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!

-p

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?

-p

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.

-p

Do you have soul?

A few weeks ago my boss and I were preparing for an interview. One of my questions to him was what he feared the most; he replied “failure”. I’m not sure what I would have said just then if he had asked me the same question. My fear is that once I admit my fear I will also be accepting my dream. So here goes everything…

My greatest fear is that I may never gather the courage to run my own restaurant. Now that I have admitted this, it brings up a spell of related fears. Topping that list is the fear that when someone walks into my restaurant they won’t find its soul.

A lot like how I felt when I walked into London’s latest entrant to the Indian food scene. Roti Chai calls itself an Indian Street Kitchen. How exciting! Even if you have never been to an Indian street, or its kitchens, I bet the words conjure up an assortment of vibrant and delicious scenes. My high expectations were not unwarranted.

I walked past Roti Chai the first time. And even when I turned around I was hesitant to walk in. A half-dressed table with bags of token Indian brand names, an empty reception desk and a wall sparsely decorated with more Indian stuff greeted me… am later told that they are trying to figure out how to sell Indian favourites like Frooti, Lays and Parle G. But until then these are for “display only”. Why a restaurant would want to display a constipation remedy (Isabgol) is anybody’s guess!

Nothing about the restaurant says Indian, Street or Kitchen. Its deathly quiet and if it wasn’t for two other tables of people I would have walked out and come back another day. It’s a squareish dining room with nondescript tables, the odd splash of colourful backrests and an ugly ceiling (I’m sorry but exposed ducts and wires were done and gone in the 90s). Far too much shelf space has been given to a service bar and a monster coffee machine. The kitchen is hidden behind a black wall and three uncoordinated posters. Change the three Indian posters with pictures of sombreros and this could easily turn into an ordinary Tex-Mex canteen.

The chai (£2.20) I ordered arrived just as they remembered to turn on the music (Bollywood). It is brewed for a few minutes one cup at a time, and as long as they do this it will never have the ferociousness of flavour and gentle warmth of proper Indian chai. Theirs tastes very similar to the Twinings Chai in my larder. If you call yourself Roti Chai you better have bloody good roti & chai – don’t you think?

The man behind Roti Chai used to manage the Cinnamon Club restaurants. I wanted to believe that there was more to this restaurant than disappointing chai, a “Bread Selection” (hidden under Sides), and half-hearted attempts at cuteness (all sorry cousins to Dishoom, especially the staff Chaiwallah tee-shirts). The menu is small – I like small menus. I ordered:

• Bhel Puri (£3.90) – light but slightly low on tang. This version has tomatoes… a giveaway that the chef is North Indian.
• Papri Chaat (£4.50) – nice! And miles better than the version served at Mooli’s. I wish though that it didn’t look so sterile on the plate.
• Chicken Lollipops (£4.80) – succulent and moreish. Just as the menu promises.
• Bun Kebab (£7.50) – the lamb is the best thing I tasted that afternoon. Moist and bursting with flavour (served with an unfortunate side salad).
• Green chillies & chopped onion – at £1 this is not expensive but if the vendor on the streets of Delhi has the heart to offer me onions on the house maybe Roti Chai could too?
• The Italian manager brought me some red chilli sauce (too spicy to put on the menu apparently) – now that I would quite happily pay for.
• Mango Frooti (£1.50) – classic! This brought back memories of pocket money spent in school canteens.

The food presentation is Western, bland and does no justice to the flavourful dishes. Everything I ordered tasted good and I’m sure as the kitchens spend more time cooking the menu the food is going to taste great. The service is excellent. Unfortunately Roti Chai’s under construction website has more character than the restaurant itself. Soft opening or not, you have only one chance to make a first impression…

To quote from a Simon Sinek book I am reading: “People don’t buy what you do, they buy why you do it.” When I begin work on my restaurant I hope I won’t be too scared to surround myself with people who will always challenge my why. I would rather have my feelings hurt than create something that has no soul.

