Friday, July 12, 2019

II Punjabee Rasoi II

Contrary to the legend, Byron's Don Juan was on the receiving end of seduction. I clearly felt his phantom kicking in during a recent meal at Punjabee Rasoi [henceforth PR]. Dealings with Adrak ke Punje, aka Burra Kebabs, approximated the sweet struggle of intense lovemaking. Like a seduced Don I fluidly dug out shreds of succulence from the moist recesses of stiff ribs jutting out in false defiance. In substance, sizable lamb chops marinated in hung curd, skewered, roasted on the bone and charred to an impeccable grill chafed with a gingerly accent. A relish that had begun on restraint ended in me licking the layers of spices and aromatics off dainty ribs with eyes shut. Time rolled. So did my jaunt. #uncookedwords #punjabeerasoi


Ajwani Fish Tikka of PR had the unusual gift of sending a landlubber fishing. Grilled to crunchy orangeness with monk-like poise, a supple block of Calcutta Bhetki fillet held a bouquet of Ajwain and choicest spices inside a tender core. Enchanted, I kept slipping into a Minotaur’s maze of mesmeric Kebabs.

Until then I'd held that a regular like Chicken Lasuni Kebab barely had any trick left for me in the bag. However, one that landed on my squeaky plate - a smoky masterpiece of keen processing, patience and grill yielding in bites of lingering tenderness, laid that idea downright waste. My first bite worked like taking the lid off a bottle of perfume unleashing a flavorous riot. Think Charles Bronson in Armani, or raw emotion draped in a class that’s timeless.

Like a selfless sidekick what kept pepping up all the grills was a brisk mint dip the match of which, I admit, is rare. Time to escape the maze and summon the aid of Theseus had finally arrived. Though, as always, what would best ease the move to main-course was a concern.

Dal Makhni is discussed if ever tasting worse than bad. OR, so good that you suddenly start missing your departed ancestry at table. PR’s slow-cooked rendering of the delicacy excelled with a buttery base buoying up sparkling beans and mushy lentils like etched scars on a shiny ebony. With a rich finish it embraced Garlic Naan – another gem in its own right, with love, spinning an aftertaste that makes a carnivore of my order defect and talk green. Well, briefly. And, miss forefathers. Those moist breads drizzled with diced garlic could easily make for a Nobel if there were one for delicious Naans. Now I was no longer hungry yet aching for more. That’s desire. And, ordering is much more than just casting a line blindly.

Ordering Chicken Tikka Butter Masala in a Panjabi restaurant is next to ritual. Juicy chunks of chicken dunked in buttery richness delighted with well-placed overnotes of Ajwain curbing the patronizing sweetness of the gravy. Again, Garlic Naans were summoned to help mop the bowl dry. Like meals of taste make me guiltlessly overeat, and wish for setting off on a long walk as penance. But that never happens.

I did find bits of the soul of north-Indian cuisine allover my elaborate meal that day. This soulful ‘Rasoi’ is clearly playing a value-game that’s unlikely to fail unless levity sets in. More of success remains my sole wish for Punjabee Rasoi until I retrace my steps to those Adrak ke Punje. And, that day is not far-off.

Thursday, June 27, 2019

A one-off case I hope!

Partial excellence is as real as the Unicorn.

I run the risk of sounding utterly obscure by saying my midday meal was 62.5% good. So fractionally precise it was. And, that quotient whenever staggering below a reasonable 75% bodes ill. Pelmenis are Russian cousins of Asian dumplings. As herb-spritzed white balls they came bobbing in meat-broth, hung with a sour cream of delicious consistency. While five out of eight of them were truly off the charts, the remaining three felt like tiny corrugated white balls of overused latex cradling lumps of juicy pork mince. Stuff of perpetual chew. Unbecoming. So, three out of eight went rogue, and that’s 37.5%. #uncookedwords

Since consistency is the byword in today's food-world, tinkering with it may prove untoward. Satyaki, please fix. And DON'T update. I’ll find out myself. This is from one who swears by your ware.

Thursday, June 13, 2019

Bowl Company - again

When it comes to food, Gogol’s wish is my command. Jamaican Jerk Chicken with Sweet & Sour Rice - fiery and smoky chicken shreds covering a bed of pepper and pineapple rice cooked just firm to the bite, and served alongside Chef's Special hot jerk sauce. This exotic Carribean dish in a bowl was my kiddo's wish of the evening that Bowl Company, oops, I gladly delivered. Don’t ask me why. Brilliant balance of hotness and flavour. [Delicious sounds too docile to fit with Latino dishes.] So, ravishing to say the least. Friends and semi-friends, please take the plunge. And, foes, keep freeloading. #uncookedwords

Jabbrr Afgani - Rolls

If heft were the yardstick, Uma Devi Khatri, aka Tun Tun, and not Nutan would make a hit at the tinsel-town. How sad, but true. And that's the watchword Jabbar Afgani has embraced to rake it in. Plumping out an elegant roll I lovingly call a lady in off-shoulder inordinately with meat, egg and what not, and making a hideous obese out of it. A far-cry from what a Roll really is. Shame. #uncookedwords

Glenary's

Glenary’s is that enormous Time Machine even a visionary like Herbert George Wells found hard to picture. Trappings of Anglophilia cling to its walls like stubborn dust. And, my likes climb Glenary's wooden steps to soak up the remains of colonial spirit Darjeeling once so vainly typified. Enough said! Unlike Nigella, I eat well in the company of music, and that doesn’t ‘drown out’ the joy I seek in food whatsoever. Clapton’s ‘It's late in the evening; she's wondering what clothes to wear’ are the exact words that caressed me at about the same time a bowlful of Steamed Rice and Sliced Roast Pork was served with discernible warmth. A generous layer of diced pork covering a substantial serving of herbed rice chuffed with the right lean-fat mix and succulence, with the rice cooked al dente pairing splendidly to round off a dish too hard to forget. What a start! #uncookedwords

I heard Lenon taking the stage with a quieting ‘Imagine’. Came alongside the American Chopsuey - a meaty riot of right consistency endowed with a sweetness that did hit the spot without cloying. So, a bad news for those with a sweet-tooth. Amply piqued I kept ordering totally dismissing my stomach was not Spandex. Chicken Hamburger Steak was a spoiler with a misplaced toughness sadly marring the relish of two stocky steaks. Some tenderness could render it uniquely delicious. To offset the chips on the side were made soft but not soggy. No sooner had Bryan, who was long waiting in the wings, burst onto the scene with ‘Everything I Do, I Do It for You’ than my Roasted Chicken with vegetables arrived sizzling in readiness. Cooked to perfection on a Sizzler Plate to say the least. Two perfectly grilled chunks of chicken garnished with cauliflower, peas and carrots attesting to an assiduity that retained the savoury moistness till the last morsel. Glad to come across a perfect roast after a sizeable while.

