was a Cutchi Memon and hence a Sunni. That explained several things. His business acumen for one. Then his love of regimen and his austere deportment (only slightly dented by the cigarettes on his desk). And also his deep and yet enlightened commitment to religion, evidence of which abounded all over the shop. The cabinets at the back were liberally festooned with little advertisements for Hindi and English translations of the Quran. His own desk was surrounded with piles of religious texts for sale, the Ramayana and Gita as well as the Quran. I spotted in one corner a guide to Urdu. Now gaining familiarity with the Nastaliq script has been a long-standing dream, a dream I've not even come close to achieving despite numerous efforts, and books bought in good faith. This one looked interesting, though, and so it proved well worth the hundred and twenty I paid for it.


After reaching home, I decided to start on the rusks first. I was struck by their curious shape. Or should I say the curious diversity in their shapes and sizes. Then it struck me, they were made from buns! Chop up into thick slices buns left over from the previous day's sale, run them through the oven once again, and there you are! as neat a recipe as any for at the same time minimising waste and upholding your commitment to freshness - well, fresh buns anyway. Frankly, the rusks weren't up to much. I personally prefer the ones made of atta (coarsely-ground flour) or wholewheat flour, which impart a nuttiness refined flour can never approximate. You make rusks as a derivative process, you're bound to lose out on something, in this case flavour. The buns fared much better in this regard, certainly in some measure because they started life as buns, not as derivatives of something else the way the rusks did. They were fresh, soft, not oversweet, and generally a decent accompaniment to sweet milky tea. So were the teacakes pleasant to eat, if not particularly special.

But the bread stole the show. They were freshly made like the buns and the teacakes were, and if anything smells more appetising than bread warm off the oven, I haven't come across it. They were also cut into thick slices, and slightly irregularly, the way bread used to be cut in old-fashioned bakeries. I didn't think much of it initially, but then I realised it is actually an advantage if eaten the old-fashioned way it is probably intended to: toast it on a tawa till the outsides are crisp and hot to the touch; slather butter on it, lots of butter; then wait for the butter to melt and seep through the bread a little before you start eating, preferably with tea or soup. And if the bread is fresh and soft the way this bread was, it yields a superlative maska toast experience. Three cheers, Mr Patel, you made my day. I don't intend to visit you often, not so much for the queues as for the extra butter your bread will force me to consume. But whenever my resistance reaches breaking point, why, I shall cheerfully give in. Stand in queue for hours even, if you want me to. And wallow in butter and toast for the next few days, and then blame you leading me into temptation. 

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The Chopshop at Professorpada (and that lovely Ambassador car) - II

[Continued from Part I]

After the chicken pakoda interlude, I asked Satya to drive. I was feeling fatigued, and also slightly feverish (not so surprising; within two days my temperature hit 103.8 Farenheit). Satya exhibited a much more practised touch, had no compunctions gunning the car down crowded roads. Eventually we hit Professorpada, turned left at the canal, proceeded down the road for a few hundred metres, and then Satya stopped the car, asked us to get down, and pointed to a narrow lane on the left. Going further down this lane we discovered two adjoining shops, both selling chops. Satya directed us to the one closer to us, which was apparently the more favoured (and better known) purveyor.

The outfit had been carved out of a tiny alcove within a large, old house (the exposed beams on the ceiling gave you a feeling of just how old it was). This, however, served only as a store-room. It was kept meticulously clean, and had been fitted out with several shelves and benches. On these rested an array of sauces, condiments, spices, and trays full of uncooked chops. The action took place outside. All the cooking was done on a gas burner mounted on a stand, on which stood an ancient cast-iron Kadhai filled with oil. Customers stood around this arrangement, donas (leaf-bowls) in hand, the way people surround gol-gappa vendors. Chops were brought out from inside one tray at a time, and dunked into the sputtering oil. Once ready, they would be served straight out of the kadhai onto customers' donas. Amazingly, this whole process was a one-man affair. From frying the chops to serving them, to keeping count of which customer had how many of which variety, to handling the cash till, the proprietor did it all, singlehanded, faltering only rarely.