-p

Mirror, mirror

The mornings before winter decided to ice London’s sidewalks I would walk to work. The highlight of my brisk 30-minute commute was pounding the sidewalk, drenched in the aroma of fresh coffee, outside Caffe l’Angolo Bianco. In the 18 months that I have sometimes walked down Crawford Street I never stopped for a cup. Until today.

The deli is no bigger than a largeish bedroom. Two counters and four round tables squeeze into one half of the room; a deli counter in the other half. The walls are lined with boxes of Panettone Verdi, Panettone Venezia, Il Panettone Bauli, Cantuccini alla Mandorla… in honour of Christmas. I ordered a cappuccino and a tomato-avocado-mozzarella sandwich and settled in for the morning.

It didn’t take me long to figure out that I was the only stranger in the room. The Italian owner knew everyone else. She asked after the gay couple’s sick dog; the soccer kid’s mum (out shopping while dad played dad); she asked the old man how he was coping after his wife’s death. For the first time that I can remember, a restaurant was more like a family’s living room and I, the gatecrasher to this party.

I order another cappuccino; I didn’t really want another but I also didn’t want to leave this family just yet. A gentle energy connected everyone in the deli and the temptation to be included was too sweet to ignore. A few more unwanted cappuccinos and several more interesting stories make me think of another party I’ve gatecrashed: London. I do a bloody good job of pretending to have settled in but no matter how well I know the streets, how much I love the X Factor, or how used to the weather I get, London will always be someone else’s city. Things changed a few months ago. The miracle of Facebook reconnected me with myself.

I found Shakha, Sailaja and Sree Lakshmi in London. Deepa, Sharmeen and Chanveen in the US. Shairi and Anuja in Bombay. They are mirrors I lost a long time ago. Today, when I stand before these mirrors they show me my reflection before life changed it, for better and for worse. I don’t just get to see what I want to see, but I see all that I am too scared, proud or hesitant to look for; the good, the bad, but especially the good.

London will never be home but through these friends from school a little bit of home is now with me in London. Being able to unhesitatingly ask a friend if she wants to meet “this evening” as opposed to “three weeks from Friday (if nothing else comes up)” is a joyous relief. And when I ask for an opinion, I know I will get nothing but kind honesty.

Its finally time to leave Caffe l’Angolo Bianco. Just as I reached for the door the lady of the house walked up to me and reached for my hand. She placed a cookie in my palm and said, “You will like it. Now come again, okay?”

-p

Three tables for two

I have just finished reading Gouri Dange’s The Counsel of Strangers, a charming presentation of six stories that come pouring out at one big Indian wedding. Something one of the characters said in the book stayed with me all week. The near-suicidal Nurse Sajani at one point in her story said: “So then, tell me, as the fellow says in his book, When I die, who will cry? But I have a more urgent question. When I am living, who will laugh with me?”

The dreariness from the week before has continued to creep into the rest of the month. I’ve been on crap dates, fallen ill, still haven’t found joy in the promotion, and saddest of all, found out that the Coffee Shop Guy is married. I needed a miracle to lift my mood… but thank you Universe for sending me three!

Rahul was in town on business and pulled out a few hours to buy me a Skinny-Dry-Extra-Foam-No-Sugar-Chocolate-on-Top-Cappuccino at my local Pret A Manger. I have known Rahul for as long as he’s been married to my best friend Lina and over the years he and I have developed a tremendous affection and respect for one another. I have heard and experienced too many incidents of “socially acceptable” inflections that quickly escalate into uncomfortable conversations and consequently, the death of friendships. But in the 15 plus years that I have known Rahul, I am relieved that not once has our friendship turned even mildly flirtatious, and not once has my friendship with Lina ever soured. Lina and Rahul, collectively and separately are havens of joy and love and I am grateful for them in my life. That day I laughed a lot with my favourite married man.

