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