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.

Fish Fry....

- Fish Fry koto? [How much for a Fish Fry?]

- Ekta 20. [20 Rs each.]

- Ki bolchen? [Are you kidding me?]

- Na dada…choto Bhetki…apnader osob Basa tasa na. [It’s Bhetki but smaller…not that fancy 'Basa' of yours.]

- Din to duto. [Give me two.]

My city surprises at every turn. 

Delicious, passably over-fried, juicy and honest Fish Fries - made with modest Bhekti fillets, sell at one of the busiest spots, loosely called ‘Office para’, of downtown Calcutta. The seasoned seller, having procured the fishes directly from fishermen, processes the fillets all by himself. Just by skipping the intermediary exchanges he saves a sizeable cost. So, we smile to get a fry for 20. Amazing!

A lunch at Aliah!

During Ramzan, offering to write about anything but Haleem may sound unbloggerly. But, let me try.

Unduly trading on past glory left many eateries of yore in the lurch. Trailing off and broken, some gave up. And some, like Badshah, Aliah or Sabir, decided to stay put. Wearing the poise of a mellowed sentinel they kept overlooking teeming streets of Calcutta treating patrons of all shapes and sizes to vintage delicacies.

Too many signs affirmed the aptness of the day I chose for Aliah. Curious Subhankar agreed to join in. The prospect of anonymity, allowing access to unmanipulated fares, made us choose the hall over a swankier first-floor. Together we ordered Aliah’s feted Arabic Haleem with Tandoori roti. [Roti remains my favourite for being least meddlesome with the dominant savour of a meal.] Haleem, admittedly, rides on diversity with countless variants [setting curious food-lovers on its fleeting trail]. It is a story that is best read slow. Aliah’s version of Arabic Haleem carried a rich, detectable bouquet of unlike yet friendly notes – with bits of meat on bone hiding underneath the textured gravy of pulses punctuated with broken nuts and an unseemly yet pleasant dose of ginger. I was delighted. So, Haleem did play a notable cameo in my play. Bubbly and perfectly toasted Tandoori rotis fared well as trusted sides.

What came hard on heels resembled deep oxblood splashed on an expansive white canvas – Aliah’s fabled Mutton (ish)stew – a culinary antithesis of its colonial namesake. It caught me off-guard, vulnerable and dazzled with a zestful blend of piquant spices adoring flavoursome, succulent and seasoned mutton cubes dipped in an onion-rich gravy with a mystical aftertaste. I mopped it all up till the last drop - first with roti and then with fingers. Fine Rumalis were dearly missed though. So, what Rezala routinely does to me at Sabir, Mutton stew did at Aliah - surprise. Truth be told. Though I started eating for the Haleem, I kept eating for the stew.

Closing the course with Phirni was a foregone conclusion. The dessert, appearing unusually denser and darker, impressed with a ripe taste of measured sweetness, almost making me call it the graver sibling of Sabir’s charming Phirni. Aliah’s bigger and deeper earthen pot allowed more spoonfuls than Sabir’s bringing an instant childlike delight.

What a treat it was! To feast eyes on the fleeting glimpses of an unhurried yet delicious past that the likes of Aliah offer in plenty, I promise to come back.

Coffee-O-Kobita...

A healthy yet measured fear of losing the turf often helps an eatery refrain from settling for mediocrity. 

Lately, I found a gentle winner in ‘Coffee-o-Kobita’, a culinary homage to contemporary music, in Shyambazar – grounded, serious and raring to please. In Bengal, Fish Orly, as a popular [and populist] fritter carries the distinctive facility of ‘upscaling’ any menu of otherwise little or no significance. Coffee-o-kobita’s Fish Orly [or À l'Orly after a French cooking method used with fish fillets] - lightly marinated Basa fillets dipped in flour and egg based batter, fried golden and served with fresh tartar sauce, surprised with an understated yet mature savour. Memories swarmed in. Chunky Shashlik Chicken, served with toasts on request, tasted flavorous, perfectly grilled and aptly spiced with a notable hint of garlic. I smiled. The parting order, Chicken Cheese Pizza - baked on a stale, cluttered and salty crust poorly topped with tasteless cheese and invisible chicken cubes, proved hogwash. The meal ended on a regrettable note.

I sincerely wish Coffee-o-Kobita culinary consistency and serious guidance.

Farzi's Rabri...differently styled...

Rabri liberates. Rabri purges. Rabri elevates. Rabri is the finest expression of purest milk. 

This is how the rustic belle wooed me in her sheer outfit at Farzi Cafe - luscious, fragrant, toothsome and elegantly crude. A tilted tower of miniature jalebis of discreet sweetness lay half-dipped in a thick pool of Rabri dotted with grated Almonds, Pista and Zafran strands. I compliment Farzi for not having burnt their fingers on sobering Rabri - as that would have infallibly tantamounted to clipping Samson's prized hair or dehorning an African Rhino.

Rasta cafe...an old love!

