A slice of Turkey perfectly rolled!

My affinity for Shawarma is a keepsake from Bangalore. Carrots, lettuce, onions, potato-wedges, pickles and sliced Chicken – dry-rubbed and slow-roasted on the spit, are mixed, chopped and thrown into a zesty pile of pale garlic sauce to fraternize, and, in time, freely slathered on a keenly folded Rumali, soon to be rolled into a dwarfish bolster that disappears precisely in three and a half bites. That is my Shawarma - the Tom Alter of streetfood - nextdoor, delectable and exotic by provenance.

Trail of Shawarma once led me to a neighbourhood I call the conscience of North Calcutta, Hatibagan [or, The Elephants’ Garden]. Sited near a buzzing Star Theatre, Lebanese Junction is reaping what MASH Steakhouse does always in London’s teeming Piccadilly Theatre – the boons of a key location. It soon dished up one of the brightest chicken Shawarmas I’d had in recallable past. Scrumptious fries on side and a surprising note of garlic in filling turned the wrap into a fount of fascinating flavour. Raring and spurred, I sent for a Spicy Chilli Pork – made of loin cut into thick strips about two inches long, glazed and tossed in a house-sauce made after sweet Kansas BBQ dip. Skilled cooking coaxed the fat and lean to blend and soak in the bold tang to the bone. I loved what I ate. Fret not if you see a scooting rodent or wayward flies joining you in your repast unasked. Delicious Chilli Pork, I vouch, would redeem every unease. Lebanese Junction, I wish you well!

Snippets from Lucknow and Benares...

Defining and delicious Lal Pedas and Giloris of Ram Bhandar - packed for posterity. 

A confectionery immortalized by a fleeting yet notable glimpse in Ray's 'Joybaba Felunath' - where dear Feluda whisks off Bikash, an accomplice, at gunpoint from Ram Bhandar, leaving the obliging vendor with a firm promise to return soon.

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Banarasi Malai Lassi and an unknown funambulist!

Hopes that had led me to this popular Lassi-joint of Ramnagar were grounded with its first sip - with a cloying sweetness, crushed confection pointlessly spread on top and a thickness more akin to Rabri than Lassi. Or, were I too loath to embrace the local-taste? What I returned with were memories of an amazing feat we hopelessly practise more in life than on rope. Poise is forever at a premium.

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An almost unstately departure that soon turned out to be a toothsome meal at the heart of Varanasi. Food at Roma's cafe was rich in taste and all that I'd fancied in good-food - and unusually generous in portions. Those cheese-wrapped Enchiladas, as urban rendering of something gloriously rustic, proved quaint and tasty. Minding how customarily odd it is in Varanasi to praise the exotic, I leave you with glimpses of what I ate heartily at Roma's. For fish-and-chips only I'm keen to return and be delighted again. 

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Kipling is lax to artful thefts. So, comes the ballad of Veg and I - never the twain shall meet! That's as true as sunset. 

Paralysing sourness in chats spoilt a promising supper and made me rue choosing Deena over neighbouring Kashi Chat Centre. Or, were I too loath to embrace the ruling taste? Luckily, with balanced sweetness, Kulfi Faluda proved redeemingly toothsome causing me lap up two in a row. So, the jury is still out on if I loved the food at Deena. 

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The 'Banarsi' start. Discovering provenance of food is not what I do as spiritedly as eating. But the familiar taste of Benarasi kachori-sabzi did confirm that at Kolkata I just settle for an exalted imitation of it. Always crispy, mature and delicious, come what may. Prepared with urad daal flour/ whole wheat flour, they stay soft within and crisp without for days, and puffed until you prick or pat it flat. 'Alu baingan palak ki subzi' at Madhur Jalpan intrigued me well - with poise and by being a friendly foil to gentle Kachoris. 

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If you love god, build tall towers. And, if you love food as god, visit Lucknow.

