Cafe Thulp, Bangalore

Let me end the year with a long-overdue post, about a place I've wanted to write about for quite some time. Bangalore's Cafe Thulp chain specialises in hamburgers, hot dogs, sandwiches, pastas, mammoth breakfasts and the like. It is predominantly meat-oriented; it draws inspiration from a vast swathe of culinary traditions - Malayali, Goan, Italian, American, and South-East-Asian included; and its Koramangala branch remains one of my most favourite eateries in Bangalore. This might sound like an extravagant claim. Bangalore is home to numerous restaurants, which vary considerably in cuisines offered, prices, quality, and magnitudes of pretentiousness. And this place appears plenty pretentious at first glance. Its menucards and interiors are done up in a cheesy comic-strip style. The preparations are given strange names intended to convey informality and hip-ness simultaneously (try Sheikh Yerbooty, or what we'd normally call milkshakes). And the so many cuisines contributing to the menu raises apprehensions of bog-standard Indian-Chinese-Tandoori-Mughlai-Continental mishmashes you find in street corners all over India.

Two factors save the place from collapsing under the weight of its own over-the-top-ness. First, their food is excellent, (barring a few disasters now and then). And secondly, they understand cooking, including the nuances of each cuisine they have sourced their dishes from. So even if they deviate from 'authenticity' (whatever that be) and modify a preparation, they do so intelligently and not merely because, say, some ingredient is inconvenient to procure. This intelligence, and commitment to quality, is what makes their food truly eclectic and not simply uninformed.

I confess I am touchy about southeast-Asian cuisine. Nasi Goreng and Phở are not exactly haute cuisine. I wouldn't go about, like Wodehouse's Bingo Little, 'telling the head-waiter at Claridge's exactly how he wanted the chef to prepare the sole frite au gourmet aux champignons, and saying he would jolly well sling it back if it wasn't just right.' Yet I would want Nasi Goreng to taste like Nasi Goreng and not some ersatz watered-down substitute. If you replace kecap manis with local variants of soya sauce, and altogether omit oyster sauce or fish sauce, what you end up with is not Nasi Goreng but something indistinguishable from your roadside Indian-Chinese fried rice. I have no problems with Indian-Chinese food. Where I draw the line at is seeing it palmed off as authentic Malaysian/Indonesian cuisine, and its inevitable corollary, having to pay the premium prices such 'exotic', 'foreign' preparations command. Low-cost eateries tend to massacre the cuisine too, like the paneer-studded 'Singapore Cheese Noodles' I once encountered in Delhi, but at least they are not hypocritical about it.

Thulp does not serve Nasi Goreng, or Phở. Nor does it make pretentious claims to authenticity. But it sure does a mean ASEAN-inspired 'slow-braised pork belly with mushroom, bok choy and oyster sauce'. It is so good that as far as I am concerned, all the other things the place is supposed to be famous for - hamburgers, Sheikh Yerbooty, the lot - simply fade into insignificance. The menucard calls it 'signature', and it used to rank among their most expensive preparations. I say 'used to' because inexplicably, they have pulled it off their regular menu. It makes occasional guest appearances on their 'daily specials' chalkboard, which is not nearly the same thing. Back in the days it was a regular cast member, I ordered it on numerous occasions, and each time it much more than lived up to my expectations.

[Update: Regular reader and (so far the only) guest-blogger here on FoodScapes Anita Dixit points out in her first comment that they do slip up now and then on the satisfaction front. I had taken her there once when she was visiting Bangalore. Her (beef) steak was disappointing.  And worse, by the following morning she had developed a bad tummy upset, in all likelihood caused by the steak. As for me, that was the first time I had tried the pork belly. A thumping success all the way through, and my stomach behaved with admirable meekness the next day.]

