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.

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.

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’.

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?