Surfire...

Describing distaste is not fun. So, let's keep it at a minimum! 

I never grieved frequenting my workplace in London so long as it stood precisely nine minutes away from Holmes’ humble pad at 221B Baker Street. As neighbour to super-sleuth Feluda on Rajani Sen Road in Calcutta, Surfire too could be as coveted had its promising fare agreed to the rigours of that fabled quarter.

Lack of balance between vinegar and chili-peppers lent the Chorizos in Dosa a cloying tang I proved utterly unfit to admire. [By the way, Chorizo of my kind is smoky, brisk and oftener from Spain than Mapusa.] Appams were homely, porous, bowl-shaped, versatile and like a chaste ingénue that eschews coarseness in touches. With a gritty texture and vapid chunks of pork almost vying for rushed deliverance, a hodgepodge callously passed off as Vindaloo suddenly made my Goan jaunts appear too few and far between. Middling prawns in Chettinad were awful, unsavoury [and perhaps lately uncanned]. In a richly delicious Butter Garlic Crab I found culinary restraint and mastery at their snooty best, setting off an oomph enough to coax Adam quit pursuit of Eve forever. Its relish was decadent, redeeming and timely! Mutton Pepper-fry is a fairly renowned dish that, I understand, owes its prevalence to easy alterability to suit palates. The one with parched mutton dice I had that evening was ill-cooked and lifeless, sadly resembling a miserable gravel. The word ‘Roadside’ spells taste to me. Thattukada Mutton, or 'Mutton cooked the roadside way', delighted as sappy mutton cubes leisurely soaked in hefty and deliciously coconutty gravy - besides salvaging a failing evening from oblivion. Such arrows in the quiver are always rewarding. Like that the curtain fell on an eminently drab meal.

Plain-speaking is what I espouse, come what may. I wish Surfire whatever it takes to flourish.

Thakali and more...

You need to be too good when you're good to be condoned when you're not so. Though delectable Shaptas and plump Kothays more than redeemed charred Choila and briny Chowmein, I mulled if I would ever visit Thakali unannounced. Doma, you were terribly missed in that evening’s fare. #uncookedwords


Often taste flows from modest sources. Nonetheless, how could I ever dote on something so unappealing, indelicate and corny? Four Rumalis with two small, coarse, sapid and round meat-pies known as Tikias made my populist and unhurried dinner last night, leaving a lasting afterglow that deliciously outdid what I'd naively bargained for. #uncookedwords


Park Cafe of Paikpara owes its repute more to demure lovebirds of Calcutta who seek anonymity behind its tastefully tattered curtains, than any specific edible. Meaty chicken 'pakoras' cloaked in eggy lacework, old-school fish fries and cups of almost diabetic tea served on a peeling tabletop animated an 'adda' that without any of them could barely be even half as alive. #uncookedwords

almost a pizza...

The plane I'd boarded for Naples dropped me in the Adriatic Sea! #uncookedwords

Pepperoni pizza of 'Fire and Ice' was like an opulent Ben-Hur scrambled on the measly budget of a minute-long broadcast on 'Toothpicks' - a far-cry from any native rendering of the yeasted flatbread. Topping Pepperonis were dishonourably few. And, the seasonings' ungenerous sprinkling almost rendered the specks countable. Fire and Ice, please never be sparing on Pizza, or, ask Lollobrigida to fit into the clothes of Hepburn.

A morning at Milee Droog...

Build your cities on the slopes of Vesuvius! What else than love of San Marzano tomato that grows in the volcanic soil of Mount Vesuvius could make Nietzsche say so? I loved them too, but barely imagined relishing one in Calcutta the way they taste the best - as luscious topping of a ripe Neapolitan pizza. Clearly I lacked imagination. By dishing up a pliant and delicious roundel decked with San Marzano pomodoro, supple Mozzarella, perfectly grilled chicken, fresh onions and house BBQ, Milee Droog suddenly brought Naples a hop, skip and a jump away. However, a blend of Grenache, Syrah and Mourvèdre was dearly missed. Satyaki, please oblige someday! #uncookedwords

