The Cocktail

That the Masque anniversary lunch in Leh was going to be delicious was a given. The kitchen team is one of the most innovative in the country and if you needed any more proof of their genius, you only had to see the skeletal conditions under which they served an astonishing 10-course spread.

This post is about my favourite Masque team member – no, not from their kitchen. I first met Ankush Gamre nearly four years ago, when I sent back two cocktails in a row while dining at Masque. He wasn’t happy. Not because I sent back his drinks, but because he had a dissatisfied customer. And there began our relationship…

It only took a couple of cocktails for Ankush to figure out what I liked. In the beginning I would mention a spirit that I was in the mood for. He would listen, make a suggestion, hear me out and then say, “I got it.” And boy did he get it! My joy knew no bounds when, for the first time since discovering the pleasure of a proper cocktail (while living abroad), I finally experienced the great taste of a clean, considered cocktail in India.

Ankush has now made well over a 100 cocktails for me and we have barely had a miss. Today I don’t even need to mention a spirit.

“Make me a drink please, Ankush?”

“Sure. I got it.” And he does.

The Masque pop-up in Leh was the first time I met Ankush outside the comfort zone of his lab, where every ingredient is at hand and gadgets of all manner help his drinks along. I was nervous but equally excited about what he would make in the wild terrains of Ladakh.

(Turns out I was worried for nothing. Ankush shone like a star; as did his drinks.)

Set amidst the apricot trees of Chulli Bagh in Stok, his bar served drinks with locally sourced buckwheat, Ladakhi apples, sea buckthorn and even his own twist on the local brew, chaang. When they travelled to Khardung La he foraged wild thyme and lemon verbena and these made it to some drinks, too. Ankush can think on his feet and the results are for all to see.

I had little tastes of everything. “They’re not all for you,” Ankush warned and he was right, of course; but I took such pleasure in watching other diners rejoice in these drinks, ordering seconds and thirds.

I did like Passion Pit – with tequila, mangosteen, peach, sea buckthorn and a sea buckthorn salt rim that took him two days to dry and make. Its sweeter than I usually like my drinks, but look at it!

After that first time I never ordered from the menu again. Leh was no different, and to my delight, Ankush was prepared for this. My first off-the-menu drink was a refreshing, tall one with a spirit that hasn’t left the Himalayan belt yet – Himalayan Aaila (a rum-ish Nepalese liquor) with Ladakhi sweet lime.

And last on my cocktail journey was The Only Ladakh. Ankush only made the one, and only for me. With whisky, lemon verbena, wild mint, wild thyme and a dash of white wine, this gorgeous drink was all kinds of sensational.

Ankush has spoilt me. He indulges my every cocktail whim and he does it with a generosity far beyond his years. Truth be told I am in awe of Ankush – not just of his talent but also the person I have gotten to know these past few years. I envy his determination; I admire his drive; I wish I had his spirit; and above all, I aspire for the grace with which he goes about his day.

Cheers to you maestro!

Americano: Back to One

When the local government finally allowed Bombay’s restaurants to reopen there was no question in my heart, and slightly weary mind, that I would be there for their ‘first day first show’. There was no question I wanted to show up for an industry that helped me pay my rent for over two decades.

It wasn’t like I was deprived of restaurant food during this pandemic. It was in fact astounding how one of the least agile industries I know, reinvented themselves to dish out their award-winning dishes to my doorstep. I was also aware, for every single quarantined minute how privileged I was to be the 1% of the 1% of the… to be able to write this paragraph. So if all this food was being delivered to my dining table, why in the world would I want to risk the dreaded virus and eat the same food in a public space?

Because I don’t go to restaurants to be fed.

My time in restaurants has always been about how they allow me the space to feel. And the only two restaurants I wanted to rush back to – or in other words, the only feelings I wanted to revisit were those I experienced at Masque and at Americano, both in Bombay.

While their styles, food and every traditional review may not put the two in the same sentence, in my opinion, both chefs, Prateek and Alex, bring the same thing to my restaurant experience – a whole lot of heart.

There is no denying the talent they wield in their respective kitchens; but for me, their true skill lies in creating spaces that allow your story to play out. All they want, for your every moment in their restaurant, is that you feel the way you need to.