The thought of leaving the 'City of Nawabs' had me clutch at straws and set out on the trail of a redeeming Kullad of chai. In time, I found Prem Tea Point at Hazratgunj, and therein a variant finely poised between a locally popular 'Dudhwali' and solemn 'Kadak' - just milky and laced with briskly spices. A far cry from neighbouring Sharmaji's. Liliputian-jalebi and oblong Gulab-jamun lent themselves out typically as delicious sides. Pains of parting were eased and I, contented, bade Lucknow au revoir. 

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But for it, leaves would have forever remained object of cursory admiration and infrequent reference. 'Pan' made of fabled 'Jagannathi' of Varanasi - filled with freshening fennel, mint, elaichi, fragrant saffron and dry fruits, is born to please with perceptible elegance. Endowed with an intriguing aftertaste that wanes slower than is desired. Traditionally not eaten in pairs like a lesser Maghai, though I had three in a row just to atone for a bottomless love of meat. 

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Sabir's Rezala had ruled my gastronomic fancies uncontested until it met its Waterloo in Raheem's Nihari this afternoon. Juicy mutton cubes dunked in a flavourous curry slow-cooked with bold spices; and served with Kulchas that are both soft and flaky, very French. A pair wherein subtlety is married to simplicity, typifying the culinary spirit of Lucknow. Indelibly delicious and is worth every agony of overeating. In short, a meal I'd cherish forever. 

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A diluted taste I forgot sooner than I could step out of the fabled joint. As many as 28 ingredients failed to salvage a washy Thandai from oblivion. Regrettably reduced to a thing of the past. Or, was that a swill in the making? 

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The Lucknawi start. Admiring Boti-kebab is discerning a wealth of notes in delicious dice of juicy mutton. And, Dastarkhwan's rendering of it did leave with an admirable relish. On par with the finest I've had so far. Oddly mix of rice in Biriyani proved commonplace. Shahi-tukra pleased with poise and richness. Overall, a memorable meal I must say. 

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A Siddiqui amid Khans,Singhs and Kapurs. At Al Zaiqa, found Biriyani at its all-around best - cooked with long grained rice and sappy mutton offering a zesty ensemble traditionally fancied in Awadhi cuisine, clearly outstripping Idrees' in overall relish. Boti-kebab, nonetheless, upset with misplaced fat. Cooks of Lucknow keep at most two good arrows in the quiver. Rest are all dud. Much loved Chicken Kalimirch was ruefully shelved until next trip.

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Hop, skip and jump from Aminabad Tunday Kababi. I wondered how swimmingly could frozen cream slide down my meat-loving entrails. Savoured delicious kulfis at legendary Prakash Kulfi. Smooth, creamy, flavorous and abounding in dry fruits. Truly the stuff of legend.

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I bowed to the toothless Nabab who, perched on a wobbly throne, could binge even in the teeth of a looming old-age. And, the resolute cook who let his handicap be immortalised in melting Kebabs. 

Thus came the Napoleon of Galawati - Tunday, as delicious roundels of melting meat, pairing with Ulte tawa ke parathe, since made on inverted girdles, like a briskly Fred Astaire with nimbly Ginger Rogers. But, Biriyani was plebeian and Phirni, BAD. So, buy watch only from a watchmaker.

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Sharma Ji ki Chai - a glorified ersatz of tea. Overtly hyped. High on milk and health, and agonizingly low on what I unhesitatingly ache for in 'Chai' - the rakish kick. This is precisely what I would materialise if Gogol, my son, is craving for a cuppa as weekend indulgence.

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I saw how as few as two Malai Giloris on the trot could trigger an aching for countless of it. They were crunchy bliss - with mishri, dry-fruits and a lot more wrapped in deliciously fresh malai! An ace of sweets by all means.

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Populist Idrees is ticked off once and for all! Burst of Awadhi flavours was conspicuously marred by a remorseless use of lesser rice. I deem Idrees' as Biriyani at its boorish best that in my eyes lost a perfect ten not by a hair but tuft. A treat best savoured with eyes shut.