Leaving Glenary’s marked the Time Traveller’s return to a dull present – where all that were feted inside are dubbed dated and passé.

Keventer's

I wonder if it is the plainness of the food or the surrounding splendour that makes Keventer’s so lastingly iconic. [Or, is it the ‘Ray’ connection?] However, having realised how vulnerable has consistency lately become, I tend to somewhat praise those like Keventer's who let quality reign supreme. After all surviving competition is no less a feat to reckon with. Chicken Meatloaf Sandwich - a folded meatloaf between two docile triangles of regular bread, as the maiden order rode on freshness and heft. Minimally motivating. Kev’s Pork Platter that I’ve been persistently underwriting had generous portions of ham and bacon, spicy sausages, thick salamis and two poached eggs. Mixing with wheat made some of the sausages taste like wiggly bread-sticks. The Salamis and the Hams were the lucky ones to hog the limelight. Nevertheless, too ordinary a treat to write home about. Chicken sausages that arrived soon after proved delicious, perfectly grilled and child-safe. The taste soared sky-high when popped with a dash of mustard sauce. That said, I doubt in earnest if Keventer’s would last a day more if ever stripped of its spangled legacy. Clearly it's the dip in the taste that makes me rue so. #uncookedwords

No meal at Kev’s is over without a warm cup of dark and bubbly Hot-chocolate. Sitting at the tapering end of the triangular terrace that so flawlessly overlooks the meeting of many roads, my last sip of the coveted beverage marked the end of a meal that pulsates with almost everything timeless about Darjeeling. Even so, is nostalgia enough to guarantee an eatery eternity? — at Keventer's

Oudh 1590 - Biriyani Festival

[Don't leave midway. The last two paras are critical.]

Dad’s birthday coinciding with Annual Biriyani Festival at Oudh 1590 was that accident somehow I had to make the most of. Oudh’s neighbouring outlet thankfully kept the incidental travel at a minimum. Given that I don’t take kindly to long gaps between my desserts, Dominican Coronas and bedtime reading. For a change this time I knew my orders backward and placed them at the slightest nudge to the prancing waiter exactly in the sequence I wanted my meal to unfold. #uncookedwords #oudh1590

We live in a time when just acting right is dubbed brilliant, and excellence is that realm one may sidestep and yet succeed. That’s how vaguely I choose to start this time. Grilled cubes of boneless chicken marinated with Saffron as Zafrani Kebab set my meal in motion on a juicy note that might just as well be called flavorous. Galawatis, the other kebab, had a crackling crust to a melting inside. Or, is it a tongue forever tuned to Tundays quibbling? Succulent cubes of Mutton tucked inside a potful of ‘breezy’ rice cooked in meat broth and sprinkled liberally with Beresta, aka Gosht Yakhni Pulao, had all the makings of a masterpiece, and a redemptive property to offset any culinary lack that might follow. Gosht Bhuna Khichri rode high on moderation and meat content to my carnivorous liking. The fly in the ointment came late but for sure. Mutton chunks dunked in a swill of dullness - Oudh’s Rezala was what I wouldn’t even treat my enemies to. What a waste of wherewithal!

I had my fair shares of both good and bad that evening. This inconstancy is a common fate a chain branching out fast piggybacking on the expertise of a smattering of cooks rarely escapes. While a few end up with goodfood, the rest fume. Or, some dishes shine while the rest go down the sewer.

I use this post to ventilate another concern more avian than gastronomic. Oudh proudly had ‘Shikari Bater Pardah Biriyani’ on menu featuring a distinctive Biriyani cooked with common game bird Quail [Common Quail/ Coturnix coturnix] marinated in spices. IUCN [International Union for Conservation of Nature] Red List of Threatened Species 2018 includes Common Quail in the red list of endangered birds with a decreasing count globally. Is it anyway just to offer on menu a variant of Biriyani that boldly uses a dwindling species as the principal ingredient? [Mind that I moot this on a full stomach.] I know many who would rise to this bait of exotica like a Catfish to dead Minnows.

I don't see myself birding in at least next hundred years. But my not calling this exception out would prove Voltaire right about the rarity of common sense.

Streetfood in Siliguri

Meaty fritters of this kind sell well next to taverns. And, to those who are minimally aware. Siliguri was no exception and hosted clusters of wheeling peddlers along a buzzing Hill Cart Road selling stocky drumsticks to souls that seek fleeting peace in inebriety. Served wrapped in dated newspapers torn into squares, the fries came topped with a raging pickle that makes the most listless dance Flamenco. Juicy chicken legs battered in a bright gooey mix and golden-fried in oil of dubious origin visibly flew away like free passes to a Dylan concert. #uncookedwords

Kunga of Darjeeling...

My writings amply prove how bad I am at covering my food-tracks. Please excuse. #uncookedwords

A happy knot inside a tiny room brightly painted keeps treating beelining tourists to the delicious gems of Tibetan cuisine. And sees each off with a bundle of reasons to return. That is Kunga Restaurant of Chauk Bazaar, Darjeeling, though calling it a mere restaurant by all means sounds deprecating. Located opposite a nosey Keventer’s, Kunga holds its own for years with pride. Upon Doma's able advice I assigned my concluding hours at Darjeeling to a smorgasbord of Tibetan fare there. And, left with an aftertaste too lingering to conquer. Deep-fried Momos – perfect golden doughs filled, nay stuffed, with tender mince with a localized crease that shows how lovingly each is folded into a ball, were handmade bombs that exploded and oozed at the gentlest prick of the buck teeth. And all this to the feted accompaniment of fiery Sepen that I so aptly, and painfully, call molten Chilli. They made a pair to repeatedly die for. Chicken Hot & Sour Soup was as spartan as it could be – flavorous, gentle and modestly dotted with juicy shreds of meat and egg ribbons. Pork Wai-wai, a mound of instant fried-noodles mixed with minced vegetables and diced pork, was fun that made me feel like a lad a quarter of my age that still delights in naughtiness and tasty nibbles. I, like Rick Blaine of Casablanca, muttered to an invisible Louis, “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Kunga lets everyone something delicious to discover. Perhaps what I did was another reason to frequent the queen of the hills.

[That said, not deciphering what exactly is meant by 'Specialist in Tibetan and Fresh Juice' frustrates .]

Monday, May 27, 2019

Waldorf...tasting nostalgia!

[Ignore the redness that envelopes the images like a tinted cellophane. Waldorf is an awfully lit eatery.]