And today, when every shard of my broken heart still beats for someone who doesn’t want me, I turned to Americano. My inadvertent neighbourhood restaurant that wants me back as much as I want it, every single time. And today, that’s all I really needed.

-p

p.s. they make a pretty mean White Negroni and some version of a Gibson, too. The boys at the bar are generous and indulge my ‘not-so-sweet-please’ idiosyncrasies and allow me to mess around with their cocktail recipes.

A Lockdown Delivery

It wasn’t a cold night in London.  I wasn’t sad. I didn’t need comforting, nor comfort food. It was a happy spring evening and as I walked through my front door, I was overcome by a desperate longing to be home. But I was home. Or, wasn’t I?

I had been in London for seven years. That night, standing in the living room of my first ‘own home’, living a life I had filled with new people, new things, new joys, new pains and new memories, I realised that an old memory had crept into my new life.

I wasn’t sad, and neither was this memory. As if replaying in front of me I saw my grandfather, Dada, his nearly bald head covered with a white handkerchief, shepherding Priyankaa and me down a long line, in a gurudwara in Hyderabad. We were walking toward the guru and the inevitable dollop of ghee-drenched kada prasad in our tiny hands.

That didn’t used to happen a lot. In fact, that day was probably the only time it ever happened. So what was I remembering? In that moment, all I knew was that I needed to bring something of that old memory into my new life.  And so I called Hansu Masu (my absolute best masu in the whole world) to help me with a recipe for kada prasad. Patiently, without needing to know why, she gave me a recipe with her usual approximation of ingredients (no, it is unlikely she will ever write a cookbook). Then came the dreaded instruction that accompanies every excellent home cook’s recipe: Let it cook for “a while”, keep stirring, “you’ll know when it’s done” (eyeroll and increased heartbeat).

With unflinching faith I set  about trying to recreate the dish which only uses 3 ingredients – atta, ghee, shakkar. 30 minutes later, I stood in my kitchen, beaming. I did know when it was done. With the first whiff of the flour cooking I was back in that gurudwara. I shovelled scalding bites of the halwa into my greedy mouth, straight from the pan, and spent the night wondering about this visit from a memory wrapped in food wrapped in memory.

Seven days ago the  memory returned. I must have been having a happy day, inspite of the lockdown and  all its restrictions; or perhaps because of it. I called Hansu Masu to remind her of that night in London. A few days later I received a special delivery. A different halwa, bringing with it, a host of new flavours and fragrances, and brand new memories, for when I will need them in the future. Thank you  Hansu Masu.

-p

 

Table for One

Monday: ghar ke chhole puri

Tuesday: jam sandwich

Wednesday: Maggi

Thursday: cheese sandwich

Friday: papaji da dhaba chhole

School tiffins followed a comforting timetable. Dadi Ma, who only stepped into the kitchen to make Dada his morning chai, gave the cook tiffin instructions from the safety of her verandah. She couldn’t cook.

I was raised in a household that didn’t really care for food. So I wonder why, in these times of isolation, I only find comfort in my kitchen.

I’ve mastered a soufflé; with nobody to leave the secret to. Still, I’m cooking up a storm for my Table for One.

-p

This piece was first written for the lovely folk at Filter for their ‘Make Your Mark’ series during the lockdown.

How late is too late?

8 February 2020, Bombay

Lunch at The Table, Mumbai – Sesame-Ginger Chicken Salad with a glass of Erath Pinot Gris from Oregon

Stream of consciousness is bizarre. I manoeuvre a Kala Ghoda pavement, then looked up to relieve a crick in my neck, and spotted a banner for Sudhir Patwardhan’s retrospective at the NGMA curated by Nancy Adajania. “She’s so clever,” I said to myself. And she must be from such a clever family. (Huh?). I have a clever family. Is it too late for me to become clever?

What else is it too late for?

The first thing I ever remember wanting to be when I grow up, is a therapist. I was 14 years old. Papa said everyone would call me a quack. ‘m not exactly sure what scared me off – after all, I really have nothing against ducks. And so, I wonder, is it too late to find out if I would make a good quack?