The chops were a surprise in several ways. Their size, to begin with. Chops generally tend to be oblong in shape, at least three inches long and about an inch and a bit across. These ones were tiny, at best three quarters of an inch across, and nearly spherical in size. Then the variety: the place has at least six or seven types on offer. They are cheap too. The mutton, chicken, liver, and prawn versions sell for three Rupees each. Also on offer is a vegetarian version, pointless from a religious viewpont since they are fried in the same oil as the meatier ones are. Egg chops are larger and pricier at ten bucks. Apart from chops, the shop also sells chaap, or breaded, deep fried cutlets. Mutton chaaps come for fifteen Rupees, and the chicken version for ten (I suspect the chicken chaaps are actually lollypops rather than chaaps in the true sense). Another interesting feature is the way they are served. About five to ten of them go into a dona, accompanied not by the stale raw onion you get at most chop vendors', but by a delightful green salad made up mostly of coarse-chopped unpeeled cucumber, just a little bit of shredded onion, and a few stray segments of lime. A masala is sprinkled, and then lime juice squeezed, over chop and salad alike. We were also offered tomato and chilli sauce, which we firmly and unanimously rejected.

Proceedings started with mutton chop, ten pieces to a person. Frankly, not up to much: too much potato, barely any meat. They tasted good, true. The breading was done just right - crispy, neither too oily nor too heavy. So was the lightly spiced potato filling tasty in its own right. But the dearth of meat filling was galling. All said, there's only so much potato you can chomp through in your quest for elusive bits of meat. In this regard the liver chops in the next round fared much better. Each piece had a substantial chunk of liver embedded. I suspect they pre-cook the liver, because for sure a few minutes' deep frying won't soften it enough. The bits in the chops were firm but impressively soft to chew, and they blended with the potato beautfully. A very, very satisfying experience.

In between the rounds, we got to talk to the proprietor a little. He said his name was Muna Panda, but people generally knew him as Kalia. His father had started the venture and he himself drifted into it in due course, largely because he was never serious about studies. He sometimes feels should have followed his brother, who qualified as an engineer and is now very well settled in Qatar. Kalia is determined to give his son a good education, and not let junior follow him into the chop business. I wonder what happens when he hangs up his Kadhai for good. Will he sell off the business? Will he share with the buyer, presumably an outsider to the family, the secret recipes and techniques he has amassed, the secrets that make his chops so singular? Or will he refuse to part with them, and have the Professorpada chop die with him?

And there were plenty of secrets too. We got a taste of them in the very next round, comprising of prawn chops. At three Rupees apiece, you cannot expect the highest grades of prawn. And indeed, the prawns used were pretty small, and a little on the stinky side too. However, they were cooked just right, and spiced just right. The spicing was gentle, and yet just assertive enough to soften the stink to comfortably tolerable levels. Once again, the prawn blended beautifully with the potato and the crisp breaded exterior. So which one did I like the more, liver or prawn? On hindsight, perhaps I'd go with the prawn, but for sure the liver version would come a very, very close second. Choosing between them is not easy.

The prawn chops were where we stopped. We had demolished several plates of chicken pakoda earlier, and then followed it up with about thirty chops per head. And thirty chops, even ones as small as these, make for a lot of meat, potato, and deep-fried breadcrumb. Raja continued to give Kalia brisk business for some more time. He had a round of chicken chops, then some mutton chaap, perhaps a few egg chops too. By this time I was feeling distinctly out of sorts.


