Tselha Anze - II

[Continued from Part I]

In contrast to the hackneyed Chinese items, the Tibetan dishes on offer were genuinely interesting. I think this was the first time I've come across a Tibetan selection more extensive than Momo and Thupka. They were there all right. One whole section was devoted to Momos. It listed no less than eight items including Kothey (forgot what it was), Rechotse (Momo in soup), and the charmingly-named Ting Momo (more on this later). Then there was a separate section entitled "Tibetan Cuisine". Apart from two varieties of Thukpa, it featured Gyathuk (ribbon noodles in soup); Sha Bhaglab (more on this later); Pingsha (glass noodles - out of stock that day); Thenthuk (flat noodles in either soupy or dry form); and a sampler, or Tibetan Thali as they called it. I ordered the Beef Sha Bhaglab, or flat, lasagne-like noodles stir-fried with thinly sliced meat and veggies. It turned out to be a wildly successful choice. What I found most remarkable was that the separate components, even the vegetables, retained their own distinctive taste and juiciness. The carrot was crisp, not undercooked; the spinach retained its texture without wilting. And the meat was delicious - thinly sliced, succulent, well done and yet not overcooked as to lose flavour.

The serving was substantial, enough for a full meal, and as such excellent value for money at seventy Rupees. But given  that long walk on top of a rather sketchy lunch, it simply didn't stand a chance against my starvation levels. I could tackle another full meal. This time I opted for Shabtak. I didn't have my DSLR with me, so had to rely on my phone cam. Its performance is drab as it is; in low light situations it's downright execrable (you really messed up on that front, Motorola). Execrable is more or less how the Shabtak pictures turned out; with the flash switched on the effect was still ghastlier. Which was sad, because actually the preparation looked every bit as tempting as this lovely photo on Courant.com makes it out to be. It carries the caption "spicy sliced beef and sauteed with onion, red and green bell peppers and jalapeno" - as succinct a summary as any, though the jalapeño must have been a western innovation. Tibetan Kitchen, the eatery where the picture was taken, mentions only "long hot pepper". On the other hand this recipe on China Tibet Online, which calls it "browned beef", specifies not only the western jalapeño but also speciality ingredients like ground Emmo (Sichuan peppercorn) and Churu (mould ripened Tibetan cheese), which makes me wonder what sort of audience the site caters to.

[Aside: China Tibet Online, effectively the Chinese government's Tibet portal, is a classic in its own right. One article proclaims, "Official: The Dalai Lama's New 'Prime Minister' Illegitimate". Despite reading it through several times I was unable to figure out just what it was that made the illegitimacy official in character, and on whose authority. A little net-snooping turned out to be instructive. It seems the text was taken from articles that appeared on Global Times (to which it carries an attribution) and People's Daily, but with the first eight paragraphs omitted for some reason. And oh, also with the headline tweaked ever so slightly: both original versions go "Dalai's [sic] New 'Prime Minister' Illegitimate: Official". Now the mystery clears somewhat: not officially illegitimate, but illegitimate according to some official. The missing paragraphs identify the official as Xu Zhitao, a Communist Party of China's (CPC) Central Committee member. Little surprise, then, that he would denounce the appointment. But no, it turns out his remarks were about the putative illegitimacy of the Dalai Lama government as a whole. Even the reason given why appointment is flawed, and should be dismissed as "just another political show by the Dalai Lama", is that the government itself is non-official in character. So the article contains nothing at all about the PM's appointment specifically. Which makes for a rather piece of writing, not to mention insubstantial. But perhaps it might not be fair to blame China Tibet Online for it. After all, not only did it procure the article from other sources, it even took pains to omit the paragraphs where the problem locates!]

At Tselha Anze they happily used regular green pepper. I have no idea what kind of peppercorn they opted for, and don't recall tasting any kind of cheese. Tenzin insisted I have it with Ting Momo (or Tingmo as Tibetan Kitchen calls it) - rolls of dough twisted into interesting shapes and then steamed to a fluffy softness. I shall not wax eloquent about the Shabtak as I did about the Sha Bhaglab, suffice it to say that it was every bit as toothsome as the latter. So much so that even at the end of the meal, when I was close to stuffed, I still found it enjoyable to break off off bits from the Ting Momo, use them to mop up the gravy that had collected at the bottom of the bowl, and then chew them unhurriedly to savour the taste of the gravy. By the time I finished, there was literally nothing left in the bowl, except maybe a dried chilli or two. It cost me eighty-five Rupees, plus another fifteen for the single Momo I had (they usually sell in pairs).

By this time it had become dark,and pleasantly cool. So I decided to take yet another walk. A different sort of walk, though. Unlike the unseeing frenzy that characterised the earlier one, this was a gentle saunter through Shanthi Nagar. An old neighbourhood, surprisingly heterogenous, and with some really pretty houses. I couldn't take pictures of them, there was hardly any light around. But these murals painted on the walls of a nursery school (and fortunately located just below a street lamp) proved too strong a temptation to resist.

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Tselha Anze - I

Long walks are an excellent specific against bad moods. The snag is, if your mood is really bad, you tend to lose track of how much you've walked. The other day at Majestic, Bangalore, my mood was so glutinous you could have tarred a road with it. So I thought I'd walk down to Avenue Road and take a look at those second-hand book stalls. Back in my student day they used to sprawl all over the pavements, My Fair Lady rubbing against Henry Maine's Ancient Law; Dickson Carr, or maybe Errol Flynn's My Wicked, Wicked Ways, alongside a hundred-year-old treatise on conic sections. Once I picked up for eight Rupees an Army rifle training manual written in Roman Urdu. On another occasion a collection of turn-of-the-century novels - London Lavender, Three Partners, ghastly romances like Promise of Arden - about ten books, many of them first editions, for a hundred and forty the lot. I still have them all, even Ancient Law and the conics textbook.