I’m half-way through my glass of wine. I look over my right shoulder to relieve the same crick in my neck, and spot a member of a whisky club I co-started, then got chucked out of. (WTF is co-started?) She was condescending and rude all those months ago, and I ask if it is too late to take the high road?

Is it too late to go back to school?

Is it too late to dance with abandon?

Is it too late to have someone love me back?

Is it too late to be part of a girl gang?

Is it too late to like acid washed jeans?

I’m looking for a second glass of wine on The Table’s excellent, new wine list… is it too late to find the courage to chase a dream of my own restaurant with its own excellent wine list? Is it too late to dream?

I am re-reading this text for typos. I still write with ink on paper before typing anything into a computer. Is it too late to have beautiful handwriting?

Is it too late to have a hobby?

Is it too late to enjoy fiction again?

Is it too late to join a spin class? (Yes.)

Is it too late to take back seeing Ravi naked?

Is it too late to learn how to make a soufflé?

Is it too late to know what I want to be when I grow up?

-p

 

Masque. One step at a time.

Skipping steps rarely gets you where you want to go. I was once in a short relationship with a friend from college. We shared an easy friendship for nearly two decades before jumping into a different affair. We didn’t date. We didn’t get to know each other as lovers. We didn’t give romance a chance. We skipped about a 100 steps and thought we would get from First Kiss to First Anniversary, scot-free. And so it ended the only way it was going to. Painfully.

Much as I want to feel better right now, there really is no quick way to get there from here. A couple of clever writers have even distilled this process into 5 stages – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and finally, acceptance. I have a slightly different list of my own:

• I’m cool, it happens.
• Not again! It must be me.
• Can everyone just leave me alone?
• What the fuck!
• And then, slowly, the acceptance that the person who I have made the cause of my pain felt he had no choice but to choose what he did. There was no betrayal.

Dealing with pain comes with its own treasure map. You need the first clue to get to the next. It simply isn’t possible to skip steps and still get to the treasure. But not every step of the way needs to be an angst-ridden exercise. It especially helps if you find people and places along the way that make you question your story. Like I did tonight, when I treated myself to the 12-course Christmas menu at Masque.

There are no shortcuts at Masque. So whether it was launching a tasting menu-only restaurant in India; sourcing persimmons in Uttarakhand and Pecorino in Puttaparthi; or redefining what fine dining is in a city where the experience began and ended with Zodiac Grill’s white gloves, Masque hasn’t skipped any steps on its way to being recognised as one of the best restaurants in the country.

In order for me to accept what is, I needed to take a break from the constant storytelling my mind insists upon. And the meal tonight proved to me, yet again, that there’s nothing quite like some really diligent cooking to snap me out of myself.

For when the Goan sausage doughnut arrives, it is impossible to think about anything other than the genius of the dish that was inspired by the humble paniyaram. Or when you come face to face with micro mini red Kashmiri apples alongside an unctuous eggplant ice cream (romanced by tamarind), only a decidedly stubborn person can remain forlorn. Every course grounded me further, reminding me that all that matters is this moment and how I choose it.

I have never had a better partner than a delicious meal. And as long as not skipping any steps means I have help from meals at Masque, then let this take the time it must.

-p

Back to the Table. O Pedro

Vasco Sour at O Pedro in Mumbai, India – a brilliant cocktail of  Pisco, Triple Sec, Goan Toddy Vinegar Shrub, Housemade Spiced Grenadine, Egg White, Star-fruit Juice, Angostura Bitters

My experience of “food inspired by food” is a lot like the romances in my life. We get into it with all the excitement it deserves. It’s so much fun that we love what we see, we can talk for hours and the kissing is pretty good too. Then there is the small matter of the heart. When for no reason that you have ever admitted to, you lose your nerve. We want this to work so much that we even fake it for a while.

But in the end, no matter how brilliant the Vasco Sour is, the only words I have for O Pedro are the ones many men have said to me: “It’s not you. It’s me.”

-p

P.S. Would I go back?