At Dolamundai the others visited a well-known mixture shop. I took the opportunity to treat myself to some cough syrup. Then we went to a legendary tea stall near Barabati stadium. The delightful old gentleman running it greeted us with a perplexing remark, he said we ought to have come earlier, now he can serve us only dalda, not desi ghee. We had to talk to him for some time before we were able to understand what he meant, namely that his stock of good quality tea had got over for the day, and so he could offer us only second-great stuff which came nowhere near the quality he was famous for. Second-grade or not, the tea he served was excellent, and all the more so as far as I was concerned because by this time the virus had me firmly in its grip.
Bishwa took over the wheel for the last leg. I was too sick to drive. But not too sick to pose for pictures at the wheel of the car. We spent a good fifteen minutes taking photos, mainly because I wanted souvenirs to commemorate the first time I drove an Amby. It was a very silly idea, agreed, but the others cheerfully got into the spirit of things. Several shots later, I finally staggered up the stairs and flopped down on the bed without preamble. I was tired, sick, shivery, feverish, but it had been worth it in the end, every single bit of it.

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The Chopshop at Professorpada (and that lovely Ambassador car) - I

I am not sure how Cuttack's Professorpada locality got its name. Maybe faculty members from the nearby Ravenshaw College (now University) were allocated land there. Or maybe a whole bunch of them decided to settle down in the vicinity. I don't suppose too many academics would care to stay there today. Due to its central location it commands high property prices, even though Cuttack's largest, filthiest, and most malodorous open sewage drain flows (or stagnates, usually) right past it. For some strange reason the locallity has acquired a reputation for chop shops.

Right, then. What is a chop? Specifically what do we Indians mean by it? This second question is most relevant, because 'chop' is a textbook example of an English term acquiring in India a meaning completely removed from what it carries in its parent tongue. In standard English, according to Wikipedia, a chop is a  'cut of meat cut perpendicularly to the spine, and usually containing a rib or riblet part of a vertebra.'  The same article defines a cutlet as a 'thin boneless chop, or one with only the rib bone', though it admits the difference 'is not always clear'. In Indian cuisine a cutlet is typically a rib cut, spiced, breaded, and then deep fried. Please note that 'cutlet' refers specifically to the preparation; the cut of meat itself is known as either Seena (sīnā) (lit. 'breast') or Chaap (cāp) (sometimes pronounced with a slight nasal intonation as 'chaa(m)p'). The word certainly appears to be a corruption of the English 'chop'. I was unable to find any source that bears out this conjecture, barring an online glossary that defines chaap as 'rib chop'. The resemblance across the two words, however, is manifest.

In addition to 'chaap', several Indian languages also feature a word called 'chop' whose meaning bears no resemblance to its standard English counterpart. I have no idea where this version came from. It has at its core some sort of savoury filling, either meaty or veggie (Bengalis tend to make a mean chop out of Mocha or banana-blossom). It is then spiced, encased in mashed potato, breaded (typically with fine-textured breadcrumbs), then deep-fried. Hence it is much closer in spirit to the croquette, except that our chops tend to be more oblong or rounded than strictly cylindrical in shape.  (NB: The section on India in the wikipedia article is heavily misleading, please do not pay much attention to it). This is not a strict definition. The Alu Chop purveyed in streetside shops all over Bengal and Odisha conforms to few of its parameters. It comprises simply of sliced potato dipped in gram-flour batter and then deep-fried. No mashed potato casing, no breadcrumbs. At times it's not even spiced beforehand - just before handing the customer the plateful, the purveyor sprinkles salt, pepper, chilli powder and stuff.

The chop you get at Professorpada is of the croquette type - encased in mash, breaded, then deep fried. It marks a celebrated high-point in the Cuttack foodie scene. Rocky and Mayur, NDTV's food-honchos, have done a spot on it (the chop bit starts at about 7.18) and also reviewed it in their book (the review claims that the chops are batter-fried, ouch!). It has also featured on Indian Express. I've been hearing about it since 2010, particularly from friend and colleague Debasis, who used to live there back then. Even though I visited him at his house on countless occaisions, I never got the chance to try the chops, one reason being that he never let me know the shops were located right adjacent to the apartment he lived in. Then he moved out, my reasons to go there diminished, and I forgot about it. Till last night, once again on a whim.