The last time I had the pork belly was when some five of us went there for lunch. The group included sister-in-law Adithi, cousins Sayan and Swati, and Swati's husband Arnab. In celebration of their brotherhood-in-law, comedians Arnab and Sayan both landed up in Superman t-shirts.  Their appetites were sadly underwhelming, though. Arnab's in particular undid much justice to his apparel. He opted for about the smallest hamburger on the menucard. It was wider in circumference than the ones you get at fast-food outlets, and its patty, while not particularly thick, was certainly juicier and more flavourful. Not surprising, because fast-food chains in India ply only chicken burgers, while this was made of stuff pious Hindus tend to avoid. It came with a scoop of cole slaw that would barely cover a playing card, and a similarly austere helping of french fries. Beautifully cooked stuff, whatever little of it there was. Arnab had asked for a small burger, so the limited portions were entirely acceptable. It was his insistence he was full up that had me worried.

Sayan and Adithi ordered something called El Pollo Loco, in substance crumb-fried chicken strips. Adithi's not a big eater and doesn't touch pork or beef, so her choices were predictably constrained. On the other hand, Sayan I felt was being distinctly unadventurous. Still, there it was, and the chicken was good too. Really good. It was soft, juicy, neither rare nor overcooked. The crumbed coating was particularly delectable, crispy without having soaked up too much oil. It came with a big chunk of cheesy mashed potato, and a bowl of what they called 'creamed spinach'. Much more cream than spinach if you ask me, in fact I first thought it was a dip or sauce of some sort. But none the worse for that; it was exceedingly good. I know because I helped myself to a forkful of chicken slathered with it.

Swati started out with a coke float. A strange way to begin a meal, but she enjoyed it. Her entrée was one of the few true, full-blown disasters I have encountered at Thulp. It was called The Clucky [sic] Luciano, or 'breaded escalope of chicken parmigiana with marinara sauce and mozzarella - served with garlic mashed potato and salad.' She got all that, and also a bit of pasta tossed in the same marinara sauce. This sauce was the problem. I have encountered very few Indian cooks who can handle tomatoes. Even the best and wisest lose their sense of restraint confronted with them. And the serving was a very painful reminder of this. It was sour through and through, blotting out all the garlic and the delicate herbs that must have gone into the dish. The pasta proved inedible beyond a few forkfuls, and Swati was reduced to scraping sauce off the chicken with a spoon.

The menu, usually so voluble about its preparations' provenance, is uncharacteristically silent about the cooking styles that inspired the braised pork belly.  It is generally associated with various cuisines of south-east Asia, and arguably more popular in that part of the world than anywhere else. The oyster sauce reinforces this suggestion, as does the Bok Choy, a variety of Chinese cabbage. China boasts a profusion of green leafy vegetables, which includes apart from Bok Choy also Kai Lan, Choy Sum, and Sui Choy. Spoilt for Choyce? Certainly, and all the more so because they are all delectable. Incidentally, this site here claims Choi Sum or Chye Sim are nothing but mustard greens. Eh? So many years I spent exploring Singapore food, and all this while they fed me Sarson da Saag?

The pork belly came a goodish bit later than the other main courses. It did say slow-braised, so I cannot complain, really. It was an elaborate affair. So elaborate that it needed two separate plates to hold everything together. A conventional plate housed the accoutrements - a helping of fried rice, a bowl of light soya sauce with shredded chilli, and some salad largely made up of carrot, white radish and cilantro. The pork itself came in a sort of soup plate lined with three or four Bok Choy leaves. That was the only role Bok Choy played in the entire affair, I don't know why the menucard gave it star billing. The mushroom and oyster sauce had a more central function. They combined with the meat juices and the braising liquid to form a thin but intensely flavoured gravy, which alone was worth the price of the dish. But all this paled before the pork. Superb it was, no other word for it. The meat was chewy in a good way, firm and with a strong flavour of its own. More delectable were the fatty bits. Now these days I find I cannot eat too much fat: one small chunk and I start feeling queasy. But this fat was light on palate and stomach alike. It did not taste very oily or greasy, neither did it clog my appetite. I was confident I could polish off another helping without much discomfort, something I cannot trust myself to do after say, three slices of bacon.