Dusk grows into night late on weekends. It was one such overripe Friday evening and a string of misses landed me at a gate I barely thought I ever would. #uncookedwords

Until a shade over two decades ago Waldorf was my household’s most obvious recourse whenever the craving for ‘Chinese’ would strike. Sited at the heart of Park Street, Waldorf was that oft-repeating dream that visited me mostly on Saturdays. An imposing door swung open to the sprawling hall always welcoming with a heady whiff of delicious delicacies mixed indistinguishably like twined vines of countless colours. My first few minutes would go in singling out dishes from that aromatic jumble.

We parted ways for no good reason after Waldorf changed hands in the '90s and moved to neighbouring Russell Street. I was wrong. And I was wrong like never before.

Turns out, a stroke of luck brought me back to Waldorf. And, I yielded on the grounds of a mounting appetite. Bowls showed up cradling Garden Fresh Mushroom Soup with Chicken, flaunting a flavorous richness buoying up generous chunks of mushroom and appealing egg ribbons. A few drops of chilli sauce restored the drama I compulsively seek in soup-bowls. Briskly crumb-fried prawns of heft as accompanying Crispy Butterfly Prawns chuffed with remarkable freshness. True founts of crackling juiciness. Delicious enough to make the fiercest of landlubbers yield to sea. Now I doubt no more that it is the vigour of freshness that adds most of what we praise in seafood. How naïve! Suddenly I started ruing my 22 years of pointless abstinence. Chilli Chicken is an old flame I keep stalking regardless. Deep fried chicken nuggets dipped in corn slurry and rounded up with soya sauce left me cavorting to the acute dismay of my kind co-diners. Be that on quantity, taste or nostalgia, Waldorf’s Chilli Chicken excelled on all counts. Mixed Chilli Garlic Noodles came well cooked and with a lot of everything – and some semblance of Sichuan fury. Crispy Chilli Lamb in Sichuan sauce, served in quantity, was notably over-crisped and knotty. Like the droppings of some animal I don't remember. A fall from grace that was soon undone by a yummy Darsan of unique physiognomy – deep-fried honey-noodles buried in thick layers of Chocolate ice-cream topped with a jiggling wad of jelly that rolls down with the majesty of molten lava. Enough to thank god for this fulsome life.

Guesswork never bodes well for sensual appreciation whatsoever. I learnt that too early but the hard way. Consider visiting Waldorf when you have no axe to grind. Just like I did. And enjoy.

Zakaria Street...no more a surprise!

It's always deemed blogger-like to blunder collectively! That guarantees safety from lynching. #uncookedwords


A popular practice obliges desperate foodies of my city pledge eloquent pieces to the hype of Iftaari spread on Zakaria Street. Some even con [Influence?] others into it just to look less stupid. [Widespread acceptance is known to mask dumbness well.] One mindful visit and one would gauge how utter a fad it is that has mortals flock in droves routinely an otherwise spurned strip of Central Calcutta. I too chose to yield regardless, and walked Zakaria Street to rediscover the clichéd.

As describing distaste is not my forte, let’s dwell on those that just got by. A makeshift stall at the opening of the strip near a shady 'Moon Guest House' impressed with delicious Tikka and Malai kebabs. Dribbling excesses of Amul Cream notwithstanding, I loved the remarkable juiciness each kebab bore aplenty. Cold Shirmals glazed in butter at Delhi 6 was far removed from the passable, let alone perfection. Chicken Afgani served in boat-like bowls flaunted chewy chunks liberally cloaked in a delicious gravy. A hideous draped in dazzling Armani – in short, a pointless waste. The contrary was anytime preferred. Chicken Sheekh kebabs at Al Baik proved notable. Tender tubes of meaty succulence leaving a moist and lasting afterglow. Tucked away at the crossing of Maulana Saukat Ali Street and Phears Lane, this hole in the wall had nearly all the vices I admire, including a talent to marry taste and texture that even the frontrunners bungle to deliver. And they sold the kebabs for a song, at Rs 30 a stick. In frame is how they looked when left to sizzle on slow fire. Spectacular, to say the least.

That said, an experience not worth awaiting a year or any less.

Monday, May 20, 2019

Vegchop in Kosha Mangsho'r Jhol...an oddly pair!

Hitting Dacres Lane once again. In pursuit of the unknown. #uncookedwords

Often reasoning out the build of a dish is seeking method in extreme madness. Or, worse. The thought struck while I was guzzling down a Veg-chop (Vegetable Croquette) dipped in the gravy of flawless Kosha Mangsho at 'Chittobabu'r Dokan' at the fag-end of Dacres Lane. No kidding, vegetarian modesty undone by the juice of cooked mutton at its raging best. I almost saw the docile croquette soaking up sin while sinking in the dark richness of well-cooked spices. And, screaming for help yet laughing aloud in a newfound ecstasy. [Hitchcock would love it.] The pair was indeed as unlike as it could be. Say, like Kardashian wooing Chomsky.

These croquettes are plumped with a sweet mash of beetroot and carrot, and Peanuts to lend the brawny edge. My spoon ran finely through it to scoop a morsel soaked in the flavorous juice I dote on. [For the uninitiated, gravy is the soul of Kosha Mangsho. The taste abides more in it than elsewhere.] Along the way they strangely became one, and singularly delicious, with the whisper of sweetness in the croquette yielding to the boldness of meat juice. Almost like a foil to the beloved. Suddenly I LOVED THE DUO!

Like that an odd pair strode proudly into the dossier of timeless streetfoods. And, lived happily ever after. So, all acts of bravado don’t misfire.

By the way, mind asking for toasts to mop up the stubborn remains of ‘Mangsho’r Jhol’ from the porcelain bowl.

Suruchee...

I guess it was Tony who sometime quipped that good food is most often the simple food. Turns out, Chittoda, the undisputed kingpin of Dacres Lane, lived off that axiom all his life without ever having to hear of Bourdain or his riveting exploits. And, made streetfood as coveted as mom-food. No wonder his is the name the ambulatory crowd of Dalhousie counts with a respect strictly dispensed to demigods. #uncookedwords

I woke up to the yumminess of Suruchee’s [Chittoda’s restaurant on Dacres Lane] Chicken Bharta rather late, by when my city had already used up all the praises I could consider using. That said, I feel the word 'lingering' couches it best. Hefty chicken slices swimming in the richness of a flavorous gravy I felt no guilt in polishing off rapaciously with my restless index. I was told it draws its oomph from the cream [butter-fat]. Asking to dig through and find heaven. The Roomali fared exceedingly well in ferrying the umami to mouth and beyond. It’s true that until a few months ago Amber served the finest Chicken Bharta of Northern hemisphere. Always leaving an aftertaste too hard to overcome. But Suruchee drew the game without a hitch. Now, if Bharta haunts me, I know where to fly.

