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