This time, it was painfully clear I wouldn't be adding much to my collection. Very few stalls still remained, and the survivors seemed to deal exclusively in out-of-date textbooks. Nothing was left of the glorious eclectic chaos of my student days. This didn't help my mood any. It made me even more oblivious to to how much I walked, or where I was headed. So I was not really surprised when I eventually washed up across the road from Hudson Circle, about twice the distance from Majestic as Avenue Road is. According to taxiautofare.com, I had walked nearly three kilometres from where I had started out. Without any discernible purpose in mind, or any clue what I was doing there, or for that matter any dimunition in the blackness of my mood.

So I decided to check out a little Tibetan joint I had once spotted thereabouts. There was a little problem: I had no idea where the place was. Back then I had managed to catch only a brief glimpse through the recesses of a fast-moving autorickshaw, and my rudimentary knowledge of Bangalore geography meant I could not identify the locality. All I remembered was that the restaurant had a Tibetan name, and it was on a road with an English-sounding name that began with an L. Fortunately the wife happened to call just then, and I was able to ask her. Her guess was, it might be Langford Road but she couldn't be too sure - in any case Langford was a fair distance from where I was. No matter, halfway through her admonitions I had already started plodding off. In due course I reach Langford Road, still on foot, crossed St Joseph's College. By this time I had clocked 5.68 kilometres, or sixty-three Rupees in auto fare. But surprise! there it was, Tshela Anze, the place I was looking for!

The signboard was a delight. It said, "T Selha-Anze - Tibetan Restaurant", and then for good measure added in parentheses, "Our Grandmother's Recipe [sic]". Incidentally, it was only here that the T and the S were separated by a space. All other places, including the dine-in and takeaway menus, had the name spelt "Tshela-Anze", hyphenated but minus the gap. The name itself bore much promise. I reasoned that only someone who knew his mind would start in the heart of Bangalore a restaurant with a name so offbeat (and so awkward to pronounce). And with a little luck, this force of character might rub off on the menu too.

Neither did the interior disappoint. It was airy, uncluttered, done up in nice, bright colours, free of piped music and Tibetan kitsch - assorted masks, brass idols, prayer wheels, that sort of thing - generally managing to look austere and comfortable at the same time. Two large windows looking out onto the street added to the airiness. The walls were sparsely decorated: a portrait of the Dalai Lama over the counter; a few Tibet-related pictures and wall hangings here and there; and in one corner a stunning Kandinsky poster, nothing more. So was the furniture comfortable but spartan, tending to granite-topped tables and metal dining chairs. The kind of place college students on a tight budget could and did frequent.

Placing an order was a little tricky. The waiters' English skills and familiarity with the menu are both rudimentary, and the management knows this. So they get the waiters to go to each table with a pad and pen, and then ask customers to themselves jot down what they want. The trouble was, the menu merely listed the dishes without explaining what they were. So I went over and talked to the youngish gentleman sitting behind the counter. Tenzin, as he was called, turned out to be a delight to talk to. He was more than happy to guide me across the menu, and throw in his own suggestions without insisting on them. Even the waiters were a cheerful bunch as such, and promptly obliged minor requests like extra cutlery and glasses of water.

I found the menu fascinating. A sociologist could extract from it enough material for a brace of scholarly articles. Why, for instance, does it feature so many Chinese preparations, the cuisine of those who dispossessed them from their homeland? Customer demand solely? Is this demand itself fuelled by stereotyped perceptions of all Mongoloid races as "Chinkies", and hence Chinese food purveyors? Which raises the question, how do they reconcile their cultural identity with this forced acquiescence in two monstrous generalisations, namely (a) conflating Tibetan with Chinese, their oppressors; and (b) the indiscriminate "Chinky"-fication of Mongoloid ethnic groups generally? In any case, it is clear that the Chinese offerings are not dictated by any especial love for the cuisine. The items listed were run-of-the mill Indianised aberrations, including the Gobi Manchury Bangalore is notorious for and which I defy any self-respecting Chinese to claim for their culture.

[Explanatory note for the uninitiated: Chicken Manchurian is made by coating chicken in cornflour, then frying it in ginger, garlic, green chilli, soya sauce, and usually copious amounts of MSG. It was supposedly invented back in the mid-'70s by Nelson Wang, a Calcutta Chinese chef, which makes it about as authentic Chinese as Dr. Fu Manchu. Gobi Manchury or Manjoori (as it's usually spelled in Bangalore) is a vegetarian iteration, substituting the chicken with cauliflour. At least the Tselha-Anze people had the decency to call it "Cauliflour Manchurian".

[Continued in Part II]

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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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Pau Buns, and a Romp through History

Thanks to old school buddy and fellow-blogger Pooja Sharma, I have come to realise what an utter dolt I am. My post on the Pau bun elicited the following comment from her:

surprised to find that there are paus in singapore, and that little detail about them having both yeast and baking powder.
and here I thought it was only maharashtrians who were crazy abt it!

All this while I had taken it as given that the origins of the Pau lay in China. Wikipedia claims the Baozi was invented by the military strategist Zhuge Liang circa 2nd Century AD.

By highlighting its phonetic similarity with an Indian bread, Pooja left me wondering how I could have missed such a blindingly obvious possibility. Namely, that there's more to the Pau story than just blithely attributing it to China. And on reflection, several considerations did occur to make me reconsider this attribution.

Technical ones, for a start. As mentioned, Baozi are made with both yeast and baking powder. The use of yeast as a leavening agent originated in Egypt, at least 5000 years ago. It spread across the Western world; Romans, Jews, medieval Europeans all adopted bread as their staple source of cereal. A whole lot of material on the topic is available on the net, notably here, here and here. But strangely, none of these articles I saw carried any mention of yeast being used in China.