Diamond Fish-fry at Suruchee is abundance laid on a plate - a whale of a crisp fillet of Bhekti thinly crumbed and cut into an imperfect rectangle. So be it! Its thickness in the middle was in the neighbourhood of one and a half inches – a voyeur’s delight, too curvaceous to behold and bite into. If JP Snack’s is what I call the Ashley Graham of Fish-fries, this is a J-Lo with the delicious mass more appealingly spread. Savouring it was falling slow from grace. Unapologetically. Kosha Mutton, the next order, proved too banal to write home about. Though I hold having two good things on the trot leaves the latter in the shade.

What exactly this breed of eateries leaves a foodie with is hard to phrase. Perhaps an amorphous longing that keeps growing until halted by dullness. By the way, I had my next meal at Suruchee already pictured before I stepped out of the joint.

Tuesday, May 14, 2019

Bowl Factory...

The days I stupidly fall out with the ladies of the house dismissing how awfully lacking I am on basic life-skills, the likes of ‘Bowl Company’ - a pre-packed food delivery service promoted by Swiggy, come in handy. Yesterday was one such day. A perfectly grilled chicken patty of laudable heft modestly soaked in Texan BBQ of medium body laid atop a bowl of boiled parsley rice tossed with herbed potatoes effusing utter butteriness, as ‘Texas BBQ Chicken with seasoned potatoes and Butter Parsley rice’ tasted toothsome with a subtle native twist. [You may breathe now.] Diced breast of juicy Peri Peri chicken teaming with Corn and Egg rice cooked perfectly to the tooth spelt deliciousness. And poise. More so inasmuch as like dishes are often reduced by unfit cooks to volcanoes of numbing hotness. Grilled chicken amply sautéed in dramatic Teriyaki sauce served alongside wok-tossed noodles made an exotic duo flavorous enough to justify the oddly pairing. Like unleashing Flamenco and Kathak in tandem on a vast stage. #uncookedwords #bowlmeover
I have always worn my apathy for cooking on my sleeve rather callously. With ‘Bowl Factory’ gladly pitching in, my foible just got a new lease on life. I loved the food! And the evolved packaging. In a nutshell, I loved ‘Bowl Factory’.


Wednesday, May 1, 2019

Pizza at The Salt House...too good to be loved!

‘So fair and foul a day I have not seen.’ - Hamlet

It’s the same place that not far ago had ruffled me with a dough-disk down with Rigor Mortis. That I would rather use to decapitate. And, messing with Pizza gets my goat like no other. Hardly had I reconciled with the heartbreak than a prospect to gain a chef’s sympathy in the guise of a Foodies’ meet at ‘The Salt House’ showed up. [By the way, upsetting a cook before he feeds you is vexing a barber that holds the blade to the jugular.] However, Auroni – a chef full of sangfroid, having duly heard me eased my niggling gloom like a genie by spinning three remarkable pizzas out of thin air. What followed was a phantasmagoria of requital and wonder. And, I exclaimed - let bygone be bygone. Well, not seriously!

Cherry tomato, roasted garlic, Mascarpone and verdant Basil oil Pizza had the riveting tang of garlic pitted against a buttery cheese on a ‘wet’ crust primed passably in wood-fire. No dripping. No drama. Just a one-act play more of textures than flavours that barely lingered past the last gulp. Pepperoni pizza, laid on an affable crust overlaid with delicious meat, stopped shades short of the line that promises singularity. I bemoaned not keeping from fancying Neapolitans or Romanas at The Salt House, and basking in what they serve instead. To me, Pizza Bianche are unique but off-putting like a Loren in her saggy eighties. Mea culpa. Delicious strips of bacon drizzled on a fluffy albino disk with a yielding cornicione proved commonplace whose only claim to fame was a misplaced fairness.

It sadly seems to grow tougher with time to contain a Pizza-phile of my order. Every yeasted flatbread I met that evening paraded annoying perfection with a perceptible thrift in the use of cheese. But, no trace of the defining chaos or mischief I seek [so does an Italian] so damningly in them. Unrestraint lends soul to a pizza. Without a mess it surely is Beethoven’s 9th without the chorus. Awful! Ask me and not a humbug how exciting it feels to negotiate a lavish avalanche of meaty toppings and cheese rolling off a slice. Or lock horns over the surviving cut. So, imperfection and immoderation - being the keystones of a thoroughbred Pizza, are what I would wish The Salt House in plenty. After all, who trades a well-endowed belle for a stilted Barbie? Or, a work of art for a calendar?

Brilliantly Salt House...

That an Indian draped in western outfit is not always unsightly was often proved right by Persis Khambatta in the past. That fact found again a delicious expression in the ‘Mangsho Raviolis in Bone-Marrow Broth' at Salt House - a thorough western warmly holding an Indian, nay, a Bengali soul. Served in a deep-bowl as Italian dumplings filled with spicy mince liberally soaking up the mystique of native cuisine from the depths of a flavorous, bone-marrow infused broth of mutton. The doughs, just firm to the bite, once ruptured unleashed a restrained stream of notes and memories to delight those who savour present with a discernible dash of the eternal. Inspired by ‘Pathar Jhol’ [Mutton Curry] – a popular Bengali staple that tastes exceedingly well on Sundays, Mangsho Ravioli in Bone-Marrow Broth tempered a brisk evening with the ecstatic stupor of middays of Calcutta. [This mention is crucial as the flavour of ‘midday’ is nowhere nearly as lasting as here.] Only a Sauvignon Blanc with a tart bent could match the masculine piquancy it embodied so chicly. #uncookedwords

Came alongside that the ‘Malai-chingri and Gobindo-bhog Risotto’, a yummy fusion luckily not as tortuous as its title – and, something that pleases equally if eaten in the dark. Conceived with supreme ingenuity, it showed up in a bowl as a few juicy lobsters polygamously engaging in the act of exploring each other atop a bed of iconic Gobindo-bhog cooked into a deliciously creamy Risotto. Lacing the rice with a bisque of lobster-heads was a masterstroke that instantly sent a regular exotic fare off the charts. Rarely have I seen a taste linger so richly in mouth like the one of Malai-chingri and Gobindo-bhog Risotto. Truly a dish without any failing. At a time when most are struggling to get their heads around the buzz of ‘culinary fusion’ and like mumbo-jumbos, Auroni stands out with his repertoire by not toiling to create anything new but rediscovering [and, reinterpreting] the timeless. No wonder he calls his fare simply ‘Calcutta Cuisine’. I wish him well in his pursuit.