This time round, apart from usuals Ramakrishna and Bishwa Kallyan, we had two students come along with us. Raja and Satyaprakash are in the final year, and thoroughly nice guys both of them. In Satya's case this is all the more notable because his father happens to be a prominent local politician. However, the gentleman is very much of the old school who has brought up his son with an iron hand to ensure he absorbed none of the brashness and arrogance so prevalent in political progeny in India. In this I am glad to say he succeeded most satisfactorily.

Presumably it's this old-school perspective that led the gentleman to buy an Ambassador car instead of some swankier new model. The Ambassador has become an icon of sorts today, loved and reviled in equal measure. It started life in 1957-58 as a direct clone of the Morris Oxford III,  underwent several modifications through successive iterations, and finally ended production as recently as 2014. Satya's version features an Isuzu-derived 2-litre diesel engine, a five-speed floor-shift gearbox of similar provenance, front disk brakes and bucket seats, power steering, and a retro-inspired centre-mounted instrument panel. It doesn't even call itself an Ambassador any more - for some unfathomable reason it now bears the name Avigo instead. Beneath the changes, though, the bodyshell remains largely unchanged from 1957, which establishes its Ambassadorial lineage no matter how comprehensively it is rechristened. Now I started driving at a time when pre-liberalisation cars like the Amby and the Premier Padmini (colloquially known as the 'Fiat') were common. I learnt to drive on a Fiat we sold as late as 1999, and I'm pretty sure a 1962 version replete with suicide doors (which also I have driven) still remains somewhere in the family. But somehow the chance to drive an Amby always eluded me. Till Satya readily agreed to bring his car along for the chop jaunt.

The drive was a revelation in many ways. Driving a piece of history was a thrilling experience. Yet I couldn't help but grieve a little over what the car stood for in its present iteration: a misbegotten modernisation exercise inevitably doomed to failure. The gearshift was flaccid. It was also positioned inconveniently forward, and the stumpy lever had a very wide throw. Which meant you had to reach out and flail your left arm around a good deal before it slotted into gear. The brakes were barely adequate. The power steering was soggy, didn't give you a feel of the road. I didn't much like the engine either. Particularly the feeble pick-up - you needed to really rev the engine to get any kind of acceleration out of the car. Nevertheless, the drive was in general a pleasant one, largely attributable to features left unmolested from circa 1957. Seating remains as roomy as ever, particularly for rear-seat passengers. And the suspension's ability to soak up potholes is something to be cherished.

When starting off I assumed we'd proceed to Professorpada directly, and so set a course accordingly. But no, it turned we had to take a little detour. A little while ago the conversation had turned to chicken Pakodas served at a place called DFC (more on it later). This had whetted Satya's cravings so badly that, as we were cheerfully bowling down the Kathjodi Ring Road, he unobtrusively went and called up DFC and asked for a few plates to be served the moment we arrived. Had I known about it earlier, I would have hit the Mahanadi Ring Road, kept to the river's edge till about Barabati Stadium, and then prised the car into the YMCA Road. It was too late to do that now, unless I doubled back from Satichaura all the way to Chahata. The alternative was to head straight from Satichaura and then cut through the town's denser pockets. I was not too keen to do that, what with an unfamiliar car and all, but once I realised I didn't have much of a choice, what the hell! The car behaved magnificently, especially in the most thickly-populated bits where riding the clutch was a necessity.

[Continued in Part II]

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Hotel Subhalaxmi, Naraj

Hotel Subhalaxmi is a small, unpretentious dhābā tucked away in a village just beyond the farthest reaches of Cuttack.  It is not a particularly well-known place, nor is it given to offering exotic one-off preparations. But over time it has built up a local reputation for hearty everyday fare at reasonable prices. Denizens tend to speak highly of its mutton curry and fried fish. It is only a couple of kilometres away from our University campus, and some colleagues are regular lunchtime visitors. We'd been hearing about it for quite some time. So the other day we three of us - Bishwa Kallyan, Ramakrishna, and self - decided on a whim to check it out.