Baking powder is much, much more recent (and occidental) in origin. Some experiments date back to the early 19th century, but it was only in 1843 that Alfred Bird succeeded in developing the substance in its modern form. Clearly then, neither yeast nor baking powder were traditionally in use in China. So where did the Baozi come from?

That's when etymology, the second consideration, kicks in. All my life I have been accustomed to referring to bread as 'Pau-ruti'. In my native Bangla, it is a generic term denoting leavened bread of all sorts. In the western part of India, 'Pao' or 'Pav' means both bread in general, as well as a specific kind of bread, a very soft white segmented loaf with a thin, golden crust. In virtually no other part of India do we come across this word or its variations. In Hindi, bread is known as Double Roti.

The key lies in the Portuguese connection. 'Panis', the Latin for bread, finds reflection in several European languages, notably French ('Pain'), Italian ('Pane'), Spanish ('Pan') and, crucially, the Portuguese 'Pão'. Indeed, the Pao of western India is widely acknowledged to be a legacy of Portuguese settlers of Goa and the Konkan coast. Moreover, a sizeable population of Portuguese and their descendants existed and still exist in and around Calcutta. There's every reason to believe they were responsible for introducing into Bengali culture both the bread and the term.

What about China? Nestorian Christianity reached its shores for certain by the 7th Century AD. In 1271, Kublai Khan sent word to the Pope through Marco Polo asking for a hundred European teachers of science and religion sent to China; this led to the advent of the Franciscans. More interestingly, in 1552 the Jesuit St Francis Xavier came to the island of Shangchuan, but died there before he could reach the mainland. (His body was later shipped to Goa.) This paved the way for the Jesuits, who established a strong presence there in the 16th and 17th Centuries.

Does this mean the Baozi also came to China through the Portuguese, like the Japanese Tempura? Not really. These indications are too tenuous. Moreover, Wikipedia mentions that the term 'Baozi' to denote filled buns found favour during the Song Dynasty, (960-1279 AD) prior to the reign of Kublai Khan. (About Zhuge Liang and his invention, we'll come to it later.)

At the same time, the connections cannot be wished away entirely. Perhaps yeast and baking powder were later innovations, and the proto-Baozi steamed stuffed bun predates them by centuries. In which case, how did the name come about?

A net search suggested an interesting possibility. I came across a scholarly article on the Salar people and their dramatic traditions (enthusiastic readers may find it here and here). The Salar are a Turkic-speaking community living in eastern Qinghai, who claim their ancestors migrated from Samarkand in the 13th century. A significant part of their cultural traditions, notably a type of play known as Döye Oyna, is associated with this migration.

One line of the play goes: 'In Samarkand, our camel ate hard bread and stuffed dumplings. Our camel shits walnuts after eating dates, stuffed dumplings, and fried bread.' [p. 294, or page 8 of the PDF document] Of interest to us are the translated food terms inserted parenthetically in the original - fried bread, referred to as 'Sanzi' in the Salar language; and stuffed dumplings, called 'Baozi' in Chinese and 'Bozi' in Salar.

This leads to two related conjectures: One, that stuffed dumpling of a type similar to the Baozi was popular in Samarkand; and two, that the term 'Bozi' entered the Salar language prior to the migration. In which case, could it be that the Baozi came to China via Samarkand? Or at least the word 'Baozi'? Maybe at a later stage it associated with local steamed-bun traditions to yield the Baozi as it is known today?

The Wikipedia article on the Mantou offers further clues in support of this contention. As mentioned before, the term 'Baozi' gained popularity during the Song Dynasty. Prior to it, 'Mantou' was used throughout China to denote both filled and unfilled buns. Moreover, its usage is restricted to northern China only. Southern China follows the practice of referring to both filled and unfilled buns as 'Mantou'. These facts are entirely consistent with the hypothesis that the term 'Baozi' was introduced to China from the north, probably through ethnic migration.

The article also mentions that Zhuge Liang is credited with inventing Mantou rather than Baozi stricto sensu. It suggests the word 'Mantou' arose out of certain legendary associations; interested readers may read it up for themselves.

Ironically, while our conjecture says the Baozi came to China from the west, the indigenous Chinese Mantou has spread all over Asia, including Korea, Japan, and Central Asia (Turkey, Afghanistan and so on). Even the cuisine of Uzbekistan, home to Samarkand and Bukhara, features steamed, filled, unleavened dumplings called Manty.

And finally, the 'Pau' of Malaysia and Singapore is phonetically more proximate than the Chinese 'Bao' to variants of the Latin 'Pan-', particularly the Portuguese 'Pão'. It is also a fact that the Portuguese had a significant presence there for a long time; in 1511 it conquered Malacca and held on to it till 1641.

Colonisation was inevitably followed by cultural, even culinary interchanges. This did not happen in a straightforward west-to-east manner, as one would have thought. As this very interesting article on Goan cuisine points out:

Goan food today is a fusion of many cuisines, and in many ways it brought the colonizer and the colonized closer. Goan food drew on different influences - Arab, Konkan, Malabar, Malaysian, Portuguese, Brazilian, French, African and even Chinese.

It also claims the Goan dessert Bebinca is a modified version of the Bibingka of Malaysia, Philippines and Indonesia.

So do we have another conjecture now, that the Baozi came to the Straits from China, but subsequent interaction with the Portuguese and other Europeans had its name purified to the more pristine Pau? Maybe, maybe not. In either case, the range of possibilities we explored in this post only serves to emphasise the complexities involved in the dynamics of cultural, and culinary, transmission and assimilation.