Dessert was a surprisingly drab affair. Thulp sources cupcakes from neighbours who like to bake on the side, gifted amateurs mostly, or at least those who think they are. Arnab and I decided to split one; the others were too full to join us. That day the suppliers' confidence exceeded their capabilities. The cake was dry, chewy and a little over-sweet. Apart from this hiccup, and the bigger one involving the Clucky Luciano, the meal was very, very enjoyable. Maybe a time will come when I tire of their food, or when their cooking deteriorates beyond tolerance levels. Maybe, but I don't think it's going to happen any time soon.

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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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Istanbul for Beginners 01: Getting There

[NB: This is part of a series on my visit to Istanbul. For other posts, please see the prefatory note.]

I was not meant to go to Istanbul. Not originally, that is. Back then I was a grad student at NUS. Their research scholars policy extended to funding one international conference a year. The SLS Conference, certainly one of the more prestigious events for law scholars, had accepted my abstract. It was to be held in London that year, which is where I thought I was headed. But then I got into a little problem with my supervisor, and the wonderful lady decided send me, and CC to the Vice-Dean, a mail containing some highly suggestive and misleading remarks about a dissertation chapter I was supposed to complete. As a matter of fact I had completed that chapter, and to the supervisor's satisfaction at that. I was the one who felt there was something vital I had missed out conceptually.  So I withdrew what I had turned in, and asked for a little time to revise it. It took me fifteen days of tense, chaotic brooding, but I did managed to crack the puzzle in the end, and the insights so gained proved pretty fundamental. By that time, though, the damage was done, and my funding application duly turned down. Ironically, these new ideas were what I wanted to present at SLS.

Even though I managed to set the record straight with the Vice-Dean the next time I met him in person, the episode left me absolutely livid. So much so that I vowed not to apply for conference funding ever again as long as I remained in Singapore. My friend Saiful thought it was a silly thing to do. He empathised with my feelings, yes, but why not avail of something that was mine by right? So what should I do, I asked, go ahead and present at a top-tier international conference insights I know are substantial, but which the supervisor can only scoff at? That's when he had a most interesting idea: why don't I seek out some conference, any obscure conference, being held at a place I've always wanted to visit? A little googling revealed a conference on terrorism to be held at one of Istanbul's lesser universities. I was reading Orhan Pamuk's book on the city at that time. Moreover, terrorism law had been one of my optional courses, and the term paper I had written for it could be comfortably recycled for this conference. Things began to fall into place automatically. This time my application sailed through most smoothly: I have no idea what the Vice-Dean told her, but my supervisor gave her consent in record time.

(Not entirely, though. She did one more little dirty on me. I had applied for three days' extra leave. She chose not to respond to the request one way or the other, which meant, thanks to the applicable rules, that I forfeited those three leaves without ever getting to know if they had been approved or not. I smelt a rat somewhere. My instincts told me extending the trip might not be a good idea. So I decided to return on the originally scheduled date. Sure enough, within hours of my landing I got a mail from her about something or the other. I responded within minutes, making it a point to say I was heavily jetlagged, which is why I couldn't come down to the campus. I don't know if she ran my mail through a reverse-DNS checkup. I sure hope she did; it would have reassured her no end.)

