Bengal in Bandra. A food walk

I grew up in Hyderabad but all my meals came out of a Punjabi kitchen. The few exceptions were Sunday morning breakfasts of dosa at Hotel Harsha, sweet corn chicken soup at Hi-King, post-swim sandwiches at Hotel Banjara, and Maggi Noodles. I had such a Punjabi palate that meals at Mamma’s Bombay Sindhi kitchen were just painful. (You still can’t get me to eat sai bhaaji or sindhi curry.)

Kaali daal, sarson da saag and mountains of paneer aside, I was raised with a timid palate. It wasn’t until several years later when I had my first Hyderabadi biryani in Bombay that I realised what a food wonderland I had left behind. And it wasn’t until I left India that I really appreciated what a fantastic food heritage I came from. Now when I go back home I would rather eat Maggi Noodles than at the latest “Continental” restaurant.

Last week I hit the jackpot. One of India’s favourite food bloggers (and an excellent chef), Kalyan Karmakar was hosting a Bengal in Bandra food walk and I managed to bag a last minute spot.

The sweltering evening began with Kalyan introducing the spirit of the walk. He was going to guide us through some of his favourite Bengali dishes available in Bombay, and share stories about where they came from, how he would eat them back in Bengal, and the compromises he makes in his new home. (No there were no puchkas in our luck as Kalyan assured us we would not find even remotely authentic ones outside Calcutta.) He couldn’t have had a more ravenous dozen hanging on to his every word.

We began at Hangla’s (which is Bong slang for “greedy for food”); a street stall on Bandra’s throbbing Turner Road with chefs from Calcutta handpicked by the owner. We ate egg and mutton rolls (my favourite), fish chops (delicious with kasundi (mustard chutney)), veg cutlets, and Calcutta biryani. Our group had a healthy mix of Frankie-loving Bombayites and kathi roll enthusiasts and Kalyan played a (very) biased referee while explaining the differences between the two.

As we made our way through a bustling Bandra to the next stop, Kalyan regaled us with Bong food stories and tips – about not using ketchup except in egg rolls; about how the Brits caused the biryani to travel from Awadh to Calcutta (losing some meat and gaining eggs and potatoes on the way); and how dessert isn’t strictly a post-meal indulgence.

In true Bengali style, we next marched into Sweet Bengal between our appetisers and mains. Until today I had never ventured beyond Bengali classics sondesh, rossogolla and mishti doi. Kalyan’s picks were a revelation! My favourite was kheer kodom – a juicy rossogulla enveloped by delicious khoya. I paid little attention to the pantua vs. gulab jamun debate as was completely distracted by the kalo jaam, dorbesh, gurer sandesh and excellent kachoris.

Not being trained to eat sweets whenever it suits our fancy, the non Bengalis in the group struggled to keep up with the rest. We moved on to the third stop, hoping that the walk will help make room for the final dot on our food map tonight.

Bong Bong is bijou. We were greeted by the owner Surjopriya who explained that her restaurant served food the way she cooks Bengali food today. Read: not traditional.

Kalyan’s chose a menu that included panch phoran potatoes (their version has yoghurt. I was told Bombay is mad for these but they weren’t to my taste at all), fried fish, prawn malai curry (excellent), mustard fish (strictly OK), Calcutta version of Anglo Indian pork vindaloo (I prefer the Goan version), lachha parathas and mango pudding. The vegetarian on my table was less than happy with her veggie alternatives.

Kalyan’s food walk is so much greater than the sum of its parts, and totally worth the Rs. 2,000 (£24) I paid. His stories infused so much local flavour into the menus, I met fantastic people I would have never come across otherwise, and I now know that the Malai Sandwich is as Bengali as Chicken Tikka Masala is Indian! Kalyan sent us off with bursting tummies, and a goody bag full of Calcutta snacks mukhorochok dalmut and jhalmuri.

Bong Bong was my least favourite stop of the day. Not because their food doesn’t taste good to most, but because I am old fashioned about Indian food. I have been on either side of the immigrant debate and I understand why people feel the need to modernise tradition. This is more than my memories being frozen in time – it’s about preventing a day when I won’t discover a kheer kodom because nobody remembers how to make it; about not wanting my children to grow up thinking tofu-almond butter-masala is traditional Indian food; about wanting to preserve my heritage before it disappears completely.