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Street Food and the Law 04: A Strange Article

Sinful to serve in the same jhutah, glass without washing it after a drink, taste for saltiness with the cooking spoon, not wash mouth after each eat, talk while prepare food leading to invisible accidental spit on it, touch the person serving food while eating, on bed eat … are a few taboos.
Jayati Gupta, 'Unhygienic Street Food Addiction is a Health Hazard'

I'm glad I'm not the only one working on street food. Found this article on the net. Up until now, practically all the material on the subject I've come across espouse the cause of street food. Here, for a change, is something from a contrary viewpoint.

Uh, viewpoint? I wouldn't be too sure there. While the author's strong aversion to street food is manifest, her reasons why remain obscure. Even if one succeeds in parsing her English prose into something approaching sense.

She starts with the premise: 'In reality street eat is not typical Indian background. Trace the same to the ancient and also not so ancient Indian austere food intake culture.' And then:

Strict kitchen regulation and rigid habits, practiced throughout years now worn away with carelessness or compulsion of modernity (pseudo) egg on, malicious under cover diseases.

Apparently, street food may look deliciously attractive, surely not to public good health. Particularly when such structures clog pathways, it is like fungus or diphtheria infection that choke gullet.

Presumably she herself knows what a '(pseudo) egg' means, and how it relates to modernity. But for the likes of us a few footnotes would have been welcome. A stern warning follows: 'Encourage street food is encourage slow poison. Illiterate vendors under unhygienic conditions operate, hit, and run. That he has mostly flying customers it is hard to trace the stomach upsets …'

To her credit, the author does show some concern for poor vendors:

However, applying the need to survival, innovative design concept is a must for the hawker trying to etch out a living with literally no help from administrative.

Surely, with space management plan, free zones in every postal area – in marketplace – food courts for the grub hawkers to carry on their activities as per traditional hygiene should help to breathe clean.

Spot cooking on demand only in permitted areas confirm safety for both the vendor and consumer. Eat, sleep, excrete, urinate, and bathe on the street may find attraction to those who thrive in indiscipline.

This one's truly magnificent:

Some roar at Rich express of affection on podium as offensive; however forget own vulgar street-side display. Men women washing under public glare, sometimes even next to Shulabh facilities.

It is time to wake up to the rich heritage in real sense and not to the beck and call of seedy novo rich, some, from abroad who wish to lap up cheap gains as perhaps master of “who knows what?” nexus selling space belonging to others. Hafta extort agents are sure poor, cashing regal for the invisible or masked individuals, what a pity.

This begs the question, what has our 'vulgar public display' of 'men women washing under public glare' got to do with the 'seedy novo rich' (may god bless them)? As for '“who knows what?” nexus selling space belonging to others', that's where I give up.

Last thought: Maybe it's not for nothing that boloji.com classifies this under the generic category 'Ramblings'.

[NB: All excerpts from the article have been directly copy/pasted from the original, and are thus verbatim reproductions of the latter. This expedient allows me to avoid marking out blunders with a [sic]. Had I done so, this post would have been about twice its present length.]

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Nizamuddin 03: Political Economy - III

[NB: This is part of an ongoing series on the Nizamuddin locality of New Delhi. For a brief background, please read the prefatory note.]

[Continued from Part II]

Post-Ghiyasuddin, such threats receded into the past. Mohammad bin Tughlaq recognised Nizamuddin as a spiritual guide. After the death of the seer, subsequent rulers right up to the time of Bahadur Shah Zafar made it a practice to pay homage at his shrine. Nizamuddin, the locality, continued to prosper in other ways too. It established itself as a centre of piety, culture, learning and the arts. Many chose to be buried in the vicinity, notably emperor Humayun; Abdur Rahim Khan-e-Khanan, the multifaceted genius - general, poet, astrologer, translator and food connoisseur; Ghalib, possibly the greatest Urdu poet ever; and Jahan Ara, the favourite daughter of emperor Shah Jahan.

It became one of the most important pilgrimage centres of the country. For one, it started attracting the devout on its own standing. Further, a tradition was established that pilgrims attending the Urs of Khwaja Moinuddin Chishti of Ajmer must also pay homage to the shrine of Nizamuddin Aulia.

A steady flow of pilgrims ensued over the centuries. Eight hundred years of political stability make for ideal conditions in which to incubate local commerce. Inevitably, an industry developed to care of pilgrims' needs. Nizamuddin gained, and sustains even now, a reputation for hotels, travel agencies, souvenir shops and, most important, food outlets!

And as with all pilgrim centres, most of these cater to the lower end of the market. Especially the eateries. Karim's forms possibly the sole exception, and endeavours to provide a fine dining experience in the true sense of the term.

Today, Nizamuddin offers you easily some of the best food deals in the city. Years and years' worth of competition has kept prices low and quality high. I have seen very few shops or kiosks lacking for customers. High turnovers usually means only fresh food is sold. (I'm not sure, but I think leftovers are usually turned over to the Dargah to feed the poor.) Certainly, in the twenty-odd years I've frequented the place, I don't recall even once getting an upset stomach from Nizamuddin food.

Some joints have jazzed themselves up to an extent. They feature coloured ceramic tiles on the walls; prices marginally raised (but still laughably low by Delhi standards) ; and soft-drink coolers strewn in the background. Others resist such trends. These range from the spartan-but-clean to the downright dingy. A few don't even run to concrete structures. They make do with a few rickety benches in thatched courtyards, and large steaming saucepans mounted on raised earthen platforms.

Whatever be the decor, ambience, or price range, one thing is for certain. Nizamuddin gives you an opportunity very few other places in the sub-continent can provide, the chance to bite into eight hundred years of unbroken tradition.