Anyways, once the approval came through the rest was easy. The only catch was, I had to arrange (and pay for) my own accommodation. This I managed online at minimum expense; I opted for a dormitory bed for fifteen Euros a night. Slightly steep, this Istanbul Paris Hotel and Hostel, but located in the heart of the Old City, extended walking distance from the conference venue, pretty close to the Blue Mosque and the Grand Bazaar, and they threw in a buffet breakfast for free. The University took care of the conference fees and, most crucially, the airfare. NUS had a delightful policy of reimbursing only SQ (i.e. Singapore Airlines) flights. Given that it was and remains one of the best airlines around, I certainly didn't have any problem with that. I did face a minor hiccup over my blazer, which I had outgrown by several inches around the midriff. Buying a new one from Singapore was never an option: the readymades were badly cut and ill-fitting, and bespoke tailoring was too expensive to contemplate. So one Saturday I went over to Johor Baru in Malaysia, located a tailor there, struck a deal with him, and returned the following Saturday to pick it up. I goofed a little on the material: in my haste I chose some sort of polyesterish stuff; when I went to pick it up I learnt I could have got Italian lambswool for just a hundred Ringgit more. That apart, my preparations proceeded with the utmost smoothness. Even the Turkish visa was processed in about three days.

Since this was an SQ flight, I got to experience at first hand the swanky new Terminal 3 at Changi. I loved the whole experience, couldn't get enough of it. Especially the planes parked right outside the departure lounge, across the plate-glass windows. In the plane another surprise awaited me. Though the flight was reasonably full, the other two seats on my row remained unoccupied, at least till the stopover at Dubai. Which meant I could simply lift up the armrests and stretch out across all three seats. I still didn't get much sleep, though. Even after about six or seven assorted drinks, I could only manage a thin, intermittent snooze in the last two hours of the Singapore-Dubai leg. Maybe the drinks they serve on planes are smaller than regular ones. That's the only explanation I have for remaining awake, and stone cold sober, even with all that beer, wine, Campari, Irish Cream, and indifferent Cognac sloshing about inside me. I did say assorted, right? I meant it.

Given SQ's reputation, I expected the food to be several notches above the sludge they serve on other airlines. In this I was not disappointed exactly, but that's about all that can be said for it. They served us grilled chicken, sauteed veg, mash, a dinner roll, some salad - standard stuff, mostly nourishing, reasonably tasty and, well, humdrum. Breakfast the next morning was nicer, if equally conventional. I got some sort of sausage (lamb, most likely), a couple of bull's eye eggs, apart from the usual accoutrements like baked beans, a roll, coffee, orange juice and all.

Dubai Airport was much as I had expected it - opulent, at times to the point of garishness. I tried to get myself some food, but then they told me even if I paid in Euros they will return the change in their local currency. One more incident: I was taking some pictures of a watch outlet displaying a huge poster of Aishwarya Rai (which suggested where a significant chunk of the shop's clientele came from). This officious security guard immediately stalked up to me and told me not to take pictures. I was drowsy and tired for lack of sleep, which is why I decided not to create a shindig. Otherwise I'd have cheerfully asked to see the manager and, if it came to that, even file a complaint.

I did manage some sleep after Dubai, even though the seats next to mine were occupied. I woke up to a most spectacular dawn, which slowly gave way to the loveliest cloudscaped morning. In the brilliant sunshine, and against the deep mystic blue sky you get only at high altitudes, the vista was nothing short of magical. I could spot plains, forested clumps, rocky outcrops, windswept dunes. An enchanted land, a secret land, real, manifest, but which we humans were condemned to view only at a distance, from behind plate glass. And if by some stratagem, say a parachute, we contrived to reach out to the land, the closer we came to it the more the magic would dispel, the more porous, flawed, insubstantial our senses would perceive it to be. And then the land would shroud us in thick, sticky, opaque, white blindness and, before we knew what was happening, summarily eject us from its domain. After that of course the magic would reassert itself. Again the land would appear solid, real, but this time above us, unattainable because we cannot fly up.

Arrival at Istanbul was very smooth. I found myself outside the airport almost before I knew it. The weather was surprisingly chilly and drizzly, especially for late April. I was glad I had invested in a warm jacket before coming here; it stood me in good stead throughout my trip, and continues to do so even today, five years on. Getting to my hotel didn't pose much of a problem either. Some helpful soul advised me to take the Havaş bus to Aksaray (good value for money at five Euros), then take the tram to Çemberlitaş. I enjoyed the drive to Aksaray, very picturesque it was, with the city ramparts on my left and the Sea of Marmara to my right.