Indian Wine Day @The Lalit Great Eastern

Possibly the other task that most fairly approximates sipping wine is writing about it. November 16 was the date that all the Lalit Hotels, jointly with Indian Wine Academy, pledged to promotion of wine across India as Indian Wine day. So swearing a random day to the recondite glory of wine did surprise like rashly naming one after Mt. Fuji that remains as snow-capped and tall any other day. So be it! I was proudly a part of that vinous celebration this year at The Lalit Great Eastern in Calcutta. #uncookedwords

Sula Brut Tropicale, an expressive Blanc de Noirs, was wisely let ring in the promising evening. Processed after Méthode Traditionelle with shreds of dark varietals as marquee as Pinot Noir and what not, this sparkling stumped with a nose of crispy, fruity mischief, that could as well be called elegantly unobtrusive if weighed strictly on lightness. My deep-seated belief in the fiction of food-wine pairing luckily didn’t cloud the relish of cheese-stuffed chicken cigars so insensitively named Kadak Seekhs. Impressed and settled, I buckled up in delicious anxiety!

A slovenly Tikkia kebab pointlessly sprinkled with withering shreds of Marigold that barely bore any talent to brisk up tongues, was tabled as Amuse Bouché with an untaught naiveté. However, Sula Sauvignon Blanc’s affable tartness lent a timely and selfless foil to its failing pair - yielding a staid but lasting mouthfeel more relatable to method than madness. And, like a trusted libation kept the evening aflame that was well past a sprightly sparkling but surely raring for robust Reds. While sipping it obligingly, I kept missing Chenin.

I wish I had reams all to myself to describe the wine that followed. A Jancis Robinson favourite and once exalted as the Best New world Wine by Steven Spurrier, Grover’s La Réserve Icon Red – an oak-aged Cabernet Sauvignon-Syrah blend, revealed how swimmingly could a vertical and relatively unvarying Cab partner with sprightly Syrah. And, in time, shine. By sporting a bouquet that at once was discernibly fruity and playfully spicy, and a finish as ample as that of The Misfits’s Monroe, La Réserve laid a stage for one to follow that ought to be as profound or more. Though accompanying Murgh ke Parchey made a lesser pair by not yielding to my fork and knife gracefully, spicy Chapa Vepadu as juicy fish-fillets dry-rubbed and griddled, redeemed with a treble uniquely animating La Réserve’s rich bass.

The wine that ensued did more harm than good by quietly notching my deep allegiance to varietals! Touted as one of the boldest expressions of red awash in jammy notes of dark-fruits and spices, Fratelli Sette – a blend of Sangiovese and Cab Sauvignon, proved one I could sway with till far into the night. Slow-nursing let it sagely unfold to a delicious drink rich in all that a bold red could offer in earnest. Obscurity is best feted with wine. And, Sette packed that in plenty. Among the pairing mains, Laal-maas splendidly lifed Sette’s mystique with a native richness. The rest were just edibles with doubtable merits to be served on that fine occasion. I dodged the Brut as dessert to linger with Sette till the end. And, I did wisely.

That evening’s wine-spread was an elegant and coming-of-age assortment. I commend both The Lalit and Indian Wine Academy for conceiving such an occasion, and wish Indian Wine Day all success in days to come. 

Hang on! Slipping the dime in makes you hear me till I clock out!

Wine's is an intellectual pursuit. But, surprisingly no discourse was held to acquaint the guests to the nuanced wines. Moreover, while all the vinos did splendidly at ennobling Indian terroir, our host’s spread that evening could scarcely delight. I almost heard Dean crooning from the void, ‘Wham bam thank you man, hope you're satisfied’! I was clearly not.

Oenophiles wish for more. Until then, cin cin!

A Kitchen that couldn't be an eatery!