Quite honestly, if I had a choice I may not make the trek. But if I am in the area, the Vasco Sour would be a much-welcome addition to the plan. I was however, underwhelmed by the food. It didn’t have the joy that Goan food does. In any case, not enough for me! That said, from the mostly disappointing spread I ate a few days ago, I would happily re-order: Pork Chicharrones Ambotik, Sourdough Poee with Choriz Butter, Red Snapper “Poke” and the Fried Fish.

 

 

The last one

There is a time and place for every meal. Like at the end of a day full of suckage, in the middle of a heartbreak, when I’m homesick, and especially when I’m sick of home, absolutely nothing sets my world right like a bowl of Maggi noodles.

There have been trysts with the likes of Spuntino, Bombay Canteen & M. Wells on the days when nothing could go wrong. And travels for one that led me to adventures in Café Jardin Majorelle, Los Salones del Piano Nobile and Joseph Leonard. I’ve spent afternoons at Dishoom and Bar Termini and been transported to another place and feeling.

From the very first table for one at Viajante, to my first rodeo with Michelin dining on my own at Daniel, the right meal always came along when I needed to break through a (usually self-imposed) barrier.

Over the past six years, these meals have been a witness to my life. I fasted and feasted through stories, patching up old wounds and documenting new ones, with my writing always keeping me safe, like a trusty Band-Aid. I never quite had the courage to check if the wounds were still open; or worse still, if they had actually begun to heal.

But there is a time and place for everything. As I bring in the last of my 30s in the city where they began, it seems to be the right time to rip off the bandage.

This is the time to say goodbye.

-p

p.s. Life is too short for a bad meal and old bandages.

 

Turning pages at Pepper Trail

We are at the stunning Pepper Trail retreat, a 200 acre coffee, tea and spice plantation in northern Kerala. From the moment you drive through the retreat’s gates one is enveloped in a cacophonous hush. Days begin with the sounds of morning dew crashing into leaves, and end with songs of a thousand birds. Time stands still, even as the plantation breathes new life into each day.

Anand Jayan is a third generation plantation owner and welcomes each visitor as if we were guests to his home. From personalising every single meal and guided tours of his gardens, to offers of coracle rides in their private reservoir – he spoilt us rotten. No request was too outrageous and we were especially looking forward to a cooking class arranged with the plantation’s cook. Mani has been with the family for over two decades and is now the keeper of their several culinary secrets.

I was chopping smoked kodampuli for Mani’s fish curry when WhatsApp pinged his message of rejection. Decades of being turned down doesn’t seem to be practice enough and my eyes pricked with an all too familiar emotion… or perhaps it was the red chilli tadka being prepared for our jackfruit thoran. I was grateful to be standing in a kitchen full of distractions – Mani’s Malayalam cooking class translated into English by Anand’s mother, the vague recollection that kodampuli is often mistaken for kokum, and the desperate need not to cry in front of my younger sister.

The irony of being rejected whilst at one of the most romantic hotels I’ve been to was not lost on me. And so, as I walked up to our treehouse, balancing myself on a ramp that meandered through the tops of enormous jackfruit trees, I swore not to succumb to the seduction of self-pity.

We spent languid days not turning a single page of the several books we thought we would need, only sitting up for the delicious meals that arrived at regular intervals. We feasted on heavenly breakfasts of idiappams and stew, puttu, kadala kari and fried bananas; lunches and dinners of kodampuli fish curry, olan, mezhukkupuratti, and appams and curry; and tea time always included banana fritters and surprisingly awful filter coffee. And needless to say, everything featured coconut. (See end of the post for descriptions of these meals.)

Puttu and kadala kari

Banana fritters

Appams and curry

Idiyappams and stew

Every meal was a feast

We only managed to drag ourselves away from the plantation’s serenity and steaming plates of food for a few hours. And only to buy some smoked kodampuli and mountains of banana chips. Anand drove us into Sultan Bathery, the erstwhile dumping ground for Tipu Sultan’s artillery. It’s a small town by any standards – we were told that stores began selling ice cream only a few years ago – but large-hearted enough to string new year decorations between temples and mosques. And tolerant enough for the morning azaan to give way to temple bells even as traffic quietened around the churches.

