Sucharita, or that Random Road-Trip to Konark

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crab

Prawn

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

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

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Of Street-Walkers and BBQ Crocodile - II

[Continued from Part I]

The food, now. We trooped down the entire length of Lorong 11 right down to Geylang Road without finding a single interesting eating place. Our choices were circumscribed by our own predispositions. Jacinta flat-out refused to eat at a 'place that looked like a food court', as she put it. I could see her point; we'd all had a tough week or two, and pampering ourselves to something plushy, quiet and air-conditioned place seemed tempting. Of course, those notorious KTV Bars along Geylang Road fulfilled all three criteria, but the girls sitting outside them scared us. And they didn't seem to serve much food either, certainly not at reasonable prices.

Geylang Road had lots of other options, but figuring them out was tricky. Virtually everything was in Chinese - signboards, menucards displayed outside, even the waiters didn't speak much English. We went into a place only because a poster mentioned the figure $12.50 - what it sold for the price we had no idea, but it fitted our budget just right.

Turns out, it was a steamboat joint. An interesting one too. It had little burners fixed into the tables; the steamboats were placed on top of them and kept at boiling point. The food must have been spectacular - the place was quite crowded - but we none of us were in the mood for steamboat. Walking east along Geylang Road, we finally came across LDM Charcoal BBQ Restaurant at #260.

The place was unpretentious in terms of decor. Air-conditioned, true, but rather minimalist all the same. Its walls were painted bright red and grey, with virtually no ornamentation. High-backed faux-leather sofas imparted a measure of privacy. It was clearly very popular with the local clientele. Finding a table wasn't as difficult as in the steamboat place, but that could have been luck. Another thing - customers tended to linger over their meal, ordering second, third and even more helpings. Surely a good sign.

The clientele was interesting in its own right. Courting couples (the girls were clearly 'non-professional'), families, young professionals meeting up after work, students like us - in short, a very commonplace motley crowd gathered together for a relaxed evening in congenial, low-octane surroundings. Now what was this sort of crowd doing right next to the seediest aspects of Singapore? I have previously commented on the city's remarkable capacity for coexistence (as also Delhi's dismal record in this regard). This, I guess, is yet another example.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect about the restaurant were the tables. They were made of sheet metal, with little grills built in - rectangular troughs or wells set inside a raised border a couple of inches high. Once the orders began to be brought in, a guy would come with a pan of glowing coals, pour them into the trough, and switch on the concealed gas connection. (Yes, a fairly modern apparatus.) Metal stands about six inches high completed the apparatus.

The grills were meant more for giving finishing touches to the food, which would be brought from the kitchen already cooked. To keep the food warm, you placed it on the stand. And if you wanted an intense grilling, there were notches cut into the grill wall, into which you could slot the skewers barely an inch above the glowing coals.

Most of the stuff in the menu was sold by the skewer, thin like Satay sticks but made of metal. The waiter handed us what looked like an invoice, with the items printed on the left, and a space on the right where we need to fill in the quantities ordered. Beef, the cheapest, sold for about 60 Cents, mutton (leg meat specified) for about a Dollar, chicken for the same price, different cuts of pork between 80 c to $1.40. Crocodile tail meat was the most expensive on the bill of fare, selling at $2 a skewer.

Can't recall what all we ordered. Loads of beef, some mutton, some pork, and of course some crocodile. Washed it down with Yanjing Beer for Freddy and self, and Sprite for Jacinta. It was wonderful, every last morsel of it. The beef was slightly tough, maybe it had not been marinated too well. The pork was sprinkled over with chili flakes, which added the right amount of piquancy. None of the meat had that unpleasant aftertaste of vinegar so common to Delhi kabab-shops of the more indifferent variety. The beer was mediocre. Very little body to it, even though it was smooth.

I've been so often a victim of exotic food that didn't live up to its hype. The crocodile was a notable exception. It was white, soft, really soft, with a sweetish aftertaste. Had very little by way of spices added to it. The cooks must have simply cut it up into chunks, sprinkled a bit of salt, and let the meat's natural flavours do their job. Loved every bite of it!

One could discern a faint smell of fish. I've always been bothered by this smell; makes me tend to avoid fish despite being born and bred a Bengali. But in this case, the smell combined with the meat's natural sweetness as to actually make it a pleasant experience. We sprinkled cumin powder over it, which enhanced meat's flavour even more.

Along with the barbecued stuff, we had also ordered pork chops and pork-and-celery dumplings. (Look, this was a Chinese shop - they eat pork the way we brush our teeth.) The chops were slightly disappointing. They were excessively dusted over with pepper, tough, chewy, and quite devoid of flavour as such.

More interesting were the dumplings. I'm sure the Chinese parts of the menu had more detailed information about what sorts they were. Going by their shape and size, my guess runs towards Jiaozi than the more common Wonton. The meaty pork and the green, crunchy celery made for an interesting counterpoint. And they were moist. Possibly some of the juices sweated off the meat remained trapped in the dough casing. I'd say it's worth going back just to try those dumplings again.