My spell and friends' vulnerability took me to Rasta cafe yet again. Old fire 'Spicy Cilantro Chicken with Olives' pleased roundly with the unabated charm of a New York styled Pizza generously tossed with juicy olives, flavoursome Chicken strips, seasoned with Cilantro and game-changing garlic, and cheese of unknown provenance. Hardcore, pliable, honest and delicious. I loved!

Farzi talk continues...Sheekh Kebab

My continuing Farzi talk with bright, meaty and impeccably perfect Sheekh Kebabs led to a sudden revelation. 

When it comes to kebabs, I’ve always doted on bad boys – scampering around in soiled shirts, pants and untied shoes. Contrarily, the Farzified kebabs turned up crisply uniformed – stopping far short of being disheveled bad boys - tasting succulent, maturely seasoned and perfectly grilled. But where were those notorious yet defining burns? I would have loved the kebab browner, sparsely burnt with sharper spice notes. The love that I felt for it didn’t last long. Imperfection often tastes delicious!

Bengali Mutton Curry...a culinary marvel!

Parting meal...Bengali Mutton Curry prepared with succulent Bannur mutton. Outstanding! Deliciously traditional. Elegant. Pristine. Tastes best with a restrained dash of lime. For the uninitiated, Bannur Mutton comes from the “Bannur” breed of sheep - reared in a village called Bandur of Mandya district, located near Mysore. The meat of this sheep is feted for its higher muscle-to-fat ratio, and therefore superior quality – so much so that it is often compared to Japanese “Wagyu beef” – one of the finest and priciest cuts of meat in the world!

Paddu...a southern marvel

I call it the enfant terrible of southern cuisine - an unseemly softball harbouring within a bundle of serious spice notes. Paddu, aka Guliyappa, is prepared by frying a batter, same as dosa's, in a round mould. An old hand never keeps the paddu dull and, instead, adds sautéed onion, ginger, coriander and finely chopped green chillies to an adaptive batter. Mercurial. Accommodating. Dainty and delicate. Interesting and toothsome. Playfully pairs with native sauces.

I love it with ketchup...

Koshy's

I’m unsure if it were the semblance of Kolkata or the ambient archaic charm - painstakingly preserved in antiquated pillars and noisy fans, that moored me to Koshy’s of Bangalore for life. There I glimpsed a changeless Bangalore – spiritedly protecting all that is beautiful and eternal in the city - be it the mellowed patrons or an ‘unalterable’ menu that had fed the urban highbrows for years. Koshy’s remained since long a yielding aperture letting the fatigued city-dwellers conveniently sneak into a cherished and delicious past. Chicken sandwiches with a potful of tea were all that I had there this time. Filling, authentic and fresh. The jiggling caramel custard, with a characteristic burnt crust, ended my brief talk with the mystique of Koshy’s.

Amazing amuse-bouche

The Farzi talk began with an exotic amuse-bouche of a gentle shot of yoghurt prepared after Reverse Spherification. Two bright, jiggling, yellow blobs of mango flavoured yoghurt, served on a chilled steamy platter, promised surprises in the offing. Loved absolutely and unequivocally! 

For the uninitiated, Reverse Spherification turns liquids into edible blobs that pop in the mouth. Refreshing.

A Mangalorean surprise...

Any invite from dear Shwetha unfailingly triggers anticipation of lip-smacking surprises. A bright and yellow Chicken Curry, cooked in the traditional Mangalorean way, was what she decided to treat me to this time.

Mangalorean chicken curry is a popular and flavorous chicken gravy that rallies a host of regional spices - namely black pepper corns, coriander seeds, red chillies, cumin, fenugreek seeds, cloves and cinnamon in its making. Coconut, being elemental to Mangalorean cuisine, rules as the cardinal ingredient sweetly equipoising the sultriness of red chillies. Shwetha paired the curry with aqueous and delicious Appams – masterfully combining diverse cuisines on a platter.

The meal was gentle on the palate, warming to the heart and lingering to the soul. Loved it!

Tempura Fried Prawns in Nimbu-mirch Air...why only four?

The Farzi talk continued with distinctive ‘Tempura Fried Prawns in Nimbu-mirch Air’ – eloquent, battered and deep-fried prawns tossed with Siracha [?], cloaked in chilli-lime foam and served on an exotic stony platter. The flavourous foam eventually lifted revealing a ‘Chinese’ tang [reminiscent of PF Chang’s fabled Dynamite Shrimps]. Passably over-fried prawns couldn’t mar the dominant savour of this crispy delicacy. A short-lived 4-prawn serving left me aching for more. 

Farzi's kitchen routinely and commendably renders the act of 'faking' [or Farzifying] reverent, refined and delicious. Tempura, as a popular Japanese delicacy, owes its origin to the fritter-cooking technique practised by Portuguese settlers in Nagasaki during 16th century. So, Japan faked it to suit their taste and Farzi did to please ours. After all artful faking is reckoned noble in the world of cooking!

A pleasing Pizzeria...