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Paranthas and more...

I was just back from Lucknow, but not completely out of it. And, owe Rahul Arora for prolonging by days that earthen fervour of UP I was too reluctant to forfeit. Frugally dished up amid a kitschy ambiance evocative of North with a twist, Paranthas at Paranthewali Gali shone in taste with nominal oil, a lot of love and choicest fillings – by almost giving birth to tastes by will!

Both Keema and Dhania-mirch Paranthas were shapely, overly ample and discretely delicious. With an induced uniqueness of crumbled laddu, Motichoor ki lassi tasted honourably buttery. Poise was proudly not as much at premium there as elsewhere. But, what swept me off my feet was Paan Lassi – truly a semiliquid expression of 'Paan' at its savoury best, ripe with an abiding mystique that I often miss in those chlorophyllic triangles typically popped after meals. Flavoured candies supplied with Bill lent a maudlin touch to my experience. Besides cookery, Surprising was what Rahul seemed to be good at. I just wish him more of that talent, and myself more paranthas at PWG.

Kalpataru

It’s time to praise the homespun. A lazy stroll in Boi-Para [neighbourhood of books] ended with a 'মন মাতোয়ারা' [Mon-Matoara or The Crazy Heart] and 'দিলখুশ' [Dilkush or The Happy Heart] from Kalpataru Bhandar - where paans, like progenies, are fondly named after the fervours they supposedly set off. Having spotted me at a distance, sprightly with a proud ancestry, Shyamal-da [Dutta] leaped off his stool and like clockwork whipped up his green-wonders. Unuse of Gulkand [mix made of rose petals] and Katha in paans kept the flavours just sweet throwing the subtle piquancy of Bhubaneshwari leaf, not Banarsi, into delicious relief, and so unleashed a bright and lasting aftertaste. Besides Books and Coffee House, Pan is often what hauls me to College Street of Calcutta.

How Hua...kaise hua?

A trained mind like mine is incidentally spared the memories of little or no significance! My recent treat at How Hua proved upsettingly ordinary – characterised by dishes that could barely approximate what James’ grandpa had served food-lovers of Calcutta for years. Talumein Soup, as starter, was lifeless with a misplaced tang and wealth of noodles dipped in a viscous veg-stock. Plumped out with flavoured sawdust, Chicken Wantons fared as badly by appearing to appease those who rank heft above taste. Boon of the evening was a well-cooked Prawn Meifoon as flavorous noodles teeming with briskly prawns. But, Roast Chili Pork cut me to the bone like none – made of stringy and stubborn shreds most indecorously carved off and served with minimal seasoning. Possibly my love for lean pork was mistaken as one for mean. #uncookedwords

Ekdalia Road...

Those with difficult birth often learn the ropes quicker than others. [The statement might as well make a good end to my account!] #uncookedwords

To see how well is Surajit’s difficult baby ‘Ekdalia Road’ reared in a land so proudly unkind to middlings, I paid a discreet visit. Tucked away in a lane that only good sleuths find, it took us hours to see the chef’s face smiling from behind a glass door. That was deliciously welcoming. So was the scrumptious starter featuring thinly crumbed medallions plumped with juicy fillets of herbed chicken; with a zesty blob of carrot, pumpkin and parsley served on side. They meshed as friendly cogs united after years. Impressed and spurred, I sent for more.

My memories are made of meals – both good and bad. And, I grew wiser [and pickier] watching cooks doggedly sweat over getting foods up to snuff. Red Snapper is pink and endowed with a note unmistakably akin to Bhetki. I wondered what exactly could fail the versatile Fish in Lemon Tartar sauce - made of unskinned [I repeat, unskinned] fillets grilled and dressed in a tart juice rendered pointlessly unique with signature spritz of Gondhoraj. Possibly the cook preferred risking Taste to Cost - regardless of the scale of disgust jiggly ‘unsevered’ belly-fats could let off. Unacceptable. Chef, take note and cut the fat. Red Herrings fail on me.