For our last round, we ordered another round of crocodile (of course!), and half a dozen of what was described as Golden Dragon sausages. They were plump, fatty, and sweetish in flavour, and had deep fluted incisions cut into their sides. When eating the pork chops, Jacinta had collared the only knife and fork around. I was content to eat them with my hands, but poor Freddy didn't like the idea one bit. Finally he borrowed the cutlery from Jacinta, cut the meat into small pieces, and ate them with chopsticks.

When the sausages arrived, Jacinta once again helped herself to knife and fork, I ate them directly off the skewers. This time Freddy decided to innovate. He first slid the sausages off the skewers, then ate them whole using chopsticks. As far as I'm concerned, the sight of Freddy diligently, studiously chewing on sausages with chopsticks was the single most visually arresting part of the evening, bar none. Not even the girls outside came close.

Meal over, we were waiting at the bus-stop, idly looking over the 'working girls' standing there. By this time Jacinta was very curious about the whole business. Particularly how one approached and propositioned them. I said there was nothing to it, you need only ask. Jacinta immediately dared me to talk to one of them. So I went over to this girl standing by a 7-Eleven.

She wasn't especially tarted up, wore ordinary tight jeans and a pink striped t-shirt. For one ghastly moment I got scared she might not be a walker after all. I decided to play it safe and ask if she was waiting for someone. She looked up and asked me if I wanted some 'mazok mazok', which I surmised meant something salacious in Malay. I asked her how much, she said $50 for an hour. That's when the bus came by, so I excused myself.

Later on I felt bad about doing this. Prostitution is easily among the least attractive professions around. Calculated to erode one's social respect, and downright dangerous besides. The threats range across psychotic customers, pimps out for their cut, gangland bosses (I'm sure such things exist in Singapore), law enforcement officers, and the omnipresent risk of HIV and other diseases. And when some smart-aleck starts negotiating just for fun, it surely adds further insult to the insult, and injury, already heaped high on her.

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Of Street-Walkers and BBQ Crocodile - I

Geylang is famous for two reasons. It boasts some of the finest food in Singapore, and it happens to be the town's pre-eminent red-light district. I had heard about it within my first week in Singapore (it's one of the first things you get to learn about the place), but could manage a visit only now. My experience was both (hugely) entertaining and enlightening. What I saw there belied many cherished perceptions of Singapore, especially its claims to strict law-enforcement.

Going there was another impromptu decision. There were three of us sitting at a student lounge at a slightly loose end. We made a nice little United Nations - Freddy's from France and Jacinta from Uganda. Several options for dinner - Holland Village, Little India, Chinatown - were considered and rejected as too humdrum, when I thought of Geylang. Jacinta jumped at it, kept saying she'd never been there but always wanted to go. Freddy was initially apprehensive to the point of panic, but we managed to persuade him quickly enough.

The locality, properly called Geylang Serai, lies along either side of Geylang Road. One of the longest roads in Singapore, it runs from Changi in the east to Kallang towards the west. Little Lorongs or lanes lead off it, the odd-numbered ones northwards to Sims Avenue, the even-numbered ones the other way connecting with Guillemard Road. Our bus dropped us on Sims Avenue, right at the mouth of Lorong 11. (incidentally, both Sims Avenue and Geylang Road are one-way, running in opposite directons.) We made our way down the Lorong towards Geylang Road, and that's when the myths started crashing down.

#1: Prostitution in Singapore is both legal and strictly regulated

According to popular perceptions, the official view is that only licensed brothels can operate, and under strict legal supervision. Condoms are a must, girls are regularly made to undergo medical checkups. I'm not sure of the legal basis of these claims. Sections 146 and 148 of the Singapore Women's Charter prohibit pimping and brothels respectively.

In any case, that's only part of the story. A good deal of prostitution is illegal, and therefore unregulated. Homosexuality is officially illegal, but gay and particularly transsexual prostitution is rife - even in Geylang; Lorong 16 is a famous transvestite pick-up point.

A visit to the Rochor flea market took care of another few myths. Singapore's supposed to be tough on piracy, but there I saw both pirated DVDs and porn (another big official no-no) selling openly.

#2: Prostitution is restricted to the south of Geylang Road

Sources as diverse as Wikipedia and Makansutra assert so. One need spend only a few minutes in the vicinity to realise how hollow the claims are.

#3: Street-walking is illegal

Warren's Singapore presents a pretty picture of how business is done in officially-sanctioned brothels. They have their house numbers painted in red; some have red lanterns hanging outside; you go in and state your preferences, and so on. He admits street-walking exists, but claims they operate only along the even-numbered Lorongs.

No such luck. Lorong 11 was full of spectacularly-dressed women hanging out on the streets. Some ten of them were crowed together outside a nondescript eating-house in the middle of the street. This seemed peculiar, till I noticed the cheap hotel across the road.

Sitting outside the KTV bars on Geylang Road were some of the most stunning ladies I've ever seen. Stunning and aloof - they didn't even bother to look at us, not even at Freddy with his Caucasian looks and sandy-blond hair. Later we learnt they were BmD (Buy me Drinks) girls. Their job is to cuddle up to unsuspecting customers, get them to stand drinks, hint at good times once the bar closes, generally ensure the dupes keep spending, and disappear about twenty minutes before closing time.