Akasaray was a learning experience. About currency rates, particularly. Now that Italy had joined the Euro, Turkey must be the only country whose currency is called Lira. Some time ago, the government decided to revamp the heavily devalued Lira. They created a new currency called YTL or Yeni Türk Lirasi (New Turkish Lira), each one of them worth 100,000 old ones. This brought about some sort 1:2 parity with the Euro. So when the Havaş guy glibly asked me for either ten Liras or five Euros, I thought this was the exchange rate generally. Ah, but then at Aksaray I found several foreign exchange shops offering as much as YTL 2.20 a Euro. (Later on, when I went to the more touristy places, I found rates there did not exceed 2.14. A useful trick, this: to figure out tourist-traps, keep a lookout for what currency traders offer.)

By this time the weather had got to me. I darted into a joint called Arjantin Piliç. As is now common the world over, the placemats had some popular items listed out, replete with pictures. That is how I figured out all steaks are called Biftek in Turkey: chicken steak is called Piliç Biftek, for example. (So chicken is called Piliç, except when it is called Tavuk. Go figure.) I wasn't interested in steaks. Nor in the chicken, lamb, quail and other meats set up for roasting on a variety of horizontal and vertical spits. What I wanted was soup, lots of soup, çorba they called it. And what wonderful soup it was! - thick, creamy, and flavoursome. It came with a basket of Turkish bread, warm, soft, and encrusted with sunflower seeds.  A hearty welcome to the loveliest city ever.

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A (Mostly) Vegetarian Excursion to Mysore 03: Hotel Original Mylari

[Continued from Part II]

The following day we woke up early. I forget why, though, but it was for a specific reason which somehow didn't materialise. First stop after saying goodbye to Peter: St Philomena's Church. It is a magnificent edifice, modelled on the lines of the Cologne Cathedral. But I couldn't shake off the feeling there was something palpably modern about it. So when in the course of researching for this post I learned it had been constructed in the mid-1930s, I wasn't surprised. I managed some decent pictures of the exteriors, but several signboards made it clear photography was forbidden inside. In any case, services were going on at that time, with the officiating priest belting out a sermon with much gusto. To be honest, the sermon wasn't particularly good. We sneaked out keeping in mind the admirable precept:

The sermon our vicar, Rt. Rev.

Preached might have a rt. clev.

But the finish, though consistent

Was kept so far distant

That we left as we felt he mt. nev.

St Philomena's is a Catholic church of course, but the principle is the same.

And now comes what's unquestionably the high-point of the entire trip: Hotel Original Mylari. It was Mr David's idea, of course; he said one got the best breakfasts in town there. And evidently many share that opinion, if the number of blogposts and even newspaper articles on it is anything to go by. But oh dear! it's not nearly so simple. There happen to be two different establishments located there, more or less across the road from one another. One goes by the name "Hotel Original Mylari", the other calls itself, "Hotel Mylari - Original We Have No Branches [sic]." (I confess I didn't even notice the second place, we were in such a hurry to grab decent tables and get started on the hogging.) Thindi Theerta states rather decorously that "A chat with one of the managers revealed some interesting family history between the two." That they share a common ancestry is manifest; the review points out that along with the name, even the food at the two places is more or less identical. Mukta Manassu says other places called Mylari also exist, including one in Kuvempu Nagar. It is not clear if this Mylari is also genetically connected to the first two, or merely a copycat exercise. Either ways the food there is reportedly not a patch on the latter. Both these aforementioned reviews, incidentally, are about Hotel Original Mylari, the places we ourselves went to. Other reviews I found include ones posted on Santy-Space and Passionate Travellers, both of which concern the other joint, the no-branches version. Curiously, they neglect to mention even the existence of its sister (step-sister?) concern.