If alternating bad taste with good is how the new-borns plan to start off, they play it utterly on the wrong foot. #uncookedwords

Nine-month-old ‘The Kitchen’ was what I picked to treat my food-loving son in on Children’s day. My welcome to the copper-laden restaurant was cold and foppish. Throughout my meal a run of helpless Stans forced into Ollies’ clothes as ill-dressed waiters struggled to gloss over an utter lack of mastery of cooking. This fairly sums up how I felt both over and after my stay at The Kitchen. Primitive maces filled more with dull batter than duller chicken were passed off as ‘Korean-style Drums of Heaven’. If that is what they really eat up there, Zeus, we’re better off! Lemon Coriander soup was a few hairs short of being called an exotic Lemon juice laced with coriander, and artfully thickened just to be tagged discretely as soup on menu. Counting tines on forks sustained me until next course. Warm ‘Makhanwala’ Naans with delicious Dal Makhani were what lent zest to my flagging meal as a redeeming pair. The Naans stayed buttery soft surprisingly long and the Makhani pleased with amazing creaminess and flavour – setting off a felicity that soon yielded to a dish with a numbing note. So, came close on heels some Laziz Tikka Masala - as potful of raging spices most fiercely cooked, where chicken cubes were as fairly visible as Hydrogen in a glass of water.

Too many things happening together, like an unflattering flat tyre just when I’m indifferently hungry and whizzing past The Kitchen, can only bring about my next stop there. And, I’d wish to elude such occasion with poise. By the way, when exactly is an Eatery called a Kitchen?

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!

brush with Gorgonzola aka molten Bleu-cheese

As soon as you wake to the fact that muttering ‘Pollo Gorgonzola’ and waving a rickety wand wouldn’t let the muggle in you be a wizard, and ruefully agree to fill your mouth with a spoonful of it, a savoury magic begins to unfold! #uncookedwords #mileedroog

To the musically inclined, ‘Pollo Gorgonzola’ would appear more a Symphony than a Concerto – that explores a range wide in elements like taste and texture, as against featuring one or two in particular. Milee Droog whipped up an elaborate one of it with pan-fried Chicken soaked in Gorgonzola sauce and vegetables sautéed to a tee. And, much to my speed, Polenta. Riding on its versatility and unobtrusive taste [and a pastoral charm], Polenta - once touted as ‘the food of the poor’, is fast making inroads into thrifty meals. Perfectly set and sliced, this ‘yolk-yellow’ boiled cornmeal at Milee made a grainier, finer and tastier alternative to mash. Molten Bleu-cheese, aka Gorgonzola sauce, filled the chicken with a garlicky zest. Over a toast of alternating bites of meat and Polenta it revealed how wrong were I in seeking in a name the magic that in fact hid in Pollo’s taste all along. Satyaki, you almost nailed it!

Milee Droog...a dear friend

To me unlike many, Humperdinck typified good-food - having sung all his life as ‘deliciously’ as he looked. An unprepared bite into Chicken Blini – folded impeccably into a neat triangle filled with juicy mince, proved again how unerring had I been in summoning the foregoing simile. Gently browned pancakes cradled flavorous fills as naively as they could without failing sensually. Milee Droog - Kolkata’s lone Russian bistro, thus brought a joy that only good-food could, besides animating a sloppy Saturday evening! #uncookedwords

Reared by an empathetic husband to amuse his Russian wife with native food, Milee Droog, or ‘Dear Friend’ in Russian, soon assumed the tough task of championing Russian fare in Kolkata – that too not long after the reign of Red here had bitten the dust.

Smelling my greenness, dear Satyaki - the kind chieftain, quickly walked up promising a spread dotted with possibilities. Chicken Blini, laid open already, delighted with modesty, taste and by being just firm to the bites. Insalata Di Rucola, or a bright splash of Monet in a salad bowl, staged a lush mix of edgy Rocket lettuce and tamely poached pears tossed in reduced Honey Balsamic, elevating the meal to music whose each note pleased with freshness. And, I so atypically indulged in eating plants! 

Lebanese Grilled chicken has a proud talent of fitting even into the most erratic of spreads. Deeply flavoured with an herby marinade and spun unhurriedly on the spit, the one from Milee’s kitchen had kept us in savoury humour until the Mushroom Risotto [Risotto ai funghi] – almost a JamieOliver redefined, showed up raising the game by a notable halftone. Cooked al dente with fresh mushroom in elegantly nutty Porcini stock, this fabled rice-based delicacy of northern-Italy fused wild and the benign tasting unusually flavorous and just as creamy [don’t read muddy] as I would love. [Let me pause and dwell in a line on the glory of Porcini mushroom. Laws were framed in ancient Rome to keep the poor from this fungal bounty limiting its divine relish to highbrows.] 