An evening with Cab...

Every birth out of wedlock is not regrettable. So is not every fruit of adultery. Swirl, sniff and sip a good Cabernet Sauvignon to see how true a word that is. A lovechild of Cabernet Franc and Sauvignon Blanc, Cab’s saga has forever been one of dramatic serendipity. #uncookedwords #wine


Thick-skinned, versatile and late ripening Cab Sauvignon is a vine that like a survivor braves the elements to yield a rich wine of delectable Tanins, restrained acidity and a particular talent to develop varied notes in the confines of oak. Receptivity to flavours soon made it popular with the prolific winemakers of Bordeaux who used Cab as the skeleton of iconic Bordeaux Blend. Fussiness verging on intolerance is what earns a wine prestige [read Snob-value]. ‘Cab Sauv’ remained a plebeian instead proudly in dispossession of everything unique or haughty.

Here is how my tongue found some of its variants during a tasting of New World Cabs. [And, I agree to having often found telling black from black much easier than distinguishing variants of one wine.] Cabernet Sauvignon from Fratelli is recommended in earnest to those who intend to quit wines pronto. With a jarringly jammy and peevishly lingering taste this cab made me hate Tannin like never before. MAN Family Wines 'Ou Kalant' Cabernet from Coastal region of South Africa reprised Fratelli on a lower scale. I can never delight in a Tanin that sabotages a bouquet of flavours from unfolding. Mantes Reserva 2016 had the bests of all in a perfect poise. Endowed with a subtle nose of blackberries rounding off the bolder ones of oak and spices, this hefty wine proved brisk on the palate when briefly decanted, with an encouraging level of Tanin that doesn’t upstage others. The Laira from Coonawarra, Australia allegedly owes its edge to native Red soil. I found it annoyingly austere, and parading a host of forgettable virtues but none of the vices I take to. Having got the better of the rest by a long mark, Mantes Reserva was one that took the biscuit that evening almost uncontested.

Who says bastards don’t make parents proud?

Thursday, April 18, 2019

The Orient...a fiasco

An act of CULINARY DECEPTION was foiled at Poirotesque pace over a midday meal at ‘The Orient’ in Calcutta. The fledgling eatery, for want of real Basa, palmed off like a practised trickster a poorer [truly so] variant called ‘Pangas’ as ‘Sliced Basa’ tossed with roasted chili and Sichuan pepper. While the maiden bite struck palpably with textural oddness, the second unleashed a stench unbecoming of this popular Indochinese fish. The truth cost a few rounds of arguments with the ‘Chef’ that eventually made a scrupulous waiter give away favouring my plain claims. I’m not privy to what could lead to the unavailability of Basa at The Orient. But, like acts of slyness are likely to earn them irreversible distrust with certainty. #uncookedwords

Selling Sonata as Xylys is stealing. I highly unrecommend The Orient.

'Ghoti-garam'...

Velocity of that mixing decides how toothsome the outcome would be. A plastic tumbler half-filled with a nascent mixture is held brim to brim with another and shaken rhythmically. An accidental snack, Ghotigaram thus combines 'chanachur' with happiness, chopped green chillies and onions, grated carrot, grated 'amra' or raw green-mango with panache. I love it served moist with a generous spritz of lime. Ghotigaram offers bliss if only shaken right. By the way, don't miss the focused light that adds a golden hue to the mixture. #uncookedwords

Murimakha aka Jhalmuri

While some snacks ride on rhythm of shaking, brethren of 'Murimakha’ aka ‘Jhalmuri’ bloom if only stirred well. Chopped onions, green chilies and coriander, 'Chanachur' (mixture), peanuts, chopped garlic, a generous squeeze of lime, diced coconut, secret spices, 'Aamchur' (mango powder) and mustard oil are tossed into puffed rice inside a steel drum and stirred briskly with a wooden stick that prolonged use has made look like Potter's rickety wand. The key here is the mix that makes or breaks the notoriety of Jhalmuri. [Though musts with most, I keep potato, cucumber and tomato strictly out of my deadpan version of Murimakha.] As the crowning jewel a crescent slice of coconut kernel peeps out of the Thonga – the ubiquitous paper bag of Bengal, that vendors append only on pressing request. #uncookedwords

Adda at Tung Nam...

Nothing elevates a purebred adda like delicious mouthfuls. If ever good-food stands for a rich discourse, aftertaste would be its resulting wisdom. So, at Tung Nam, meaty topics and juicy pork were blended to concoct the best adda that one could with like wherewithal. #uncookedwords


I root for underdogs and that largely explains my love of hogs. Besides, a yummy pork dish shows best how an awful animal earns widespread love, though posthumously, if cut and cooked well. And, Tung Nam was chosen thoughtfully as the site of toasting pork at its guileless [and, Chinese] best.

Let’s cut to the chase. A serene Chicken & Mushroom clear soup with a body as sheer as a lacy negligée flagged off the feast promisingly. Chili Pork at Tung Nam is not made of cubes like elsewhere but thin slices that blend with the ingredients like a chameleon in the woods. At a time when a fare is scorned if it fills the bowl, it was a welcome anomaly. Smug is he who discounts this timeless delicacy as timeworn. And, misbegotten. Eating Pork Chou Si was cherishing a fine specimen of oriental modesty served in an artless bowl. Fatty pork strips tossed in rice-wine tickled with a savoury crispiness and, once bit into, burst unhurriedly with the poise of a wine long-aged in French oak. I wonder if it were the third strip or the fourth that nearly yielded the flavorous epiphany my palate pursues so keenly in bites. Chow Si was truly what a sober Adam Jones of ‘Burnt’ would ecstatically cheer as ‘Perfect’. And, THIS IS HOW THE PORK SHOULD TASTE LIKE. Most often it doesn’t. Lending base-note to our placid spread was the mixed Mei Fun that, as stir-fried rice-noodles teeming with fresh pork, chicken, shrimp and peppers, delighted equally with lightness and flavours. And, didn’t make adults with generous appetite weep or thump the table in unfulfillment.

Bowlfuls of greens were summoned soon after to cleanse our carnivorous spread of bloodstain. Besides, they by taste reconfirmed how it was not the greenness but the sameness of how the greens were cooked day after day that had got my goat all along. [And, I didn’t let any bovine indifference set in while chewing my mouthfuls.]

That unusual evening left Truffaut, Kurosawa and Coppola cut open over a meal like the loin of a hog. That said, stating that I didn’t miss the lushness of Malbec offsetting the repast’s quiet elegance would leave me ending with a delicious lie. So be it!

