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.

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!