It’s about genuinely being worried that I can’t know where I will end up, if I don’t protect where I came from.
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Read Kalyan’s blog on the walk here.

Dishoom Shoreditch. From Bombay to London

It is no secret that Dishoom and I are in crush with each other. The love affair began in August 2010 and I am thrilled to report that we are still on our honeymoon.

A few weeks ago Dishoom’s Shamil Founder-walla and Sara Chatter-walli invited me to write a guest blog for the opening of their new café in London’s Shoreditch.  They wanted me to share what Shoreditch meant to a Bombay-walli… if anything at all!

Before I moved to London I was often told how similar it is to Bombay. Locations made familiar in Bollywood films, Victoria carriages, a melting pot of communities… and for the days I felt homesick I had Wembley, Southall and Brick Lane. They said I would feel right at home. Of course I didn’t. I especially resisted Shoreditch for years. A lot of that had to do with constant invitations to test how authentic the “curry” is. And some had to do with the city’s coolerati constantly trying to put Shoreditch in a box (that it always triumphantly wriggled out of).

But then one day everything changed for me. From Thums Ups at Café Mocambo to Thums Up Flips at Dishoom Shoreditch, life seems to have started all over again. Read here about how this happened.

And if you haven’t already got yourselves to Dishoom Shoreditch for one of Carl Sharab-walla’s outstanding Thums Up Flips then here is a teaser to tempt you:

(Photo courtesy: Dishoom Shoreditch)

• 40mls Johnnie Walker Black Label
• 2 dash Jerry Thomas bitters
• 10ml double cream
• 1 egg
• 26mls Thums Up reduction (Carl has resisted my fluttering eyelashes and not divulged how he came up with this!)

Shake everything together with ice cubes. Very hard. Strain and grate nutmeg over the top. And to borrow from the original… Taste the Thunder!

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Cafe Zoe. Bombay changing?

There are some things I just don’t get. I don’t get the Indian man’s obsession with adjusting his balls in public. I don’t get the RJs on Bombay radio. And I just don’t get restaurants that hide average food and poor service behind free Wi-Fi and cool interiors.

The last time I was in Bombay, the city was going gaga over celebrity spotting at Hakkasan, and Table remained non-five star restaurant of choice. This time round there was a new name I ran into everywhere. Cafe Zoe. Bombay waxed eloquent about how cool it is. How NYC the vibe is. How much they loved hanging out there. A “really lovely girl”, some expat, and the former chef of one of Bombay’s hottest restaurants have come together and the city was in love with a new restaurant all over again.

Instead of hiding its mill ancestry, Café Zoe celebrates it. Even though slightly reminiscent of the look that The Bowling Co. created 13 years ago, Café Zoe’s design is definitely cool. The furniture is simple, there is a decent bar against one wall and sofas against another. What I liked a lot about this restaurant was the tons of natural light that streams in through the skylights. Oh, and the loo is pretty cool too.

I’m afraid that is all I really liked about Café Zoe.

As a single diner, I was seated at the bar. I usually prefer this, but their bar stools are not high enough and I spent my entire meal adjusting and readjusting myself to try and eat my meal comfortably. In between swatting flies that swarmed the bar. I started with a Fresh Black Grape Caipiroska (Rs. 450). Really well priced, but was sickly sweet and I couldn’t taste the alcohol. I waited twenty minutes for the first of my bar snacks to arrive – Roast Veg Arancini (Rs. 210) served with an unfortunate tomato sauce. I dare you to say it tastes of anything other than a tart gujju pizza sauce. The arancini on its own is nicely cheesy but under-salted; this is probably deliberate given the way the tomato sauce assaults your taste buds. Many minutes later my other snack, Pulled Pork Brioche (Rs. 285), arrives. I did away with the cucumber slice it came with, wiped away the excess mustard that killed all other flavours and then went on to semi-enjoy this dish.

The best dish I ordered was the Truffle Capellini (Rs. 550). Exactly what it says on the menu. No fuss and all flavour.

Just when I was getting ready to forgive the flies, poor flavours, haphazard service and multiple requests for the Wi-Fi code going unanswered, it all came crashing down with the dessert. First they misplaced my order, then the Panna Cotta (Rs. 150) arrives and tastes of smelly custard, and then the Americano (Rs. 75) arrives in a smelly cup.