Wednesday, April 10, 2019

Kuler Aachar...or, sticky 'Memories'

I love berries on the trees. But culled, sun-dried, sapped, shrivelled berries when left to roll in a dark semifluid of oozing fruit-sap and jaggery appeal to me more. 'Kuler Aachar' [Sweet Pickle of Berries] is that inviolate addiction none finds fault with in Bengal. And, falling for it young has mostly proved expedient in securing lasting joy in life. That joy that dwells in the kitchen. No! Don't even think of having it with a fancy fruit-pick. Using the thumb and the index like a tong, pick and lead a 'Kul' dripping with a viscous juice past the parted lips onto a welcoming tongue, and leave the rest to an amorous apparatus the mouth is. Teeth are summoned apropos to take pits out of the process. [Pits came in handy only when we conned weakhearted friends whom we couldn’t beat fairly into pit-spitting duels.] This process is run on every berry that disappears into the recesses of mouth. Mothers protecting generous stashes of pickles is glass jars and roving vendors selling a smorgasbord of it on rolling carts are the kind keepers fate of 'Kuler Aachar' mortally hinges on. #uncookedwords


[Erratum: Not Berries but Jujubes. However, Pope confirmed that to err is human.]

Monday, April 8, 2019

Yellow Chilli...

I would deem myself a failure if this text is not flailed by emissaries paid to praise the pointless. By pledging faith to their unctuous reviews what one risks most is TASTE. #uncookedwords

Firstly, mulling an pricey eatery at pompless Chandni Chowk was naïve and mindless. 'Yellow Chilli’, however, set off with fanfare in an area noted for offering goodfood for less. On Meredith Road it stood like Vuitton in a ghetto.

What exactly made a hungry soul resent 'Yellow Chilli’ on a promising weekday afternoon? The décor had rigged up a perfect foil to the failings that lay in store. A sloppy bowlful palmed off as Gosht Kalimirch ka Shorba as much numbed with raging black pepper as upset with measly mutton dices hiding at the bottom in dishonour. It was Für Elise played on steel-strings with utter shoddiness. Grittily textured Akhroti-Murgh Seekh - seasoned mix of walnut-chicken rolled into kebabs, would taste the same if I were nose-less. Like one surviving in the arid ravines of Chambal I lived through its roughness with sangfroid. Tariwala Murgh proved a dish one cooks for enemies – fiery, undramatic and made with a chicken stringy and tough. Like that I stopped an awful meal that boasted all but life.

Let’s not spill ink any more. I hope the day would never come when ‘Maligning Indian Food’ becomes their tagline. Until then I’ll stay as unstinting in offering battles on taste as I’m today.

Amuse Bouché at Yellow Chilli

I didn't toil that day to bring myself to love an edible I usually decamp upon sighting. A pale Raw Papaya forever typified that sterile goodness I hardly loved or fancied. #uncookedwords 


Quietly served in a tiny bowl, 'Papaya Relish' at Yellow Chilli played a perfect Amuse Bouché tingling tongue every time it drooped in despair. Thus Papaya, thinly sliced and pickled in some mysterious juice, had an upsetting meal affably redeemed, besides lending me a new name to recount.

In frame with Papaya Relish is another fiery wonder called Mukka Onions - pickled onions broken open with a blow from top and sprayed immoderately with Chilli powder.

Thursday, March 14, 2019

Thakali accidentally...

Trusting them as failsafe, Potstickers or Kothays are with what I habitually kick off my frequent binges at Thakali. Like chubby babies sitting facedown with burnt bums jutting skyward, they tickled not differently from last time. Shapale, or semi-circular bread filled with minced chicken and cabbage, was modest, delicious and true to its native plainness. But. But. But. Choila, the lush salad of the highlands, undid all by holding in a miserly bowl the charred remains of Pompeii as diced pork tossed with chillies, cilantro and onion. #uncookedwords

Unfortunately, if I am eating beneath my taste is an awareness that always dawns later than it ought to.

Saturday, March 9, 2019

A footnote on Shaktigarh Lyangcha...

Acts of unrestraint did attract penance. And, after two soggy days of observance I ended mine with what gallows-birds ask for as last wish. #uncookedwords

Every ride along the Durgapur Expressway would halt at 'Saktigarh' to let travellers soak up syrupy profusion lodged in oblong and fried sweetmeats the world calls 'Lyangcha'. I call them dark spindles of juicy bliss. Or, a Godardesque take on Wilder’s ‘Some Like it Hot’, with the cast unaltered. Firm and darker outer covering a moist core tells a Saktigarh Lyangcha from its limp and fairer variants that sweep urban Calcutta.

A Biriyani par excellence...

Whenever Biriyani content in my blood drops, I panic. Angelic and wicked remedies are invoked if only the obvious appears far-fetched. #uncookedwords

It was one such day when again the giddiness gripped – a symptom observable when my biology craves the lush rice teeming with mellow mutton cooked to doneness. However, my woe was soon quelled by a kind-hearted aunt who treated me to a Biriyani I only fancy in Lucknow. Or, in dreams. Even memories of it made me, well, drool. Prepared in Dumphukt, where spices, herbs, fine rice and marinated mutton are all thrown into a sealed pot to commingle and slow-cooked, the Biriyani proved on all counts fit to be called a masterpiece.

Cooked meat to me is what tinned Spinach is to Popeye. Too inbred is my love of it to be rationally rebuffed. And, perhaps none in the orient draws on meat’s absorbent potential like the Biriyani. Along the lines of Kachchi, the heightened meat content in my serving made the cradling rice look richer and overflow with aroma. Meat fell off the bones like honey dribbling off a dipper. Lean grains of rice hopelessly clinging to mutton cubes suggested a tale of timeless love being told with delicious poise. 

True Biriyani makes one eloquent and noisy. Now allow me my bits of both, and guzzle the leftover on the quiet!

Thursday, February 28, 2019

Sauvignon Blanc

Let’s begin by misquoting the Lord to my convenience. 

A man cannot live by old-worlds alone.

Until that evening I was as loath to Sauvignon Blanc as Miles in Sideways was to Merlot. Caught unawares, I gave in coyly and over another vinous binge toasted versions of this new-world varietal with curious friends.

Crisp and refreshing Sauvignon Blanc, or Wild White, yields in almost all terroirs. Though natural acidity and early ripening keep it sharp across climes, the zing Sauvignon is loved for is born when the embracing coldness meets sunshine.

Sula bristled with what I dislike the most in vinos. An unfeeling acidity left my tongue thirsting and mouth scratchy like an overused ply-board. I chose to look on. 