Then this Deccan Herald article entitled "Brand Mylari for those Simple, Cripsy [sic] Dosas" neglects to tell us just which Mylari it is talking about, or even whether it is aware two of them exist. It does say, though, that Hotel Mylari (presumably the progenitor of both these "originals") was started some 60 years ago by one N Mylareshwara Swamy. Right from the outset it adopted a bill of fare restricted to two items: its iconic dosa, and idli (which Deccan Herald does not mention). Initially this did not wash down too well with customers ("he had "a [sic] few customers"), but then slowly its reputation began to grow. Its successor establishments have retained their predecessor's ethos in more ways than one. They are both tiny, poky places; they neither of them believe much in publicity; they service the same menus; their cooking is nearly identical; and given their small size and large numbers of patrons, obtaining a table at either outlet is a chancy affair. People frequently wait for hours for a table. Frequently and cheerfully too; regulars insist the quality of food makes waiting worth it, and anyway, the dosas are so delicate that takeaways are not an option.

We were very lucky, then. By the time we reached, at around 7.30 on a Sunday morning, Original Mylari was only sparsely filled.  We snaffled a brace of tables as quickly as we could, and then waited for the food to arrive. The idlis came first. And amazing ones they were too, extraordinarily soft and fluffy. Idlis generally approximate the size and shape of a large magnifying-glass lens. The ones you get at most regular shops hold that shape to near-perfection - neatly circular in cross-section; regular, symmetrical covex bulges at the top and bottom; even their surface is smooth and only discreetly pitted by the steaming process. The ones at Mylari displayed none of this boilerplate (OK, steamerplate) perfection. They were noticeably thicker and fluffier, smaller in diameter, and somewhat unevenly contoured. This irregularity of appearance was accentuated by deep dents that ran along the sides towards the bottom. My wife's idlis tend to look like that too, and a conversation with her gave me interesting insights about not only the shape but also the taste of Mylari idlis.

Crucial to the idli making process is the idli stand, a tiered arrangement of several circular trays. Each tray contains several concave depresssions with several perforations drilled into them. Idli batter is poured into the depressions, the trays are stacked up, and then the arrangement is lowered into an air-tight steaming vessel. Steam generated by the water at the bottom of the vessel passes through the perforations and cooks the batter. The more the steam goes through it, the fluffier and tastier the idli turns out. Modern idli stands are made of aluminium, steel or plastic, comparatively non-toxic materials. Batter can be poured directly into the depressions, which is how the resultant idlis gain their near-perfect shape. But to prevent the batter from oozing out, the perforations on the cavities have to be made very fine, which somewhat constricts the passage of steam. Older stands are made of a metal called pītal. (I've not been able to obtain a precise translation of this term. Google Translate renders it as brass, but little credence can be placed on it; if the direction of translation is reversed, Google Transate insists both brass and bronze mean pītal. It also tells us that the equivalent of bell metal is kāņsā, but if the direction is reversed again, then kāņsā comes out as bronze. It could be that pītal is an alloy indigenous to India, of which no precise western equivalent exists. Given India's hoary metallurgical traditions, this is entirely possible.)

Due to its toxic character, cooking food directly in pītal vessels is not a good idea. So when making idlis in a pītal stand, small pieces of cloth need to be spread on the depressions, and the batter poured onto them and not directly on the metal. That is where the indentations come from; some folds and creases on the cloth are inevitable, and the solidifying batter tends to retain their impression. The cloth also keeps the batter from oozing out. So the perforations tend to be broader, which facilitates the passage of steam. Moreover, the intervening cloth layer has the effect of diffusing the steam and helping it pass evenly all over through the batter. The wife informs me that even the thickness of the cloth matters here - up to a point, the thicker the cloth the more evenly diffused the steam, and so the more uniformly fluffy the idli. While on the topic, we happen to have at home a pītal stand at least fifty years old, and the wife's idlis made on it are things to die for.