My ardent promise of treating my son to a ‘delicious surprise’ implicitly carried along the prospect of 'Being Surprised' as well. So, the choice of eatery had to be as much to his delight as to mine. A shared knack for yeasted flatbread and pursuit of wonder led us to ‘Fabbrica Della Pizza’ on Allenby Road.

‘Fabbrica’ oozed with Italian warmth. The interior featured a muted Mediterranean palette in tune with pristine chequered flooring, pale plaster-walls and faux vines twining the overhead oak beams. I blended in. On being asked to surprise, ‘Pollo Caldo Pizza’ was what the attending waiter offered to begin with – a loaded and large hand-tossed thin crust, bubbled of heat and crisp just along its edge yet pliable and thin enough beneath its toppings to be folded while eating - with delicious Mozarella [the cook refused to divulge its source - silently agreeing to having procured it locally], pomodoro [Italian for Tomato], olives and onions liberally tossed on a crust seasoned with garlic oil. Only in adding the Arrabbiata chicken chunks, they stopped short of the Italian generosity. Nonetheless, I relished every bite of it. If the haloed Mozzarella di Buffalo Campana or San Marzano tomatoes could render the fare any better was what I sincerely doubted!

My admiring outpourings made the waiter dish up ‘Pollo Piadina’ – barbequed chicken, caramelised onions, rucola, Bruschetta tomatoes and parmesan, with pesto as base, neatly wrapped in a flat-bread. The round filling, which had all the ‘make-or-break’ ingredients carrying discrete flavours, didn’t let one dictate the taste of the treat. Pesto’s pairing with barbequed chicken in particular delighted me. Pollo Piadina truly left the father-son duo happy.

Rating ‘Fabbrica Della Pizza’ as the best pizzeria in town may sound too rash a verdict. But if I fancy a pizza, now I know where to go!

Park Cafe...

Many of Calcutta's venerable eateries shot to fame by playing unprejudiced hosts to endangered lovers tailed and troubled by overbearing kins. Park café of Paikpara, being one of such dwindling lot, was adored as much by dwelling neighbours as by furtive lovebirds. 

This matter-of-fact café, brazenly shabby and ‘uncool’ on today’s scale, flaunts a diminutive menu that ends sooner if told than read. I lately paid a curious visit to Park Café seeking morsels of a delicious past. Chicken Cutlet was ordered. A brief gap, before the food could appear, allowed retrospection. Cracked and peeling top of the wooden table offered glimpses of a resonant past – besides bringing the golden, long and fat Chicken Cutlet into relief. An over-fried crumbing sadly failed a gentle and passably tasty filling of spicy shredded chicken. Park Café’s Chicken Pakora was a culinary abstraction – a scaled-down Chicken Kabiraji – dainty, delicious and unique with the same delicate lacework, weaved with beaten egg, on a much smaller base. I relished them with rich Kashundi [mustard sauce] and salad.

 

I won’t recommend Park Café to rabid foodlovers. But those lovers, who at leisure flirt with food, can safely take a sneak peek into this blink-and-you-miss-it eatery.

Brickwood...happily again!

An unprovoked revisit to Brickwood! 

Weekday rush and want of time made us unapologetically jump the appetizer. ‘Stuffed Chicken’ and ‘Juicy Chicken’ steaks were what we ordered for lunch. Paired with roast potatoes and herbed rice, the steaks just shined. Found a Ramesh Sippy in the chef who, in steaks, could masterfully combine Gabbar’s notoriety with Shakal’s neatness. Delicious! The stocky steak in particular - liberally stuffed with herbed cheese and chicken shreds, overwhelmed with an atypical yet pleasing taste. The meat in ‘Juicy Steak’ appeared bearably over-roasted. Tiny roast potatoes lent jest to an otherwise modest platter. Sleek, filling, delectable, and repeatable. Voila! The scant serving of rice, proving inadequate to accompany the steak till the end, made me order Pulled Cheese Garlic bread. That too impressed with softness and a generous fill of cheese – fittingly complementing the steak and the sauce. 

I gushed out a muffled belch and smiled. I always dreamt it that way! 

Who named it Tasty?

'Tasty’. Rarely one finds an eatery flaunting a name as antithetic as this one!

Good food makes one tolerant, sympathetic, accommodative. At least that’s what it made of me [a big?]. ‘Tasty’ – a fairly old eatery on College Street, had flourished beyond my ken for years until my food-loving brother coaxed me into it. The professed purpose of ‘awaiting someone’ could easily mask the unannounced agenda of sampling its Garlic Chicken with flaky Paratas.

My tottering forbearance was finally put to the test at ‘Tasty’. As culinary adjectives, ‘Tasteless’ means different from ‘Distasteful’, though both unmistakably carry the suggestion of being unsavoury. The Garlic Chicken proved unequivocally distasteful - loud, rubbery, saucy, uncondescendingly hot, unpleasantly pungent, confused and a culinary failure. Some minor tweaking may turn it into a dish to reckon, I choose to rest the case there. The Paratas tasted good and just good. Wearing a sham smile I left in search of redemption - pledging never to return.

Was ‘Tasty’ really worth the ink-spill?