Hints of Citrus and a faint scent of freshly mowed lawn notwithstanding, Niel Joubert from Paarl of South Africa just upped the clinging tartness by notches. My frown deepened.

Like most wines, Sauvignon picks roundness along the way to warmer regions. Grove Ridge of California, with the clarity of an artless belle, beamed as vibrantly as the lush backyard in spring. A typical 'Now' wine, it rallied a host of fruity notes by the tongue that almost made off sooner than had arrived. However, who wants a taste to last a lifetime? Tickled by its plainness I dubbed Grove Ridge my pick of the evening.

Hued straw-yellow bordering on green, Alan Scott - a Marlborough 2016 Savvy, was closed until we let it open up. Endowed with a racy minerality and dry finish, the lemony zest of this profound Kiwi recalled sweaty summers by the French Riviera. Measured crispness suggesting an early harvest to retain acidity [along the lines of Loire Valley Sauvignon] had a poised Alan Scott waltz away with the runner’s-up.

And, so began my hunt for another bottle of Grove Ridge!

Indian Coffee House...

That praise of one friend could irk the other was unfamiliar until last weekend. My eulogic post on India Coffee House made its iconic peer on College Street haunt like the ghost of King Hamlet, and browbeat. So, here is my humble tuppence on an urban landmark as old as the hills. #uncookedwords

At Coffee house you eat good food of sorts for a pittance. Edibles play there the second fiddle with pride, lending an unbroken basenote to talks on variety of topics. I know some who even call up tables by the patterns of blotches on top. Coffee House, to them and many others, is home second to none.

My hurried repast kicked off with Cold-coffee and chicken sandwich. A drink I would otherwise have called a swill proved 'nice’ to the colonial pairing of bread-sandwiches with sides wastefully cut off. I survived them with the helpless poise of a lewd nonagenarian. What came hard on the heels was an unyielding Chicken Cutlet resembling at best a starched burlesque queen left with nothing to titillate. Pumpkin puree passed off as ketchup turned the treat worse. With a steamy cup of 'Infusion' I called it quits.

I'm unsure if it were my being alone and unfeeling that made the lacks notoriously glare, or, a fussy tongue at last getting the better of cliched nostalgia.

India Coffee House

Besides shedding vanity what makes me travel irregularly in Metro is love of Indian Coffee. Favourably sited a hop, skip and jump from Chandni Chowk Metro Station is India Coffee House - a sprawling coffee-shop founded by Coffee Board to promote native varieties of coffee by offering the city’s caffeine fanatics a delectable fix. I unabashedly dote on their Black Coffee – a preferred surrogate for a rarer Americano. Until the entrepreneurial 18th Century, Coffee plantation in India, that had begun with the sowing of ‘Seven seeds’ of ‘Mocha’ another two centuries ago, grew as mere garden curiosity flourishing unchecked in the backyards. British entrepreneurs through systematic conquering of coffee-producing forests of Southern India, besides aiding its cultivation, soon secured India a notable spot on the Coffee map of the world. While I, a declared caffeine addict, call African coffee fruity and American, bright, curated Indian coffee, being born on volcanic soil, remains an eternal heavyweight on all counts. Enough said. I kicked off my day today with a cup of Black coffee at India Coffee House. It delighted, as always, to see whiskered waiters serve in embossed crockery a serious coffee brewed with pride and love. After all, they too served single-origin. #uncookedwords

Redemption and Pizza...

Finding an eye for an eye too extreme a reprisal I settled for a Pizza for a Pizza instead! The woe of being fed a dull disk of dough a week ago had to be evened out somehow. #uncookedwords

Spread across a pliant flatbread of eleven inches in diameter lay princely doses of garlicky pesto, chunks of roasted chicken, jiggly Fior di Latte – a close kin to Mozzarella, briny Feta and fresh Jalapenos tossed with tender, sweet and brown caramelised onions as toppings, hemmed in impeccably by a thin cornicione, or edge, baked the Neapolitan way. That was Pollo Picante at Fabbrica Della Pizza - an ace showstopper and my darling.

Eating Pizza is making love - that all do but not alike. A gentle press from above the crust with index finger made the edge of my pizza snap and fold from middle causing the entire slice double up into a narrower triangle all set to be led into the mouth. Thus folded and dipped in chilli-oil I ate my Pollo Picante with eyes shut - gladly forfeiting the unusual glee of watching my prey happily disappear.

And, it healed my woe to the bone.

'Bashi' but not stale...

'Bashi' in Bengali is not as pejorative a word as stale in English. It more appropriately means aged - hinting at a homespun process of letting elements in any dish internally fraternize, and age, to eventually turn ambrosial. Trust in it led Bengalis to conceive 'Bashi-biye', a nuptial ceremony wishing a day old marriage appetite for life. In frame is 'bashi Luchi' wisely paired with as 'bashi Chatni', making a duo I never get enough of - a culinary antithesis of Midlife crisis, or, a wizened Gable romancing luscious Monroe in The Misfits. #uncookedwords

A no-Pizza...

Characters of any cuisine and its provenance ought to say the same thing. That clumsiness was so appealing I would have never known but for the Sicilians. In pizzas too I always sought that guileless savour of Italy. #uncookedwords

A disk of dough touted as Pizza failed its nativity with drab crust cradling measly topping like a haggard and loveless stepmom. On top Barbeque sauce and cheese toasted chicken's birthday in absentia. Medium-roast in Macchiato was dubbed as dark making me doubt an affinity I hold too close to be shot down. I am not naming the eatery that thus wrecked my repast. I'll stride in again some day as facelessly as I do - to be proven wrong and wasted with joy.

Pudding at The Cafe...

Some edibles can never be relished with a Tyrannosaurus rex or a Saber-toothed cat on one’s tail. This one is of such kind. A pristine fairy straight from the pages of Grimms’. Crested with jiggly meringue, a hefty pillar of pompless pudding letting textural richness dotted with dry-fruits mingle with bold aromatic notes of cinnamon, mace and vanilla. The taste was to die for! #uncookedwords

Thursday, February 7, 2019

WHEN WOOD SWEETENS…

Serving dough of sweetened chhana [cottage cheese] to any diehard Bengali is as upsetting as wooing beloved with a diamond in the rough. 

‘Chaanch’, as wooden moulds etched with traditional motifs, breathe life into shapeless dough by fashioning unspoilt sweetmeats of Bengal. Notun Bazaar neighbourhood on Chitpur Road of Calcutta hosts a handful of those dwindling craftsmen making moulds out of wood day in, day out. Here I come to talk about that unsung lot that never gave a fig about eternity, and the art they live off. 