Ram had in fact finished a substantial lunch by then. He came along mainly for the good-humoured conviviality and camaraderie that make our little jaunts so memorable. That and a little fried fish on the side - he ordered um, four of them. Bishwa and I were fortunate he didn't want anything more. They had nearly run out of mutton by the time we arrived (at about 2.30) and could scrape together only two servings. To this Bishwa and I helped ourselves with an easy conscience since Ram was, of course, too full for another meal!

The place is typical of dhabas in Odisha. It is housed in a small single-storied cemented building, one among a row of shops. In front of the entrance is a kind of porch made of concrete columns topped by a canopy of corrugated iron. This serves to stave off the heat, and also provided some shade for regulars who sit there for a chat. What really caught the eye was the shop's startling colour-scheme. The columns are painted a bright lime green with a blue and, now much faded, at the bottom. Inside the green gives way to an equally vivid mustard yellow. Here the blue borders and edges are much more prominent. The sides of the cashier's desk, and the iron door at the back, also flaunt similar shades of blue. As is common practice among dhabas, the kitchen is situated right in front, with tables laid out for diners towards the back. The inside is spartan, with the furniture tending to granite-topped iron tables and backless wooden benches. The ceiling has begun to look a little sooty. That said, it is reasonably clean throughout, even the kitchen is respectably tidy. The benches are not too uncomfortable either, a sentiment evidently shared by the group at the next table who had sneaked in some (very strong) beer and were surreptitously doling it out amongst themselves.

Even though we had come for the first time, the manager sized us up as favoured customers. This favour was bestowed in curious fashion. Perhaps overly cautious of hygiene levels, he came and spread newspapers on our table before setting down the plates. The full thalis (plated meals) for Bishwa and self arrived first. And a good thing too. We were starving by then; the freshly-lunched Ram was, well, not starving. The trays contained rice, some mixed veg, dry stir-fried potato and parwal, and that famed mutton. The rice was the inexpensive, thick-grained variety served in cheap eateries all over Odisha and known simply by the generic name usna chaula (pronounced 'usnā cāulô') or 'parboiled rice'. Sophisticates disparage it as coarse, hard to chew, and heavy on the stomach (hence lethargy-inducing). I tend to differ. It has a robust flavour and texture I love, which you simply don't find in the more refined varieties. If made properly it is not very chewy either. And in this place it was made most properly too, cooked just right. I used up all the rice finishing off the veggies, and had to ask for a second helping to have the mutton with.

The mixed veg was tasty enough, if not particularly interesting. I liked the potato and parwal much more. It was well cooked, not oily at all, and I have a weakness for parwal. I would have asked for seconds had it not been for the mutton waiting patiently across the rice. Ah! the mutton. Lived up to expectation in every way. The gravy was excellently made. It was browned evenly, replete with meaty juices and flavours, and without the slightest hint of scorching even though what they served us must have been the dregs from the day's cooking. The meat was well-cooked, succulent, soft, neither chewy nor mushy, and fell off the bone at the slightest touch. Humble surroundings be damned, it compared handsomely with the finest mutton I've had anywhere in Odisha.

I had just started on the mutton when the fish arrived. By the time I remembered to take pictures, and also get myself a taste, Ram had polished off two of them. They were locally procured small fish, possibly caught that morning off the nearby Kathajodi, and then fried whole. I confess I am not much of a fish eater. Still I helped myself to a couple of chunks just to get a taste. It was not bad, but not very juicy either, and a bit on the bland side. Ram enjoyed it thoroughly, though.

They charged us about Rs 120 per mutton thali. (Or at least that's what Bishwa told me later. While Ram and I were busy with fish and camera respectively, he had sneaked out and quietly settled the bill.) While not cheap, it was certainly reasonable considering the price of mutton these days. And certainly well worth the money. The fish sold for about Rs 30 each, which I thought was on the steeper side. But this is a minor nit. We had a wonderful time, no doubt about it. I certainly intend to be back soon.

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Autonson Soup - II

[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.

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