Khejur Gurh ~ Bengals’s sweet Agent Provocateur

Gurh is the price winter pays to set foot in Bengal. It adds mystique to nearly anything, renders sweetness less evil, and sweets far from ordinary. In short, Gurh, or Jaggery, is a delicious agent that makes Bengalis fête winter like a parched land soaking in rain.

Bengal’s affinity with sweetness is perhaps a logical upshot of once being the maker of the finest sugar. Legend has it that abundance of Gurh had lent it its ancient name ‘Gaud’. And, it was not until Bengal Renaissance in 19th century that native confectioners first turned ingenious by lacing Portuguese pot-cheese with Gurh, eventually elevating tame sweets to objects of desire - a pattern that soon spread far and wide.

Taste and seasonality together fuel the cult of Jaggery. Khejur (date-palm) Gurh, referred to as ‘Gurh’ henceforth, is high-born, wintry, polymorph and redoubtably surpassing in flavour and versatility an all-year Akher (Sugarcane) Gurh. Let us celebrate a ripe winter peeking at the method that runs this seasonal madness like clockwork. Bengal always made a generous host to Khejur trees that grow best in dry parts of Indian Subcontinent. Its sugary-sap is tapped in earthen pitchers and boiled over wood or coal to yield an earthy, nutty and most toothsome Nolen Gurh. Molten gold is what rivals it best in resplendence. Though roundels of stubborn ‘Patali’ upstage by lasting well past fleeting winters of Bengal, semiliquid Gurh is no less cherished in households as side with Luchi, bread and whatnots. Sap-tapping being a seasonal pursuit and Gurh a rarefied delight, wellbeing of those who live on it finely hinges on the fortuity of lush harvests of Khejur. So, coming of winter sets both the gleaners and artisans alike after fashioning the choicest lot of Gurh-infused sweets.

If Gurh is that raga a handful can deliver, the likes of ‘Sri Gobindo Bhandar’ of Bagbazaar or ‘Makhan Lal Das & Sons’ of Notunbazaar can safely be named as consummate exponents of it. But such establishments are now on the wane due to a rising shortage of Gurh for reasons that include a heightened use of date-palm trees as inexpensive fuel. In winter, sweetsmiths from all-over Bengal pitch tents across Kolkata to sell Gurh-based confections, namely Roshogolla, Kanchagolla, Gujia, Norom-pak [soft ones], Kora-pak [hard ones], Chandrapuli [lunar shaped made of grated coconut], Naru [orbs made of grated coconut and Gurh], Moa [a fluffy sweetmeat made with Gurh and Kanakchur Khoi], besides raw Gurh both as Patali and Nolen. Jalbhara, that once came into being to confound newlywed sons-in-law, trades in winter a lowly rose water for gooey Nolen as filling. Badamchak, or, Brittle made of roasted peanuts dipped in molten Gurh is another seasonal delight that sees one through any length of boredom. Though starting with any of them is always deliberate, ending is never. No wonder the owners and patrons of flourishing sweetshops are seldom found pleading almighty for everlasting winter.

End of chill in Bengal is both mourned like bereavement and tempered by stowing of Gurh to sustain until winter reappears. Some kind confectioners are now onto offering taste of Gurh round the year through preservation of ‘Patali’ by Freezing. Besides, availability of Nolen Gurh in friendly tubes by notably raising its shelf-life has buried a recurring woe of Bengal forever.

Enough said. Indeed, with Gurh it’s always easier to start than end. As litterateurs have always come in handy in summarizing difficult emotions, let’s wind up quoting the inimitable Sukumar Ray who extolled molten Gurh as one of the finest relishes of humankind -

“…kintu shobar chaite bhalo, pauruti aar jhola gur”

(Notwithstanding, what trumps all is runny Jaggery lapped up with Bread)

Surfire...

Describing distaste is not fun. So, let's keep it at a minimum! 

I never grieved frequenting my workplace in London so long as it stood precisely nine minutes away from Holmes’ humble pad at 221B Baker Street. As neighbour to super-sleuth Feluda on Rajani Sen Road in Calcutta, Surfire too could be as coveted had its promising fare agreed to the rigours of that fabled quarter.

Lack of balance between vinegar and chili-peppers lent the Chorizos in Dosa a cloying tang I proved utterly unfit to admire. [By the way, Chorizo of my kind is smoky, brisk and oftener from Spain than Mapusa.] Appams were homely, porous, bowl-shaped, versatile and like a chaste ingénue that eschews coarseness in touches. With a gritty texture and vapid chunks of pork almost vying for rushed deliverance, a hodgepodge callously passed off as Vindaloo suddenly made my Goan jaunts appear too few and far between. Middling prawns in Chettinad were awful, unsavoury [and perhaps lately uncanned]. In a richly delicious Butter Garlic Crab I found culinary restraint and mastery at their snooty best, setting off an oomph enough to coax Adam quit pursuit of Eve forever. Its relish was decadent, redeeming and timely! Mutton Pepper-fry is a fairly renowned dish that, I understand, owes its prevalence to easy alterability to suit palates. The one with parched mutton dice I had that evening was ill-cooked and lifeless, sadly resembling a miserable gravel. The word ‘Roadside’ spells taste to me. Thattukada Mutton, or 'Mutton cooked the roadside way', delighted as sappy mutton cubes leisurely soaked in hefty and deliciously coconutty gravy - besides salvaging a failing evening from oblivion. Such arrows in the quiver are always rewarding. Like that the curtain fell on an eminently drab meal.

Plain-speaking is what I espouse, come what may. I wish Surfire whatever it takes to flourish.

Thakali and more...

You need to be too good when you're good to be condoned when you're not so. Though delectable Shaptas and plump Kothays more than redeemed charred Choila and briny Chowmein, I mulled if I would ever visit Thakali unannounced. Doma, you were terribly missed in that evening’s fare. #uncookedwords


Often taste flows from modest sources. Nonetheless, how could I ever dote on something so unappealing, indelicate and corny? Four Rumalis with two small, coarse, sapid and round meat-pies known as Tikias made my populist and unhurried dinner last night, leaving a lasting afterglow that deliciously outdid what I'd naively bargained for. #uncookedwords


Park Cafe of Paikpara owes its repute more to demure lovebirds of Calcutta who seek anonymity behind its tastefully tattered curtains, than any specific edible. Meaty chicken 'pakoras' cloaked in eggy lacework, old-school fish fries and cups of almost diabetic tea served on a peeling tabletop animated an 'adda' that without any of them could barely be even half as alive. #uncookedwords

almost a pizza...

The plane I'd boarded for Naples dropped me in the Adriatic Sea! #uncookedwords

Pepperoni pizza of 'Fire and Ice' was like an opulent Ben-Hur scrambled on the measly budget of a minute-long broadcast on 'Toothpicks' - a far-cry from any native rendering of the yeasted flatbread. Topping Pepperonis were dishonourably few. And, the seasonings' ungenerous sprinkling almost rendered the specks countable. Fire and Ice, please never be sparing on Pizza, or, ask Lollobrigida to fit into the clothes of Hepburn.

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?