Spend 10 minutes here and it is plain as day why people flock to Café Zoe. The pretty ones – film maker, ad guy turned hot actor turned activist turned actor, society food columnist, fashion store owner – feel like they have come to a members-only private club; and the wannabe pretty ones… well, they just wanna be part of this private club. Neither care about the average food, the abundant flies, or the appalling service. All they care about is the “vibe”.

I go to restaurants for one of two reasons: great food, great service. Ideally both, but definitely one. Everything else is gravy. Everyone I knew used to want this too. When did this change? Why have (supposedly) fewer options given way to an acceptance of mediocrity? Does the mediocrity stop at our resturants? When did Bombay go soft?

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Nothing wrong with naughtiness

Its about that time of year when the city transforms itself into a ticker tape of Top 10s, Best Ofs and Resolutions. It’s just as easy to get lost in the whirlwind of festivities that December brings as it is to drown in its melancholy. Today was an awful day but I was determined not to let one bad day ruin my week. So I headed to the one restaurant that changed the way I eat Indian food in London. Dishoom’s new Winter Chai menu is exactly what I needed.

To say that I am smitten by the Dishoom-wallahs would be a slight understatement. So I asked my college friend Taimur (aka Prince of Palanpur) to act as my North Star for this tasting. Having just opened the latest entrant to London’s posh dining scene – chef Andy Varma’s Chakra in Notting Hill – he wasn’t exactly without vested interests; but Tai proved to be the most honest co-taster.

Bar-wallah Carl Brown, more dashing than usual, sporting a Movember tache took charge of our drinks and left us with very strict instructions on the order in which to drink them. Here goes (all drinks £5.50)!

The Baileys Chai is a 50/50 Chai-Baileys-Irish-Coffee-inspired explosive start to our tasting. Dishoom describes it best: warm, luxurious and unbelievably good.

Suggestive name aside, the Naughty Chocolate Chai is definitely the sexiest drink on the menu. Its dark, syrupy chocolate lusciously wraps itself around harsh Wild Turkey Bourbon until the drink takes your breath away.

Next is Chai Egg Nog. I hate egg nog. Correction, I hateD egg nog. Carl’s take on the traditional recipe is served up as a glass of cosy cuddles. Treacle-like Goslings Rum will lull you into a sigh just as the cinnamon and nutmeg urge you to reach for more. This sensational Chai Egg Nog was the clear favourite of the night. (I can’t wait to go back and try it ice cold!)

Cognac Chai and all its Hennessy makes a comeback. While it kicked serious butt last year, today it paled in comparison to the rest of the list.

The menu also has two Winter Warmers – the Winter Pimm’s with cloudy apple juice; and a Desi Mulled Wine, easy (too easy!) to drink but not particularly desi. They’re good but not as good as the chais. Not satisfied with the quantities of alcohol we were consuming, the Bar-wallah treated  us to a Cherry Chocolate Velvet (£9.90). At the risk of sounding like a teenager – OMG! A truly decadent champagne and black cherry cocktail.

There had to be food of course! These are Tai’s uncensored ratings on some of my favourite Dishoom dishes:

• Paneer Tikka (£6.90) – A
• Sheekh Kabab (£7.20) – A
• Black Daal (£4.70) – B
• Rotis & Naans – B
• Chicken Tikka (£6.70) – C 
• Lamb Chops (£10.50) – D (sadly, I had to agree with this one. Today the chops were burnt. No, not caramelised as our server Nuno tried to convince us, definitely blistered. They kindly took this off the bill but we weren’t happy about missing out on the chops!)

Tai couldn’t help but comment on Dishoom’s soul – I don’t think he’ll complain about coming back! We agreed to disagree on the rest of his ratings. We talked about college life in Bombay and London life in 2012. About not allowing one burnt dish to ruin our meal. And not letting one heartbreak break us forever.

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Simple. Nice.

Bombay felt different this time. I recognised it less; missed what it used to be. It was more blasé, less grateful and few had the time for a heartfelt smile. Coffee now costs Rs. 200 at a fancy deli and three girls on a night out wear more bling than a jewellery shop can hold. OK, I exaggerate a little, but only a little. I have nothing against change. The need for change made me change homes and I am probably being very selfish expecting a city to stay the same while I travel the world looking for something different. Still – just this once, I longed for a day when meeting for chai took us to Bastani café and dessert was fresh strawberries and cream at Bachelor’s.