Cutting through an ordinariness a classic crafted for itself often shines a timeless and simple taste. Plush Pittas and savoury Hummus at Milee - a vintage twosome, likewise prompted a hallelujah in praise. Who said classics are forgotten sooner than swallowed? What rounded out my supper was a cup of Brazilian black coffee of medium body, apt acidity and graceful nuttiness - a relish agreeably unfit for mediocre fancies! 

Irina, Satyaki’s dear wife, had hopefully as much relished reliving her land in Milee’s fare as I did 'discovering' one that evening. Those on menu that lay regrettably untasted would soon find me digging in again at Milee Droog I promise.

Bewildering Badshah...

Nothing pleases like an unmitigated surprise. So that evening at Badshah, upon finding ‘Creamy Chicken Tandoori’ - discernibly bearing outward kinship with Levantine delicacies, pose temptingly at the end of a relatively random Roll-trail, I smelt delectation in the offing. Likely to strike as an Albino to the tyro, this fairer avatar of Tandoori swimmingly belied all that I had apprehended until biting into it. Juicy chicken chunks, lovingly marinated with a perceptible accent of garlic, yielded to my incessant love-bites giving out a round savour worth zealous pursuit. Astute use of tamer herbs as seasoning secured a mature and savoury mouthfeel. And, I smiled at finding just another reason to frequent Badshah. Anyone to up the ante?

Cafe Ekante...

Charmingly sited by a sprawling waterbody, Café Ekante did only disappoint when rated solely on its fare. A disfavour grew steadily over a curated spread I was invited to a week ago. 

The appetizers didn't appetize! And, the mains were relatively as ordinary. 

Doi Moshlar Makha Makhi – juiceless kebabs made with curd, cheese and Jeera hit with an irksome tartness. The mix miscarried I presume. Kalnar Bharwan Aalu - potatoes filled with dry-fruits lacked taste and drama. Dhaka’s famous Gilafi Seekh Kababs shined texturally but lost on flavour. Rashid Miyanar Boti Kabab – the saving grace, delighted with well-pounded mutton temperately seasoned with spices and garlic. Gulnar Jalpari – marinated jumbo prawns slow-cooked in ‘dum’, fared well in both taste and savour. The Bhetki in Achari Fish Tikka was well past its cookable prime, ill-chosen. Chefs, be alert! 

Overcooked Kosha Mangsho, tasting rudely bitter, repulsed. Fulkopir Roast was poised and likable. Chingri Malai Curry – with excessively thin gravy and prawns of varying freshness, smacked of culinary insincerity. Kasundi diye Kasha Murgi’s fall from grace was steep and short, with scarcely marinated chickens dunked in a confused gravy. Bashonti Polao’s rice proved lesser than what it deserved to shine. I liked the baked Roshogolla. Bhapa-sandesh tasted too dull to be loved. 

Besides wishing the best, I see Café Ekante, with apt counsel, soon coming off as a coveted restaurant of a resurging Kolkata.

a marquee mousse...

In this age of frugality even the faintest glimmer of excess excites.

Monte Carlo, Chai Break's marquee chocolate mousse, startled as an epitome of excess on an unusually timid Sunday. A scoop of it almost brought alive the fantasy of rolling in a profusion of chocolate. Rich meringue finely folded into molten choco-base lent textural firmness while a generous topping of dry-fruits added drama and fun. 

Those edible paraphernalia went to my son. I prolonged my relish of the rest as long as I could - making no secret of my affinity for the immoderate fullness Monte Carlo offered in a bowl!

Thakali recall!

Thakali recalled! And, so was my expeditious revisit.

I had earlier the Henry Jekyll of Prawn Balls – sociable, succulent and scrumptious. Soon after I ate the Edward Hyde of it – frigid, shrivelled and lacking all that I ever loved in food. Doma Wang, I missed you terribly in the fare!

In Chicken Thukpa, I found Himalayan gentility whipped up in a bowl with apt mastery and warmth – leaving the egg-noodle maturely undercooked in a simmering broth of chicken, ginger, garlic, spring onions, green chilies and what not. Delicious Pork Kothays, served upturned in a cane-steamer, recalled American potstickers - with crisped-up bottoms and flavorous meat as filling. Mama mia! Shapta of lean pork - shredded and fried with pepper, onion, chilli and soy, offered a savour reckless and unrefined yet poised on all notes. Flat noodles with egg and pork turned out well but just well.