The bests of food are unapologetically vicious. However, the flavorous Rice, tossed with choicest herbs, did manage to remain both delicious and guiltless – and, in a way, reassuring to carry on with eating. Surajit surprises his regulars with house-sauces as notoriously as Holmes would with his unsolicited deductions. Juicy chicken soaked in a marquee Mushroom sauce tasted how it ought to – adequately redeeming and remarkably tasty. SSS [Sour, Sweet and Spicy] was the sauce that promised, by fusing dissenting notes, to turn the mundane to magical. Its pairing with pork could only be the stuff of Intrigue. But the hog failed – not the worst I’d eaten but close, by being TOO prosperous, or fatty, to please. I know some fats are appetizing. But not in the hogs I fancy. Strangely that my son ate had fine meat carrying an agreeable mix of fat and lean. So, should I quixotically treat my lot as one-off? Would Surajit ever let consistency be an old chestnut or cooking pale into an act as random as an orangutan drawing Guernica?

Appetite compels food-writing and killing one may end the other too. But, I’ll keep eating, come rain or shine, and words will follow. My wishes are with Ekdalia Road. Hopefully the mixed bag of this time will have turned into one of wonders the next time I drop into Surojit’s lair.

But, how is bad-food minded as resolutely as good-food forgotten?

Amber - a failed trip

Around the bend of Waterloo Street, I often meet a delicious past. A past I owe as much to an abiding pack of neighbouring eateries as to my parents who left no stone unturned weaning me on the proudest edibles of Kolkata. And, Amber led the pack from the front. Having gibed pointless etiquette as wasted and worn stains on sleeve with poise all my life, I only found agreement in Amber’s apathy for anything that glittered but lacked taste. No wonder it flourished in a time when ‘Succulence’ as word featured more in SpellBees than in food-columns. And, the gatekeepers had shiny imperials.

Cut and shift to the day I picked Amber to rediscover flavours I’d left in a fit of greed! A long gap, running into years, made the thud of despair louder and possibly reach far and wide. Mahi tandoori set a mood of restraint with Bhetki grilled and on the turn, carrying a balanced bouquet of flavours – not encouraging to pull the string that holds memories. Chicken Seekh was stiff and dry – resembling more a forbidding albino than a well-nigh aphrodisiac. With meatless ribs jutting out in dissent, a knobbly Burra Kebab looked appealing but failed to offer delight of any kind. Malai Chicken, an order more of impulse than wisdom, for an instant had me believe that I’d popped a chewy clump of vinegar in haste.

Moving back and forth is how I choose to reflect! Of all its dishes, none had brought Amber glory like fabled Chicken Tandoori - with brown, brightly charred, fiery skin, marinated in proven spices of yore. I as fondly recall almost snorting the heady mix of charcoal and tandoori spices on the air, as digging hungrily into its hallmark juiciness - with eyes shut in ecstasy. What they served that day as Tandoori bore all that I’d ever despised in grills – be it the irreparable dryness or lack of flavours that once had made us buddies for life. I was sad to find even my loyalty, with that of many others, fail in making it taste any better. Memory of Chicken Tandoori at Amber would live on as a relish [or, relic] to be recounted with true regret. Taste thrives on either consistence or delicious aberrations, and so does love! I saw my courage dip as I dawdled along the menu and settle with a spoonful of Tutti-frutti that an acquaintance had agreed to share. So, the time is here when the ‘Frutti’ can safely be spelt as ‘Farty’ for its unseemly airy predominance.

Describing distaste is not my forte. So, I rest my pen here, hoping to forget the meal as briskly as I write about it. And, I’m glad that I don’t get paid for writing, nay, lying about food. That would have made me swear my best love to boiled Barley, or promise a failing Amber a hearty revisit.

I repeat, the state is grim if an eatery fails to hold even a flickering candle to its own past!