It is week one of the grouse season and there was no question that I had to book a restaurant that served grouse. Scott’s in Mayfair, before the refurb was the epitome of traditional elegance. The renovations brought a few naff additions like the art on the walls, a mile high island bar to display their oysters, and way too many diners in grey tee shirts. Fortunately the food is still top-notch and my handsome companion wasted no time devouring the menu. Madison and I settled for 18 oysters – yes, 18, the Roast Grouse for him and a Bannockburn Rib Steak for me. We paired our oysters with a rosé from Sancerre and the mains with reds from France and Argentina. Madison orders with his eyes and so of course we had dessert (that we couldn’t finish) – honeycomb ice cream with chocolate sauce and a scoop of the mint chocolate chip. Date two is with handsome Madison. I have only known him a few years but continue to be joyously surprised by how effortless our times together are. We glide from gossip about ex lovers to Ugly Betty, from developments in the Indian hotel industry to non-political books by daughters of politicians; I cannot remember the last time I had so much to say to a straight man. That day I laughed a lot with one half of my favourite gay couple.

I first met Aditya in 2004. I remember like it was yesterday, an autumn evening when I had a sudden attack of the butterflies. We flirted for years. I dithered, then he did, and at one point we just stopped; flirting and dithering. Today even though there is no hope for a romance, nor a desire for it, Aditya is still my favourite single man because he still gives me butterflies. That night we went to a restaurant he had never been to before. Goodman is a New York steakhouse in the heart of Mayfair and I am delighted to report that no steak lover will ever be disappointed here. Aditya visits London every few months and always, always makes time to meet me. He lets me know that I matter. That night I laughed a lot with my favourite single man.

My three miracles arrived like strapping life guards on a stormy beach. I’ve been reminded of the love that surrounds me… even if not from exactly next door, and all is right in the world again.

-p

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?

-p

Shattered arrogance and a new dream man(?)

Last breakfast – for now. I wake up late and instead of joining Jai and Madison at their private residence for what will no doubt be a delicious breakfast I venture into Jardin Majorelle’s café. As I pick my way through the botanical paradise of rare cacti, yuccas and water lilies, not for the first time this trip have I felt overpowered by my surroundings. I was simply not prepared for the overwhelming contrasts of the African landscape, and on the train ride from Tangier to Marrakech as I watched the ocean and cliffs melt into deserts and palm forests I fell in love with the magic of Morocco. I have the privilege of being born and raised in the most magnificent country. With this privilege came an arrogance, and little did I know that I would have to travel 5,000 miles to have it knocked out of me.

The café is an oasis amidst the sauna that the rest of the city becomes between 10 am and 5pm; a bijou courtyard enveloped in ribbons of starched cotton and white bougainvillea.  Discreet sprays gently shower the diners with a cool mist and in just a few minutes I was relaxed and ready for breakfast. The omelette is stuffed with a creamy local goat’s cheese and is served with some khobz (a crusty, semolina Moroccan bread), an aubergine relish and roughly chopped salad. Everything is delicious and enchanting, even the ordinary orange tree ripe with juicy globes of golden fruit.

I am on holiday with Madison, Jai and Donna. We grew up in four different cities, are of different ages and at four different stages of our lives. We are as regular as extraordinary and as different as we are the same. I have not spent as much holiday with anyone else as I have with these three beautiful people. The confident American has a sense of humour and will not go out of her way to misunderstand what I am saying. The gay couple are loving and lovely. They gave me the space when I needed it, and forced me to spend the evening with them when I needed it more. I don’t have to wear mascara to breakfast or worry about how silly I sound when I giggle. Like all good girls we talk about love and sex as often as we please  and the words relationship, commitment and forever are not taboo. We can plan our next holiday without the fear of scaring someone off.  No question is too personal and no ego too fragile. It has never been easier to get along with a man (two men, actually).

Not for the first time Jai asked me, “Are you sure your dream man isn’t a gay man?” I have to say, I’m beginning to wonder…

-p