#4: Soliciting is strictly, strictly prohibited

Correction: Soliciting is subdued, low-key, but there all right. While waiting for the food to come, I went out to take pictures of the restaurant's exterior. On the way back, I was accosted by three of 'em women. One started working on me, tried her damnedest to get me to have a 'massage'. (I have no idea if 'massage' meant just that or something more; didn't bother to find out either.) First she tried flirting, then holding my arm, then even flicking her hand over my chest!

Nothing doing. I explained I was with friends waiting for me in the restaurant. Didn't dare tell her I had exactly ten cents in my pocket. Sure, she'd have lost interest more quickly, but then she might have got her pimp to touch up my face just a little. I went back to the restaurant; the food arrived a few minutes later.

[Continued in Part II]

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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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Oyster Omelette

Time was when Singapore used to be a fishing village of little especial distinction. First maritime trade, and then other forms of commerce, transformed it into today's economic powerhouse. Presently, fishing has stopped altogether in Singapore. All the seafood one gets here is imported. A taste for fish remains deeply ingrained among its people, however, and this finds ample reflection in its cuisine.

The hawker centre at Newton Circus is famous for seafood. It is also remarkable for staying open almost round the clock. But as far as I am concerned, its best feature is that it is extended walking distance from Evans Lodge, my doss-house.

Yesterday, I went there for the first time, the result of a mad, impulsive late-night decision. I was in my room chatting with friends Ananth and Samjhana, when round midnight all three of us started feeling hungry. Adam Road, our usual haunt, was closed by then. So were most other joints. And we were in one of those moods where crazy ideas meet with instant approval, and then metamorphose into action faster than one can keep track of.

Newton was an eye-opener. I had never, never ever seen such variety in seafood. There was cuttlefish, stingray, shark fin, lobster, crayfish, squid, cockle, octopus, hulking big tiger prawns, even sea vegetables in oyster sauce. And all this was expensive. Lobster was about $5 for 100 grams. Not so big a deal, just that the smallest specimen weighs about 800g.

Even the non-seafood things were priced quite high. One stall even sold Lemon Chicken Rice for $10; a decent helping at Adams Road doesn't cost more than $4. (I found out later, Newton has a reputation for being a tourist attraction. Old hands at the street-food game tend to avoid the place, preferring less expensive and more authentic alternatives.)

Ananth finally located a moderately priced Satay stall. He bought a plate of beef Satay for $5. Pretty good stuff, even if it wasn't seafood. Samjhana ordered a seafood fried rice. Don't know how much she paid for it, but it contained lots of seafood. Bits of squid, fish of some sort, even baby octopus.

I took my time ordering. Went round the whole place carefully, went through the items advertised at each and every stall, and wondered all over again at the range on offer. Finally I decided on an oyster omelette. This stall near our table sold them in various sizes, priced at five, seven and ten Dollars. I picked the smallest one. 'Small' is of course a relative term. It turned out to be wider even than the respectable-sized plate it was served in - big, yellow in colour, and generously studded with greyish oyester all over.

By this time I had grown fairly proficient at handling chopsticks. I took special pleasure in using them to tweezer out the lumps of oyster, dip them in the flat bowl of chili sauce provided, and pop them into my mouth with all due grace.

And what oysters they were! This was the first time I was having them, and I wish I get amnesia soon just so's I can taste them anew all over again. Like I said, they were grey and lumpy to look at, more like slugs than anything remotely edible. Their texture was wholly consistent with this. Slightly chewy, rubbery. And bland too, hardly tasted of anything much.

But once you get your teeth into them, a wonderful thing happens. All the juice stored inside comes out in one big spurt. Intensely flavoured, and with a strong, overpowering taste and smell, this is what makes oysters so worth it. To some, the very intensity of the taste and smell can be off-putting, may even trigger off gag reflexes. It nearly did mine. But once you keep it in your mouth, and let the complex harmonies play on your taste buds, it's paradise!

If the oyster was such a wonderful experience, the omelette must rank among the worst I've come across. I've had several lousy ones, incidentally. At the seaside resort of Digha in West Bengal, I once had one fried in mustard oil. Down south, coconut oil is the staple cooking medium; the peculiar smell it imbues the egg with has to be smelled to be believed.

This one was in a class of its own. I don't know what oil it had been fried in. But it was so greasy it literally oozed oil. That apart, it was surprisingly tasteless. I could detect the use of no significant spice or condiment apart from salt. Ultimately I had to throw away more than half of it.

By this time Ananth had ordered a chili chicken for himself, and cans of Asahi beer for the both of us. (On the superlative beer available here, more later.) The chicken was, if anything, even more oily. But since it hadn't permeated the meat, it could be brushed off. Also, it was sharply and most interestingly spiced. This tempered its oiliness a good deal. As such the chicken, or at least the few morsels I ate, were most enjoyable. Miles more so than what remained of my omelette once I had eaten the oysters, that's for sure!

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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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