It was only on the drive back to Calicut airport did I allow myself the luxury of self-reflection. About the kind of pain I was willing to accept in my life. None, you say? Then surely the only alternative is an even more painful ‘what if’. Like not turning the page of a book because I may not like how it ends? As always the Dalai Lama comes to my rescue – seek passionately, let go lightly he says. And let’s keep turning those pages.

-p

We ate very well…

Idiappam: also called string hoppers in Sri Lanka is a breakfast favourite and a snack. Noodles made from rice flour, and served with sweetened coconut milk or meat/chicken stew. The earliest mention of this food was in the 5^th century Perumpanuru as a snack sold on the seashore.

Puttu and kadala kari: A traditional breakfast item for the original warrior class of Kerala, the Nairs. Bamboo-steamed rice and coconut served with a curry of black chickpeas.

Kodampuli: http://www.seriouseats.com/2011/02/spice-hunting-kodampuli-gambodge-malabar-tamarind-kokum.html

Olan: A Nair dish of white pumpkin and dried beans cooked in coconut milk.

Mezhukkupuratti: a delicious vegetable stir fry, always cooked in coconut oil. Ours was a mix of plantains and green beans.

Appam: rice pancake traditionally eaten with meat stew by Syrians and the mixed vegetable dish, aviyal, by the Nairs and Nampoothiris.

(Source for all historical food facts: KT Achaya)

 

Monsoon in Moira #nofilter

Our trips to Goa began in the early 80s. Summer holidays were spent driving from Hyderabad to Goa with Papa in his Maruti van. We went to the same hotel, stayed in the same rooms, and spent our weeks between the pool and the beach with several coconut waters to break up the day. Post-childhood trips didn’t stray much from this formula, until now.

My last trip to Goa, a few weeks ago, involved a cursory walk on the beach and only one dip in a pool. A Goa of monsoon and the Mandovi, and villages lush with lazy; it was a Goa I never imagined I would experience. And now, the only kind of Goa I want to visit.

My generous host left no King’s bottle unopened to make sure we experienced the real susegad life. When we could bear to tear ourselves away from rain-watching on his verandah, there were Friday nights at Cavala, breakfast at Baba au Rhum, Saturday dancing at Cohiba, fish thalis at Anand Restaurant & Bar, and an explosive lunch at Gunpowder.

Located on a meandering street in the picturesque village of Assagao, Gunpowder’s kitchen serves coastal food from Goa, Kerala, Karnataka, Tamil Nadu and Andhra Pradesh, in a stately Portuguese home saved from ugly redevelopment. A Delhi restauranteur gave up the city in favour of laid back living; and the result is most delicious. Sharing the home with an ethical and fair trade boutique (People Tree) and several dogs, Gunpowder’s food is often fiery, partial to coconut, and always excellent. Unlike most Goan restaurants the vegetarian options are plentiful and not restricted to mushroom and paneer.

We ate for hours, then sat around for a few more, intoxicated by the breeze blowing through the open courtyard, or perhaps it was just the Goan spirit…

The superhit dish of the day was surprisingly, potatoes and generous chef Jaan Gohain didn’t hesitate a moment before sharing the recipe with me!

Having just rid myself of a shell fish allergy, I enjoyed the juicy prawn masala immensely.

When in Goa, eat choriz.

I Instagrammed these photos a few weeks ago and as always was surprised at how easily smart phones and their never ending supply of apps have made a Henri Cartier-Bresson of the most undeserving of us. A moody choice between Amaro and Lo-Fi, depth of field inserted with a tap on the screen, and I can turn the most ordinary bowl of bhel into a 100-like worthy piece of envy. I’ve learnt to drench my world in filters to alter every mood, drowning out reality with the push of a button. Filters have become my friend and I wonder, are photographs all I use them on?

Then comes along a near-full moon to save me from myself. The night arrives unannounced, at the end of a spectacularly ordinary day, and burns away with the next morning’s sunrise. I rush to shoot the moon, only to have him look back at me, untouched.

These nights are reminders – of midnight kisses real and imagined, of promises never made. But mostly they are a reminder that its time to experience life without the filter of expectations. Its time to love life #nofilter.

-p

P.S. Shruti stayed on for a few more adventures on her own. Have a read through Shruti’s blog for fantastic off the beaten path ideas for Goa.