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 .]
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