I was definitely not going to get this in Bombay. A request for Brittania’s chicken berry pulao was answered with watermelon and feta salad at a home store’s overpriced café; the average cost of a birthday present was in five figures; and everybody I spoke to was ready to get out of the city.

I did too. I went to Delhi – a city where I spent nearly every childhood summer. Delhi is by no means any more “real” than Bombay has not become, but I knew that cocooned in the home of my family here I would have the time to remember everything I loved about growing up in India. Time almost stands still in the Suri household. It immediately feels like the summer of 1988 and I am once again part of some of the most honest and loving relationships I know. We also all still love food above most things.

We start with chaat (of course): Papdi chaat, dahi bhalla, alu tikis, gol gappa, chhola bhatura and paneer tikki at Shah Jahan Road, Bengali Market, Vasant Vihar A Block Market with old Bollywood songs providing the perpetual soundtrack to our chaat expeditions. My grandfather introduced me to Delhi chaat – my comfort food.

And then I went to Amritsar. Indian food cooked outside this city pales in comparison to the unbelievable deliciousness produced by the kitchens of this ancient city of India. Once I saw the real foodies of Amritsar I was ashamed to call myself one. You have honestly not eaten good Indian food until you’ve dined in Amritsar.

Guided by a fantastic Amritsari, my whirlwind trip started with a “light” breakfast of chhola bhhatura (and you can’t eat just one). We break for jutti and bangle shopping and then get back to business. My only request that I eat where normal people eat everyday. Alu tikki (Rs 7) and chaat (Rs 5) at Brijwasi is followed closely by stuffed kulchas (Rs 10) at Chungi Road and gulab jamuns (Rs 2) at Sharma Sweets. I spent sunset at the Indo-Pak border with over a thousand patriots on either side of the border who came there to feel a little extra patriotic that day.

My final day in Amritsar began with a meal like none I have ever, nor will ever experience anywhere else in the world. The langar at Harmandir Sahib (community kitchen at the Golden Temple) is the greatest equaliser I have witnessed. The massive kitchen is open 24/7 and feeds free vegetarian meals to almost 1,00,000 people each day (going up to 7,00,000 over the weekends).  The kitchen is staffed by devotees who ask for nothing in return except the opportunity to serve and the meals are gratefully accepted by people of all religions, castes and gender. This was a revolutionary concept in the 16^th century and in my opinion still is a marvel in a world so consumed with materialism that it allows social status to dictate most interactions.

I probably sound slightly ABCD and to be honest I did feel like an outsider who’s idea of India was shamefully restricted. I allowed the new face of a city cloud my memories of an entire country. But as I ate among strangers, I felt relief. This is also India, it is still home. Simple. So nice.

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This time…

…leaving London was incredibly difficult; coming to Bombay, easier than usual. The entire country waited with bated breath for a US President to mention the P-word. Meanwhile, journalists wasted far too much newsprint on the First Lady’s (lack of) fashion statements. This time, going through the phonebook to put together several tables of two, four and five was easier than usual; finding a Table for ONE, incredibly difficult.

It isn’t that I was never single in Bombay. I just never had to be alone. I met my first boyfriend through a neighbour. We hung out with groups of common friends and one day realised we were dating each other. The next few relationships followed a similar pattern. With the exception of one short-lived relationship (that is now a very strong friendship) I don’t remember going on a date in the city. Bombay is a frighteningly sprawling metropolis; but scarier still is how small it is. It is nearly impossible to walk into a restaurant or bar and not sit next to someone you know. And more difficult is to get set up on a blind date. Everyone seems to know everyone already.

That is, until you decide to pack your life into two suitcases, swap BEST for TFL, Indian Idol for X Factor and build on your collection of recipe books in a kitchen far, far away.

I have come back to India to find that Ma knows someone who sort of knows someone who is interested in “meeting a few girls”. Then there is another someone; and the possibility of a third someone, for when I come back in December. It clearly pays to get out of town… or does it?