[Concluded]

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Nizamuddin 02: Political Economy - II

[NB: This is part of an ongoing series on the Nizamuddin locality of New Delhi. For a brief background, please read the prefatory note.]

[Continued from Part I]

Unrest and discontinuity thus characterise the history of the Walled City. In a span of 273 years from 1638 to 1911, it witnessed the decline of the Mughal empire from the glorious days of Shah Jahan and Aurangzeb; the weak later Mughals; internecine fights and succession squabbles; sackings by Nadir Shah and Ahmed Shah Abdali; gradual intrusion by the East India Company; the 1857 Revolt and its bloody aftermath; being sidelined; and finally, reduction to playing second fiddle to New Delhi.

In contrast, Nizamuddin's existence of over eight hundred years has been relatively placid. Owing largely to the Dargah of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya, it has come to acquire considerable spiritual significance over the centuries. This has also served to protect it, especially from invaders and other plunderers.

Historians note that most emperors of Delhi actively sought the patronage of Sufi saints. The holy men guided them in matters both religious and temporal, and interceded on their behalf for divine beneficence. As a result, the monarchs invested the saints and their monasteries with a considerable degree of protection.

Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia's turbulent relationships with reigning monarchs constitutes an exception to this. Nizamuddin lived through one of Delhi's most unstable times. His life spanned no less than three major imperial lineages, namely the so-called Mamluk dynasty, the Khiljis and the Tughlaqs.

Parricides and fratricides were the order of the day. Loyalties changed frequently and viciously. And the enormous influence wielded by the mystic only added to the ruler's insecurities. To add to this, Nizamuddin remained steadfast to his principles throughout his life. He treated all human beings as equal, irrespective of caste, creed or birth. Moreover, he refused to kowtow to any temporal ruler.

Alauddin Khilji was convinced Nizamuddin intended to seize power at the first opportunity. He tried to test Nizamuddin, who rebuffed him asking him not to waste his (Nizamuddin's) time on temporal matters. Alauddin's successor Qutubuddin Mubarak Shah repeatedly asked Nizamuddin to pay obeisance at his court. Nizamuddin refused each time. When things became particularly ominous, the seer is supposed to have said:

The king will not be victorious over me for I have had a certain dream. I saw that an animal with horns was attacking me. Upon it coming closer, I took hold of its horns and threw the animal on the earth in such a way that it was killed.

That very night, Mubarak Shah was killed by his catamite Khusro Khan.

Relations with Sultan Ghiyasuddin Tughlaq were especially discordant. According to one account, the Sultan was wont to make a show of donating money to Sufi orders; the recipients were expected to return the amount in full later. Nizamuddin instead distributed the money amongst the poor, as was his practice.

Another version has it that when the emperor began to build his capital Tughlaqabad, he pressganged all available workers to work on the site, and forbade them from working anywhere else. At that time, Nizamuddin was getting a Baoli built, and refused to stop work.

Some even say the workers so loved and respected Nizamuddin that they volunteered to work at night by the light of oil lamps. In response, Tughlaq banned the sale of oil. Nizamuddin ordered water from the well be poured into the lamps; miraculously, this fuelled the lamps and kept them lit. By then, the emperor's behaviour had infuriated the seer enough to condemn the new capital city to barrenness:

Ya rahe usar, ya base Gujjar
(May it be deserted, or become a dwelling for Gujjars)

[NB: At the time of Nizamuddin Auliya, and to an extent even today, the term 'Gujjar' denoted a community of semi-nomadic herdsmen]

The Sultan was at that time fighting a campaign in Bengal. He sent word he would deal with the 'turbulent priest' as soon as he returned to Delhi. To which Nizamuddin riposted, 'Hunuz, Dilli duur ast (Delhi is yet far away).'

[Interestingly, the same momentous phrase was uttered on another historic occasion. In 1739, when the plunderer Nadir Shah was poised outside Delhi, the sybarite emperor Mohammad Shah 'Rangile' responded to his generals' warnings with an identical 'Dilli duur ast'. Whereas the seer's prophecy paved the way for abiding peace, the emperor's complacency led to one of the most horrific carnages of all times.]

Nizamuddin's predictions proved remarkably accurate. On the emperor's return from Bengal in 1324, his son Mohammad bin Tughlaq organised a grand parade just outside Delhi to welcome him. There, a canopy mysteriously collapsed and killed him; historians credit this to a conspiracy allegedly hatched by the son. In 1327, three years after ascending to the throne, the parricide emperor shifted the administration to his own capital, Jahanpanah. Tughlaqabad was reduced to a ghost town.

[Continued in Part III]

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Nizamuddin 01: Political Economy - I

[NB: This is part of an ongoing series on the Nizamuddin locality of New Delhi. For a brief background, please read the prefatory note.]

It started with a joke, the substance of this post. I was having a big argument with Nasir, a friend and former colleague. Like all denizens of the Walled City, he was incapable of contemplating anything beyond Jama Masjid as a source of Kababs. So Nasir was rattling on and on as usual about Matia Mahal Kababiyas. After a point I felt compelled to interject and advance, tongue firmly in cheek, an argument rooted in history and political economy to demonstrate the superiority of Nizamuddin kababs. Nasir didn't like it one bit!

Later on it occurred to me, this might be an interesting idea after all. Lots of studies have been conducted on the sociology of food, how societal and anthropological factors determined what people ate. So the question what people sold as food, and how socio-economic considerations influenced it, could make for a pretty interesting area of investigation.

Old Delhi or the Walled City became the capital of India in 1638. From then on, it gained importance as a political and commercial centre and, thanks mainly to its splendid mosques like the Jama Masjid, as a religious centre as well.

