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!