The other noticeable thing about these idlis were the way they were served. Usually what you get is a plateful of idli, surrounded by several small bowls containing sambar, coconut chutney, and at times other condiments as well. Bowls may be dispensed with, but sambar I thought was a sine qua non. Not in this place, it turned out. What we got was some coconut chutney and a green concoction I had never seen before. Both were ladled directly onto one side of the banana-leaf-lined plate and jostled for space among themselves while somehow leaving untouched the idlis on the other side. No sambar anywhere to be see, which I was fine with, since I'm not a great sambar fan anyway. About the green stuff, more later. Suffice it to say they went very well with the idlis. So well in fact that I altogether forgot to take pictures till I had all but finished the first idli on the plate.

Excellent as the idlis were, they whittled away into insignificance once those magnificent dosas arrived. Even their looks bespoke something special. They were evenly browned all over, mostly a golden light brown with some parts a slightly nuttier shade. There was none of the very dark, almost charred patches so off-putting in taste and so sadly common to run-of-the-mill dosas. These ones tasted as bright and sunny as they looked. Crisp on the outside, soft and comfortingly warm inside, made from very fresh batter, and then that blob of unsalted butter on top added that essential final touch. No, I take it back - nowhere near a final touch, that one.  There was still plenty left about the ensemble that demanded proper description. Take the coconut chutney peeking out from behind the dosa. Nothing unusual in itself, save that it went easy on the spicy factor. And yet it stood out, a fact attributeable almost entirely to the freshness of the ingredients used.

Of greater interest was the green filling inside the dosas. Yes, the same green stuff they served with the idlis, and one of the things that make Mylari (ok, both Mylaris) so distinctive. I have not come across it ever before. Indeed, the dosas I'd encountered earlier (at least the vegetarian ones) were all either plain (that is, with nothing inside them) or stuffed with the ubiquitous potato and curry leaf palya. Thindi Theerta says the potato stuffing is available as an option; customers can choose between it and the green stuff. The article calls it "saagu masala" and then ventures an all too brief description, viz. "a semi-gravy type mixed vegetable preparation." Passionate Travellers's review (of the other Mylari) describes it much more comprehensively as "a sago-green chilli-corainder paste filling with raw finely minced onions or shallots." But then it goes on to call it "typical", which is where of course I disagree. Typicalness aside, how successful a venture was it? As it turned out, extremely so. Potatoes are mild sweetish, somewhat neutral character, so in a conventional dosa filling the sharpest tastes come from curry leaves and spices used. This filling had a flavour, a personality of its own - the freshness of coriander and green chilli, the texture of onion, coupled with a mild bite imparted by the chilli, yielding a very effective combination, and all the more memorable because I had not encountered it before.

While we were busy digging in, the place had begun to fill up, imperceptibly, a little at at time. By the time we finished it was jam-packed, with several people standing around and looking at us hopeful we might leave soon. Through the jostle, I spotted sitting by a window a figure in a white cap who looked strangely familiar. And strange all the more because I wasn't aware I knew anyone here  - not in the whole of Mysore, and certainly not in this particular back lane. But no, that was not entirely true, it transpired. As we threaded our way towards the exit and drew closer to him, who does he turn out to be? None other than Mr Abdul Khader, he of the previous evening's "Biryani Paradise" encounter, surprise! On his part he was thrilled to bump into us again, kept grinning from ear to ear. He did not seem the least bit abashed being caught eating at someone else's eatery; maybe his own place did not run to breakfasts? Whatever it was, he kept repeating this place gave you the best breakfast in the entire city, and he's been coming regularly since he was so high. This must rank among the most ringing endorsements I've ever come across - a biryani-and-kabab purveyor extolling the virtues of a strict vegetarian breakfast joint.

[Continued in Part IV]

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Pau Buns

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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FoodScapes at the University - II

[Continued from Part I]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Continued in Part III]

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Takoyaki: Octopus Dumplings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Haji Noora

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Nahari at Turkaman Gate

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

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

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

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

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Majnu ka Tila

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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