But did all this boost the food business? Difficult to say. Satish Jacob mentions: 'The tea houses in the walled city were frequented by intellectuals, poets, royal courtiers and scholars who would spend hours discussing the topics of the day.' Ghantewala, the legendary confectioner's, also dates back to that era.

Against this must be set the fact that fine dining as we know it didn't exist as a concept then. Presumably, most eating houses catered to travellers, working men, artisans, and others to whom food purchased from outside comprised a necessity, not a luxury. The city elite took enormous pride in their private chefs, and would rather die than purchase food from outside.

As mentioned earlier, even Ghantewala was not an eatery in the proper sense, merely a sweets shop. Moreover, it was established in 1790, when the empire was at its steepest phase of decline. Legend has it that Shah Alam II himself patronised Ghantewala. To my mind, this is is as telling a commentary on the emperor's poverty as on the sweetmaker's excellence. By then the empire had dwindled literally to the level of a standing joke:

Az Dilli ta Palam/ Badshah Shah Alam
(loose translation: 'From Delhi to Palam/ Reigns Shah Alam')

[NB: For those not in the know, Palam is a hamlet on the outskirts of Delhi, and presently home to the eponymous airport that services the metropolis.]

Delhi's misfortunes reached their lowest ebb in the years immediately following the 1857 revolt, when the capital shifted to Calcutta. By this time, the city had been reduced to a provincial town.

It began to regain some of its glory in the following decades. First it was made the capital of the Punjab province. Then in 1911, the capital of India shifted back to Delhi. A new city adjoining Old Delhi was established in 1930. The Walled City continues to exist as an enclave of what is known as the National Capital Region (NCR). It remains an important commercial centre in its own right.

These upheavals in the city's political economy find a startling resonance in the food business. The history of Karim's, without doubt the best known eatery in the Walled City, is a case in point. The progenitors of its founder, Haji Karimuddin, were cooks in the Mughal emperors' palaces. During the 1857 revolt, they remained loyal to the emperor. Once peace was restored, they were forced to run away from Delhi and seek shelter in outlying towns, often in disguise.

In 1911, Karimuddin moved back to Delhi. He decided to cash in on the business opportunity the Durbar generated, and opened a Dhaba to cater to visitors. The bill of fare was limited to Dal, Alu Gosht, and Rumali Roti. Its humble beginnings notwithstanding, the venture proved so successful that in 1913 he re-cast it on a firmer footing. That's how Karim's Hotel was born.

[Continued in Part II]

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Street Food and the Law 03: Standards - II

[Continued from Part I]

NATIONAL STANDARDS

In India, the nodal agency liaising with CAC is the Directorate General of Health Services, Ministry of Health and Family Welfare (MOHFW). In accordance with CAC guidelines, the Ministry has brought out a Training Manual called 'The User's Manual on Codex: A Contemporary Approach to Food Quality and Safety Standards'.

A characteristic of the manual is its wholesale endorsement of the CAC Codes. Acknowledging that 'The Codex Alimentarius Commission (CAC) has done commendable work for ensuring the safety of street food and has brought out a Code of Hygienic Practice for the preparation and sale of street food,' [p. 228] it goes on to refer to the 1997 Code.

Much of its recommendations flow from the 1997 Code. For example, the note at pp. 233-34 is a verbatim transcription of Note HA referred to above. [p. 7] Significantly for us, the manual reiterates the 1997 Code’s recommendations about storing food at either below 5°C or above 60°C, [p. 233] as well as about serving hot food at 70°C. [p. 235]

TWO QUESTIONS

At this point, a peculiar issue arises. On the one hand, we have the ban on cooking. And on the other hand, it is clear by now that heating is essential to food safety. In the light of the latter, the question arises what purpose the ban on cooking serves. Is there indeed such a vast distinction between cooking and heating to justify the ban on the first when the second is so critical to food safety? And indeed, does the ban on cooking permit heating, or does it prohibit both?

Before going further, I think it is expedient to say something about the right to equality under Article 14 of the Constitution. Over the years, this has evolved into a number of tests or principles. The one relevant to us is that of nexus with the objective. This means that individuals not on the same footing may be classified into different categories (and consequently treated differently) provided that (a) there is a discernible objective behind the classification, and (b) the classification actually furthers that objective.

The question before is, what is the nature of the classification that the ban on street cooking seeks to achieve? Does it prohibit the heating as well as cooking of food? Given that the question of heating finds no explicit mention, let us for the sake of argument proceed on either possibility.

Possibility 1: Heating is Permitted

Let us first suppose that heating is permitted. This provokes the question, how is heating to be distinguished from cooking? A precise distinction is necessary, or else the ban will fall foul of another test associated with Article 14, namely that of intelligible differentia. This means the distinction between the classes to be treated differently must be clear-cut and unambiguous. Hence, unless a definite criterion is provided for distinguishing between cooking and heating, banning the first while permitting the second will not be tenable in law.

Then again, what is the objective to be served by discriminating between heating and cooking? Surely the other arguments against street cooking discussed earlier (viz. public hygiene and the beautification drive) apply to heating as well as cooking. Moreover, there is nothing to indicate that cooking is more unhygienic than mere heating.

Lastly, the arrangement leaves unanswered significant questions of implementation, especially malfeasant implementation. Our police personnel and municipal inspectors are not the least corrupt of public servants. And the fine distinction between heating and cooking will give them a fantastic opportunity to harass vendors. The mind automatically conjures visions of them running amok, shouting: ‘That’s not heating, you’re breaking the law! Pay us or we book you for cooking!’

Possibility 2: Heating is Prohibited

The other possibility is that cooking and heating are both banned in equal measure. This is, of course, nothing short of ridiculous. Given that most street vendors cannot afford to buy fridges, it is manifest that heating constitutes the only practical way of ensuring that street food remains within safe temperatures. Thus banning heating while permitting street food as such will, instead of making the food safer, actually enhance the risks associated with it!

