Java Kitchen on Christmas Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Silly Saison for Rocket-Burgers - I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Continued in Part II]

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Bánh mì - II

[Continued from Part I]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Bánh mì - I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Continued in Part II]

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Rational Social Choice: Grilled Stingray and Tiger Beer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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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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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