I love Thakali! 

But, if I take Doma out of my idea of it, will it stay as delicious?

Thakali...a whiff of the hills

Warmth is a seasoning that seldom fails. Thakali’s fare carried that in plenty. Tucked in a room that treats space and spices alike, Doma’s eatery inspired unhurried relish.

Like a keen hostess she dished up handmade wheat wrappers filled with minced yet crackling pork, in short, luscious Pork Momos with dollops of fiery Sepen - with the dough-skins deftly rolled to perfect thinness allowing cozy dialogue with the juicy filling. I happily yielded!

Next in line, Pork Choila – powdered cumin, chili, chopped garlic and ginger, onion, tomato and lime juice cooked and tossed with diced pork - a popular Newari delicacy, appeared a melange more Mexican than Nepalese, elegantly grungy and unusually flavorous - besides tasting remarkably better a day after! Breaching custom, I ate Choila without Sel roti.

The parting course had to be the Prawn Ball, Doma’s notable claim to fame. Golden fried balls filled with diced prawns and corn-crisps proved an ace by all means. Cooked to a delectable doneness, the prawns felt just succulent and firm to the bites. Sweet Chilli dip rounded it off wonderfully. I kept fancying Riesling on the side.

A whiff of the hills picked at the heart of Calcutta had me smiling and delighted. I wish Blue Poppy Thakali the best.

Again at Macazzo

This is the only place where I go underground smilingly!

Macazzo greeted with characteristic warmth. But, Pork Belly with Piri Piri sauce, as starter, peeved with a cloying saltiness. Possibly the cook got overly genial with the soy ignoring Ramsay's infallible injunction of "Taste, Taste, Taste!” Breads, graciously served on request, did cut on degree of distaste. 

Topped with well-roasted chicken, diced sausages and BBQ, my Chicago Pizza landed like a disk of dough – stubborn, unyielding and hard-crusted. Jaws persevered in vain. Alabama Grilled Chicken steak with BBQ Mustard sauce added to the plight by proving painfully chewy and stringy. Cloaked in savoury Mushroom sauce, Grilled Chicken steak - the saving grace, did delight with succulence and flavour. 

Sundae with chocolate ice-cream, Oreo, Kit-kat, nuts and raisins indulged with delicious excesses!

A kaleidoscopic treat @Pa Pa Ya Kolkata

Promising PaPaYa - the restaurant, has far outgrown in gumption the fruit it borrowed its name from!

Fledgling and delicately poised on 11th floor of an edifice at the centre of upbeat Park Street, PaPaYa contemporises tradition – creatively, sincerely and deliciously – typifying the oriental tenets of minimalism and perfection. Encouraging. 

I, as always, walked in pursuing savour.

Held to the amusing task of palate-cleansing, Amuse-bouche of Watermelon in Basil and Lemongrass air – two bright, veiled and wiggly bits of watermelon served on scallop shells, tripped inches short of turning savoury. They discreetly came, just cleansed and as much discreetly walked away – seriously losing out on drama. Here, I would pit Farzi against Papaya! With gentle foams, a fruit with a deeper aftertaste, like the ‘reverse-spherified’ Alfanso at Farzi, would have contrasted delectably. Conversely, I suggest zesty foams to offset the modesty of tamer fruits like watermelon. A cleansed palate left me feeling fresh though! Just the flavorous bomb didn’t explode!

California rolls [Inside-out Makizushis] of raw Yellowtail came topped with mango shreds - elegant, dramatic and unequivocally delicious. I ate it chaste – unaided by any sauce. Mango and the fish blended splendidly playing up a perfectly layered relish. I had serious fun with it.

Sushi, to me, spells texture. Magic of Omakase unleashed amazing Nigiris - thumb-length beds of vinegared rice with finely sliced raw Scallop, Tuna [Toro] and Salmon [Sake] on top, served just warm with traditional wasabi and pickled ginger to refresh. [Nonetheless, a leaner Maguro, would have delighted me more.] I would call the course profoundly pristine and no less.