In other words, the ban’s objective (i.e. food safety) and inevitable consequences turn out to be polar opposites of each other. On this basis, the ban can be challenged as inconsistent with the ‘nexus’ requirement discussed above. Furthermore and much more significantly, by prohibiting practices that make food safer, the ban actually poses a threat to the physical well being of the people. Hence we may even contended that it violates our right to life under Article 21!

CONCLUSION

The entire debate on street cooking can be reduced to a single question: how responsibly has this ban been drafted? Moreover, on what basis did the Supreme Court and MCD reached their conclusions? Given the wealth of material that advocate safe food temperatures, we may conjecture that they had before them an equally formidable corpus of expert opinion that led it to come to the opposite conclusion.

Or did they? Were at all doctors, food safety experts and other authorities consulted? We may note in parentheses, seeking such information through the Right to Information Act might make an interesting first step to a fresh legal challenge.

More important, if it transpires that expert opinion was not sought, then possibly a challenge can be mounted on that ground alone. There’s lots more to be said on the issue. Stay tuned!

[Concluded]

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Street Food and the Law 02: Standards - I

Introduction

I noted in the previous post that several justifications have been cited for prohibiting cooking on the streets. One that has recently gained legitimacy rests on grounds of hygiene and the health hazards it poses for those eating it.

This raises the question, is cooking on the streets indeed so harmful to the consumer? And is pre-cooked food really the answer? In this post I examine what health and food safety bodies have to say on the matter.

International Standards

It is reassuring to know that international bodies accept street food to be an inescapable reality of urban life, especially in less affluent nations. They also recognise its beneficent consequences. As the FAO notes on its website:

Besides being cheap and convenient, street foods can also be nutritious. A study in Calcutta found that an average 1 000 calorie meal contained about 30 grams of protein, 15 grams of fat and 180 grams of carbohydrates. And at an average cost of about five Indian rupees, street food is probably the least expensive means of obtaining a nutritionally balanced meal outside the home, according to the study.

Considerations such as these have encouraged the bodies to take a stand that is both mature and practical. Rather than calling for its prohibition, they have instead chosen to draft guidelines to ensure conformity with basic food safety requirements.

Codex Alimentarius

In 1963, the FAO and WHO jointly created the Codex Alimentarius Commission (CAC) to 'develop food standards, guidelines and related texts such as codes of practice under the Joint FAO/WHO Food Standards Programme.' Among the food safety standards that the Commission formulated, two pertain to street food.

'Code of Hygienic Practice for the Preparation and Sale of Street Foods (Regional Code: Latin America and the Caribbean)' dates back to 1997, and was revised in 2001. (It may noted that some confusion exists about its original date of adoption. While the parent webpage lists the date as 1995, the document itself bears the date 1997.) The second, titled 'Revised Regional Guidelines for the Design of Control Measures for Street-Vended Foods in Africa', was adopted originally in 1997 and redrafted in 1999. For the sake of convenience, we shall refer them to the 1997 and 1999 Codes respectively.

Section 6.2 of the 1997 Code specifies requirements for food preparation. Guideline 6.2.3 is directly relevant to us, and is reproduced verbatim:

6.2.3 The time between preparation and consumption of foods should be as follows:

6.2.3.1 - Up to 6 hours when foods are kept at a temperature above 60°C.
6.2.3.2 - Up to one day when foods are kept at a maximum temperature of 5°C.
6.2.3.3 - Reheat only once refrigerated food completely to a temperature of 70°C, immediately before consumption.

Note HA on the same page [page 7] states:

Microorganisms are sensitive to heat to a degree depending on biological type and on form and duration of exposure at detrimental temperatures. However, cooking in kitchens is not sufficient to sterilize foods. The remaining bacteria can multiply exponentially at room temperature and their final number will depend on the time of exposure at inadequate temperature.

(I mention in passing that in the original document, Note HA is produced entirely in capital letters!)

Similarly, Section 8 ('Protection and Sale of Foods') contains the following:

8.2.3 - The food and beverages displayed for sale should be well protected and kept at an appropriate temperature.
8.2.3.1 - When hot foods have been chilled, reheating must be at above 70°C.

From the foregoing, we may glean the following points:

• Cooked food must not under any circumstances be kept at room temperature;
• The appropriate temperature for storing cooked food is either less than 5°C or more than 60°C;
• If food meant to be had hot is kept refrigerated, it should be heated to above 70°C before being served.

The 1999 Code is much more comprehensively drafted, and genreally entails more strnigent standards. For instances, it addresses in considerable detail issues like the location, design, construction, customer facilities and so on of street food centres, [Section VI (sic IV), p. 11-14] issues that the 1997 Code does not mention. Dwelling on these matters poses a pleasant temptation, but is not really relevant to the present topic.

In respect of storage temperatures, the Code marginally relaxes standards for cold foods. The bar for hot foods remains the same. Section 5.3 contains [at p. 16] the following:

Ready-to-eat foods intended for continuous serving should be protected from environmental contamination and kept at the following holding temperatures:

a) for food served hot......60°C or above;
b) for food served cold......7°C or below;
c) for food served frozen..–18°C or below.

[Continued in Part II]

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Street Food and the Law 01: Legal Background

NB: An earlier version of this article appeared as 'Food Court: Government Policy Leaves Hawkers' Future in Balance', Down to Earth 31 May 2007.