The date was fine. We had tons to talk about but I spent most of the evening picturing several other people sitting before me. I won’t be able to keep that up for another meal so there will be a date No. 2. If I were doing this in London it is unlikely I would have told anyone about the date. And when I was done, if I chose not to write about it, I could spend the rest of my life never having to discuss it again.

But I am in Bombay and surrounded by friends who insist on asking questions. I love it! When I left the date I had 3 missed calls and a few text messages asking incredibly nosy questions. No matter how peaceful and fulfilling my life is in London, I know I will never have these friendships there. I needed reinforcements before I could convince my friends that I wasn’t being my “usual self” in turning down the sweet man. It’s a rare day in Bombay that I find myself on my own… Table for ONE, here I come , finally.

I cannot remember the first time I went to Bade Miyan. I also cannot remember a trip to Bombay that doesn’t include Bade Miyan. The chaos at this street vendor is more organized than the service at most five star hotels. I ordered a sheekh kabab roomali roll (Rs. 90) and wait for it to arrive, double parked behind a few other cars, also parked illegally. The tiny, filthy lane is fragrant with the smells from a feisty tandoor; my mouth waters inevitably.

Bade Miya was started in 1940 by a 17 year old immigrant following his dream all the way to Bombay. My fellow-blogger and lovely person Sam often talks about chasing dreams. Something he wrote recently has always fascinated me. He says, “The tricky part is that you’ll never know whether a person is walking away from you or walking towards (someone/thing else).”

I’d like to stand still for a while.

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Bambai se aaya mera dost

All week long I have tried, unsuccessfully, to write my next Table for ONE at Dishoom – a restaurant inspired by Bombay’s food. Each time I set out on my own the Universe sent along friends, making this post a table for three, four and five. It seems that Indian food, like the Indian spirit is meant for sharing.

I studied at Bombay’s St. Xavier’s college. The favourite days of my week were when we crossed the road to Kyani & Co., where we chatted with the owner Aflatoon Uncle about his childhood in Iran; and Bastani Café, where we would try and break at least one “rule” (see the list below) each time we were there. One of the first things I noticed while waiting for my table at Dishoom was their own list of rules, next to a copy of the Times of India, nestled between old Bollywood and Femina posters.

Dishoom’s design is a tribute to the Irani cafés of Bombay. Marble-top tables, wooden chairs, cutting chai and Bollywood music… if it wasn’t for the sexy open kitchen and less sexy hanging lights I could have sworn I was in Bombay. Each visit to the restaurant was with hardcore Bombay fans and we were not an easy bunch to please. I am so thrilled to share that Dishoom did not disappoint even once.

At last! A place in Central London that serves proper roomali roti (£1.70), lamb samosas (£3.90), perfect black daal (£4.50) and Thums Up (£2.50). It is reassuring to see that the Bombay influence is not purely cosmetic. The menu features dishes inspired by real Bombay eateries… roomali rolls (£6.50) from Bade Miyan, keema pau (£4.50) from Kyani & Co., pau bhaji (£3.90) from Chowpatty, sheekh kabab (£6.90) from Mohd Ali Road and chicken berry biryani (£7.50) from Brittania. I probably won’t order the Pau Bhaji again, nor the Boti Kabab but I have to come back for their breakfast bacon roll, cheesy naan and ice gola.

Owners Shamil, Amar and Adarsh didn’t always run restaurants. You really have to be a special kind of reckless to want to leap out of your comfort zone and commit to something that you believe in so much, that nothing else matters; least of all, logic. My convoys to Dishoom were filled with similar recklessness: a British Asian who went against a traditional family to create beautiful clothes, a gorgeous man who is a magical garden-whisperer, a childhood friend who was born to save lives…

A friend said I was born to have babies, a parent is convinced I was born to write, a boss hopes I was born to be a marketing genius… But I’ve never had that desire to do the one thing I was born to do. Nor did I fortunately ever have to make that choice. I gleefully flow from one adventure to the next in the quest for … well, nothing I suppose. And this has always been more than enough, until recently.

Last week at work I was flung out of my comfort zone and into a cauldron of new possibilities. On any other day I would have leaped for joy. I was surprised, when I finally recognised that what I was feeling was not excitement, but fear. Am I scared because I think I can’t do this, or because I finally feel the need to know what I was born to do… and this isn’t it?

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