Takoyaki with octopus and pork sausage - ball-shaped snacks straight from Takoyaki pan, stuffed with grilled octopus (Tako), pork sausages and pickled ginger barely pleased with an unvarying savour. Had the flatness anything to do with the Octopus and Pork pairing?

Truffle-centred Mushroom dumplings looked elegant but failed to impress with taste. Honestly, being a carnivore, I didn't stake much hope on it. They just added green to my meal. I hung on.

Satay of delicate and succulent Miso Sea Bass came, saw and conquered - redeeming all that had faltered. The garnishing house-sauce, discernibly with a mid-western tilt to sweetness, added much bounce to the delicious fillets. I sprung back!

What followed close was Chilli Hoisin Duck-Dog [or, HotDog] with dried Bonito flakes (Katsoboushi) - slender buns stuffed with barbecued duck and Tuna flakes - and cheese, spicy mayo and onion-ring tempuras as sides – tasty, contemporary and lingering. I dawdled through the course, letting the Barbequed duck and bread mingle and waltz; and straightened up for more! It was ecstatic.

Cumin and lamb’s is a pair made in heaven. So is Xinjiang Lamb – a dramatic, cumin-rich, minced lamb stir-fry that at once overwhelmed and elevated the feast. I would have fancied it with a bun or a bread of some kind!

How could a dish so delicious be called ‘Twice-cooked pork belly’? Shanghai-styled twice-cooked Kurobuta pork belly in sweet house-sauce – a course extraordinaire – had it all. The pork proved deceivingly crispy belying a tender within, expertly cooked and temperately tossed with sauce. For the uninitiated, Kurobuta pork belongs with ‘Kobe Beef’ for its flavoury richness and unique melt-in-mouth texture. I beamed!

I adore lean pork. But, Yakitori Buta - bite-sized cubes of fatty pork skewered, grilled with Mirin, Shichimi and slathered with a sweet Tare (sauce), made me take a brief liking to melting belly-fat. I ogled, deftly tore the fat off some bites and ate the rest! Apple and betel leaf tartar sauce aided wonderfully.

Plated wrapped in Banana leaf, Penang-styled grilled Snapper – masterfully seared and steamed with mushroom and coriander, recalled the Paturis of Bengal. Dominant Coconut milk added poise to its rich and round oriental appeal. I loved!

A pallid mouth-amuser with the mains in tow - Rambutan sorbet soused with Yuzu – thawed and then cleansed leaving me chattering and numb with cold!

Mains were unlocked with Udon Pad Siew with Seabass and spiced Ratatouille. Seabass smelt rancid summarily burying the merits of a laudable texture and juiciness. Stir-fried udon with coconutty Massaman curry redeemed to its best! Shrivelled Ratatouille reeked and repulsed. I leave the chef with one question. How could even remotely a dehydrated Ratatouille lift the game?

Truth be told. Only something as imposing as Lamb Rendang Curry could resurrect the wobbly meal. Long-braising lent the Lamb-shanks an amazing tenderness and capacity to soak up the robust, flavoursome and coconutty Indonesian curry beautifully tossed with fresh herbs and spices. Soft and flaky Laccha parathas paired well with the gravy. Absolute pièce de résistance!

Yes, I had it too. Chocolate ball on fire - roasted nuts, chocolate sauce and gooey brownie topped with vanilla Ice cream stashed in a chocolate ball that melted under blazing anise-seed flavoured rum poured from top. Peachy but pointless!

The meal extraordinaire left me progressively hungrier with every course. Many were loved with a few regretted. But every dip in taste turned the next tastier. Choices abound. I wished Pa Pa Ya the one that had made Café Du Monde pursue Beignets ages ago. The rest you know!

Calcutta needs a maverick like Pa Pa Ya. And, so do I.

Tip: Todd Crowell’s ‘Dictionary of the Asian Language’ may prove handy.

Zakaria Street...

To a gastronome, who had routinely been feasting on the colossal Iftaars at Hyderabad and Bangalore over almost a decade, a stroll along a bright Zakaria Street during Ramzaan could hardly prove soul-stirring. A taste tuned to the notes of impeccable Pattar ke gosht, Uth ke kebab, Keema paratha and succulent Seekhs, would only settle for something as good or better. Mine couldn’t find any match.