Some conversance with varieties of sweets, or Mishti, I deem would lift the relish of this text. Sweets of Bengal are broadly sorted into ‘Rosher Mishti’ or soaked sweets, ‘Shukno’ or dry sweets and ‘Bhaja’ or fried sweets. ‘Kheerer Mishti’, or the moist kind made of kheer, packs the best of all without being saccharine. Shondesh is dry and can either be Kora-paak (hard) or Norom-paak (soft). And, Chaanch is used mostly in adorning Shondesh across kinds. 

Curious and having always found the world of confectionery much more than that meets the eye, I set out on Chitpur Road, a timeless stretch in North Calcutta, ransacking dingy outlets stacked with wares, and probing people to discover how this art of mould-making is pulling through. A baffled but empathetic Kartik Mondal led me to Narayan Das - owner of the oldest of the outlets pursuing mould-making, who in turn agreed to give away at his best. It emerged that most of them deal in range of tools used largely in confectionery, like giant platters called ‘Barkosh’, huge flat bowls to knead dough in, different wooden bowls and rolling pins, a cornucopia of moulds, and huge wooden paddles used to stir milk, and when the oars are missing, to row too! Swelling popularity of native sweets somehow seems to have come in handy in securing an agreeable demand for various wooden wares. 

Sondesh dough is prepared by tossing cottage cheese briskly with sugar over low heat. Designs are carved into blocks of Mahogany or Teak deep enough to leave defined imprints when pressed against such dough of desired consistency. Textual designs celebrating ‘Bhai-phonta’, ‘Rakhi’ and ‘Shubho-Bijoya’ attract occasional demand. Bulbous cast of popular Jalbhora comes from a designated mould. Alongside the classic and the generic ones, contemporary and bespoke shapes and motifs endow the sweets with character, relevance and often humour. Regular moulds range from two inches to ten in size depending on the dimension of patterns etched in. Though artists seem to treat all designs with creative equity and even-handedness, what immemorially remain the most popular in Bengal’s households are butterfly, fish and conch-shell. 

Future of mould-making existentially hinges on flourish of confectioneries. With many of them now turning to technologies to fast scale up, fear of losing out sooner or later to moulding machine is what haunts this age-old handicraft the worst today. I trust due aid and patronage through state-owned initiatives would as much save both the craft and its practitioners from avoidable oblivion as would please countless souls of Bengal who can never get enough of sweets. And, that lot shows no sign to stop swelling.

Wednesday, February 6, 2019

Mould-making on Chitpur Road

It takes a lifetime to see forms in the formless, shapes in the shapeless. And, art in the artless. Elegant utensils immaculately hewn out of wood are sold on the streets of Calcutta as commonly as sleaze rules the nights of Amsterdam. I ransacked shops on Chitpur Road for handcrafted wooden ‘Sondesh’ moulds, that have been fast replacing the dearer kinds made of terracotta or stone. Wooden rolling pins and boards too sold there for a pittance. It appeared the outlets dealt in the range of tools primarily used in Bengal’s confectionery, like Barkosh - the giant wooden platter for kneading dough or displaying wares, and as huge paddles used to stir kheer, and, when the oars are missing, row boats too!

Hand-churned Sharbats

Located on Chitpur Road, a stretch officially older than the Calcutta we know, this nameless Sharbat shop serves some unique hand churned varieties. Tucked inside a hole in the wall, it packs the wherewithal to whip up surprising quenchers at the drop of a hat. Deem yourself lucky if you find one without breaking a sweat, and luckier if you can bring yourself to swilling all that it graciously offers in exchange for a doit. I tried Rose with a spicy twist, and loved. Calcutta abounds in such self-effacing wonders.

Milee Droog again...

Yes, I eat out more frequently than tigers hunt for a living. That's what my foodie family had for lunch at Milee Droog on Thursday. While my son sided with variants of roundness, wife and I remained as firmly apart as a porcelain square and wooden disk. Lush Caesar salad of crispy Romaine lettuce with home-made garlic breads, and briskly bold Tomato and Basil soup on side, both lovingly tempered to suit a revolting stomach, are what Gogol's roundels cradled with warmth. A disarmingly white plate threw savoury Lebanese chicken, served with Pita-Hummus, into an appealing relief, urging wife treat the meat more with the empathy of vegans than the midday fury of an unfed carnivore. Choice of spring chicken made the treat a celebration of herby tenderness. Pizza, to me, is like Annual Budget that always has more to it than meets the eye. Laid on a crust that stiffens too fast to be loved long, a gorgeous Mexicana with all the regular suspects like San Marzano, Mozarella and bell peppers as toppings pleased with verve and freshness. Ending meals with something as eternal as coffee always tickles. Milee’s brisk Americano made memories of evenings at Third Rail Coffee in New York gush back, bringing an unhurried end to a reassuring repast.

Taal-michri

I almost heard Clemenza insist – ‘Leave the Cannoli, take the Michri’.

Palm-candy, or Taal-Michri, makes a lifelong thief out of just about anyone. As a lad of eight or nine I’d routinely pull a stool near the rack to reach the bottle of Michri for a passing taste of heaven, having always found asking for it more circuitous than stealing. That practice continued unabated, expanded and turned increasingly discreet along my growth from a wary robber to an unworried rebel.

Michri, a spinoff of unrefined Palm-sugar, is produced round the year by reducing to crystals the boiled sap of Toddy Palm trees of Bengal. Considered both healthful and popular [how absurd!], it is used extensively in native desserts as a modest and 'caramelic' sweetener. Interestingly, the English word Candy owes its origin to Michri’s ancient name ‘Khondo’.

And, I still steal it!

Sanjha Chulha

I enjoy Punjabi food either in Punjab or by the roadside!

Pounded mutton skewered and coated in minced Chicken, grilled and then cut into firm yet juicy cylinders liberally sprinkled with green herbs rendered Jugalbandi Kebabs differently delicious and texturally bold. Skilled layering of unalike meats without making either lose flavoury uniqueness both intrigued and stoked for life. Thus finding semblance of Tricolour in food of Sanjha Chulha on Republic Day to me was a patriotic happenstance.

How could something good enough to be described in a line be so luscious and lingering? Pind da kebab, as juicy chunks of chicken filled with fresh cheese, first melted in mouth to eventually delight with a velvety aftertaste. Ghee-rich and tasty Dal-Makhni teamed well with tender Butter-naans. Things took a turn for the worse when sterile kebabs dipped in a spicy goulash posing as Kandahari Chicken betrayed how dismayingly war-free, read dull, a warlike Kandahar has now become.

Why am I growing so increasingly peevish towards menus with no last page?