Introduction

The issue of hawkers cooking food on the roadside has become unexpectedly prominent, not to mention confusing. Not long ago, the media carried reports that the Supreme Court had agreed to the Municipal Corporation of Delhi’s (MCD) contention that hawkers cooking food on the roadside need to be banned in order to beautify the city in time for the 2010 Commonwealth Games, and also because such food constituted a health hazard to people eating it. This provoked strong reactions across sections of society.

The Supreme Court later clarified that it had imposed no such ban, but merely directed the MCD to provide infrastructure for the maintenance of hygiene. Recently, however, newspapers carried reports that the Court has accepted the bulk of the MCD recommendations. The only exceptions it permitted were in respect of tea and coffee vendors.

Inevitably, this veritable spectrum of judicial opinions gives rise to more questions than answers. What is not so apparent at first sight is that it reflects negatively on the attitude of the executive, specifically local municipal bodies. For decades, hawkers have constituted a convenient target for their ‘beautification’, ‘hygiene’ and other such knee-jerk drives. The drives themselves camouflage the fact that municipal bodies have so far failed to frame a clear-cut, rational and, most important, sustainable policy in respect of hawkers.

Early Cases

Not surprisingly, such ‘policy’ initiatives have spawned intensive litigation. Back in the 1960s, the Supreme Court in Pyare Lal v. NDMC [AIR 1968 SC 133] held that the sale of cooked food affected public hygiene. Clearly, the health risks they posed for the consumers themselves did not constitute an issue here.

In the 1985 decision Bombay Hawkers’ Union v. Bombay Municipal Corporation [AIR 1985 SC 1206], the Supreme Court passed strong remarks about how hawkers had steadily encroached upon pavements and roads, and how vested interests prevented municipal bodies from preventing them. [para 1] However, it refused to ban the outright sale of food as an unreasonable restriction on the freedom of trade: ‘There are several working families in Bombay, belonging to different strata of society, which depend upon the food supplied by hawkers. We do not see any valid reason why hawkers should not be allowed to sell cooked food, cut fruits and the like. [para 10]’

Recent Trends

Maharashtra Ekta Hawkers Union v. Municipal Corporation, Greater Mumbai [AIR 2004 SC 416] marks a new approach to the issue. Here, a distinction was carved between hawkers selling pre-cooked food, and preparing food in the stalls or kiosks. Moreover, this distinction also underscored a difference in approach between the executive and the judiciary. The respondent Municipal Corporation (known as BMC) had framed rules that prohibited even the sale of cooked food, cut fruits and the like. The Supreme Court struck down this rule, but upheld the prohibition on cooking: ‘We are unable to accept submission (sic) that cooking should be permitted. We direct that no cooking of any nature whatsoever shall be permitted. [para 14]’ Interestingly enough, the Court did not specify the grounds behind this pronouncement.

In February 2007, the Supreme Court examined various aspects of the implementation of the 2003 decision, and ventured towards a cohesive policy on the issue of hawkers [Maharashtra Ekta Hawkers Union v. Municipal Corporation, Greater Mumbai - Manupatra citation MANU/SC/0901/2007]. As such, it did not say anything specific in respect of the sale of food, pre-cooked or otherwise. From its approval of the rules framed in the 2003 decision, we may gather that the distinction between cooking in the stalls and selling pre-cooked food continues to hold good.

Conclusion

The judgments referred to above give us a clear indication of how judicial perspectives have altered over the years; first from emphasising public hygiene to construing roadside food as a threat to consumers’ health; and secondly in gradually carving out a distinction between pre-cooked food and food cooked within roadside stalls.

While the Court has been unequivocal in emphasising this distinction, the fact that it has not specified the reasons behind it is significant. Media reports mentioned earlier suggest public hygiene, and factors not wholly unconnected with the ‘beautification drive’ preparatory to the Commonwealth Games, constitute predominant considerations.

The situation is only muddled further by the Court’s earlier clarification that it had not banned cooking on the roadside in its entirety. If that were so, then its later acceptance of MCD recommendations must amount to a volte-face. In any case, the two orders together provoke the question: does cooking on the roadside cause so deep an impact on public hygiene that it ought to be treated on a different plane from selling already cooked food?

Beyond a point, the same question holds true in respect of the ‘personal health of consumers’ argument also. Common sense tells us that cooking by the roadside is less hygienic than selling pre-cooked food. But is the difference in hygiene levels so great as to justify a ban on cooking alone, and not the sale of cooked food? Especially given that hygiene regulations are rarely followed in packaging cooked food? Then again, if pre-cooked food is not kept in proper storage conditions, it might prove much more harmful than freshly-cooked food.

Suffice it to say, therefore, that unless these issues are explained, the rationale behind the Court’s various decisions will not become clear.

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Street Food and the Law 00: Prefatory Note

It's official, finally. The Municipal Corporation of Delhi (MCD) scheme for banning cooking by the roadside has received the assent of the Supreme Court. The implications of this are manifold. It affects food-sellers, it affects the working populace who are unable to afford meals at more "respectable" eating places on a daily basis, it also threatens a vital part of Delhi's rapidly dwindling cultural heritage.

On the other hand, what does this scheme seek to achieve? For that matter, what does it achieve in actual terms? Given the government's dismal record of implementing laws, will the scheme be at all enforced effectively? Or will it be used as yet another means of harassing vendors and extorting more bribes from them? Indeed, the plethora of questions and debates the scheme provokes is staggering, no less.

It scarcely needs to be said that the scheme also calls for a concerted, mature response from all and sundry. To this end, the Foodscapes Blog intends to carry a series of articles examining this issue from the constitutional, legal, sociological, and other perspectives.

This present post will also feature a list of articles. Other articles, as and when they are posted, will be hyperlinked to it.

List of Articles

1. Legal Background
2. Standards - I
3. Standards - II
4. A Strange Article
   
5. Societal Trends
   

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