Nay, wrong! Truth be told. Pyare wooed. In a 5-inch frame it hosted the depth and drama of a coquettish vintage – minced chicken finely pounded, skewered and grilled to melting perfection, partly putting my misgivings to rest.

The rest tasted passable, perfect for the fashionably dilettante. Zakaria would stay on more as a forgettable chore than an act raised to love of food.

Ramzan Mubarak!

Tung Fong...

Rarely does a fare grow outside its birthplace – by soaking up colours, spices and tastes of a new home, by making new friends and patrons. While, over last few centuries, Calcutta gladly hosted the flourish of a Chinese diaspora with an entrepreneurial tilt, an adaptive cuisine, called the Calcutta Chinese, sprung to life. Tung Fong is a proud progeny of that accident! #uncookedwords

Hot on my trail of the perfect Chilli Chicken - a delicacy with an indestructible popularity, I landed at Tung Fong. Feasting on a bowlful of hot and juicy chicken - diced and tossed with red chillies, fresh celery stems and cashew nuts in a transporting soya sauce, I ambled along blurring alleys of the past. Pinching with chopsticks, first I dipped the cubes well in sauce - gently piquant, and then in warm memories – fondly recalling my spirit leaping at the prospect of hogging on Chilli Chicken and Chowmein for dinner. Pairing Chicken Fried Rice and Hakka Chow – modest, unsurprising yet savoury, lay low letting the dish taste to its potential. My brief feast ended rich. My long search ended consummated. Tung Fong pleased as an honest treasury of culinary oldies.

I will come back for more for sure.

Kareem's at Calcutta...

Trading on a name works poorly in the food-world. Lifting a name works worse. Heart fluttered at the prospect of visiting Kareem’s at Kolkata. But a keener scrutiny revealed the titular prank of having the defining ‘I’ supplanted with two harmless ‘E’s. Yet, undaunted and raring, I marched on and here is what I found.

Paya Shorba was an untimely order that Kareem’s agreed to serve. A classic, aromatically pungent and elegantly heavy stew of gosht trotters, with a forthright but lovable dominance of ginger, set the scene for an unfolding meal. Soaked bones with rich marrow covered with flavorous meat, gave out a somewhat cleansing yet unobtrusive aftertaste.

Kareem's amused with one of the finest Murgh Peswari Tikkas of my life – sizeable and succulent chicken cubes marinated with chilli paste, yogurt and Chef’s special spices, skewered and grilled to perfection – definitive, decadent and delicious. Textured gravy let the tongue be playful with solid flavours before teeth could bite on making the meaty cubes burst into an aromatic riot. Smiling, content and spurred, I sent for more.

Shahi Gosht Barra Chap, ordered on a trusted recommendation, came cloaked in delicately sweetened cream topped with chopped cashew – bestowing royalty upon the beautifully bizarre. Celebration of savoury tenderness mounted on jutting ribs – that’s how I would recount my time with the grilled beauty – leaving with a mouthfeel that proudly lingered. My expectation soared.

Haleem gatecrashed. In a bowl, I sadly saw subtlety yielding to indelicacy. Cloying predominance of ill-ground pulses, nipping the course in 2 quick spoonfuls, left me little to blabber. I saw the line dip.

A muddled motley of inferior rice, misplaced spices and culinary violence – that’s how I would summarise Kareem’s perception of special Gosht Dum Biriyani. The dish hung somewhere between a degenerate Lucknow and an upright Bengal eventually falling into the ravines of Chambal, leading nowhere. Besides, splinters of overboiled bones nicked and made me bleed – first in pain and then in disgust. I abandoned the tasteless clone.

Foodlovers rebound faster. So, did I.

Malai Phirni, with finely ground rice simmered and rounded off with thickened milk for a smoother texture, healed and pleased as the closing course.

It’s time for a rude awakening! Kareem’s embodied the vanity of a swanky Porsche with flat tyres, a pompous Mont Blanc without ink. Spectacular but shallow. So, I wish them sincerity, culinary wisdom and power to shine.

In my city, not the fittest but the tastiest survives!

Calcutta, I insist, deserves better.