One more cup of coffee for the road

(the best-ever spoof of the original)

There is something almost cerebral about sitting in a cafe sipping a cuppa with good conversation, or a good book for those who trammel the solitary path. I grew up in a pre-liberalization era when neon-lit chain coffee shops did not dot every single neighbourhood in the country. The American, British and European chains had still not made inroads into metros and most people had vague ideas about the pronunciation and spelling of espresso and cappuccino. My notion of cafes was derived from the old colonial tea rooms and coffee houses where I got the first whiff of freshly brewed coffee and also learnt that meeting for a cup of coffee was a leisurely activity that had little to do with the temperature of the coffee in your cup and more to do with the cash in your wallet that allowed you to order endless cups, the conversations that meandered over topics and issues with differing levels of engagement, the number of cigarettes remaining in your packet and time that was remaining to while away the in-between hours, to seek shelter and succour on rainy days, to kindle romances old and new, to strike up intellectual debates, to share confessions, to have tear-stained goodbyes, to people watch and to invigorate the body reeling under a late summer afternoon lassitude. Going back in time, there are cafes that I remember as milestones in my life.

College Street Coffee House
As a young student, peeling walls, grime, cigarette smoke, jholas, khadi kurtas and the occasional strain of guitar accompanied to Dylan songs had an unbelievable and near-irrational attraction for me. Thus the first time I ever stepped into the legendary College Street Coffee House, my own imagination sufficed to make this a place of unmatched atmosphere. Redolent with stories of the revolutionary Naxals who hatched their plots over cups of the famous coffee, artists and filmmakers like Satyajit Ray, Ritwick Ghatak and Aparna Sen who had adda sessions accompanied by mutton cutlets and the literary icons of the Hungry generation including Shakti Chattopadhyay who used this buzzing space as a platform for hot debates, Coffee House is an indelible part of any Calcutta student's growing-up years. This coffee house fuels romantic notions of history and revolution and is a near time capsule of the 60s and 70s when flower power, anti-
establishment struggles, protest literature and music was at its all-time peak.

 The Tea Stall at Prafulla Chandra Sarkar Street

As a wide-eyed rookie reporter, I have drunk cups of lebu cha and milky tea boiled beyond oblivion in a kettle that had probably been around since the beginning of time. Sitting on the grimy steps of old hardware shops under the magnificent arches of a quintessentially colonial building in Calcutta that housed one of the foremost papers of the country, it was this ever-bubbling kettle that was companion to many hours spent in the company of all manner of journalists, smoking cheap cigarettes and discussing a city in political disarray.

Flury's, Park Street
 Flury's, an age-old tearoom in Calcutta's famous Park Street is the place that always made me linger over my cuppa. For a pastry shop that opened in 1927, this cafe has seen a changing world and its own rather remarkable journey has been from neighborhood confectionary to a decrepit colonial coffeehouse to a stylish cafe/restaurant/bakery after the fashion of a turn-of-the-century European tea room done up in pink and a rich chocolate brown. This was a far cry from its earlier stodgy avatar as a dingy, cavernous room with air conditioning that would chill you to the bone. I saw the downed shutters on a holiday one summer. I was about to begin the process of mourning when I heard the whispered word "renovation" that was murmured by all who passed the mysteriously shrouded corner. And one fine day it reopened. The new Flury's straddled history and a modern chic. I returned to the city. I returned to Flury's and it became a place for endless conversations, bitter reminiscing, good-natured camaraderie, sweet romance, and maddening love. I lived out all my separate selves here – as a poor student scraping together just enough for that Viennese coffee; as a struggling  journalist looking for a story; as a  tourist introducing others to the delights I had known. I fell in love with my husband over cups of coffee in Flury's and made life decisions about leaving the city and all that I knew along with Flury's. Till date, I have never found a replacement.

 A Parisian Cafe
 As a traveller, I have joined the legions of map-scanning, Lonely Planet toting, sunblock wearing hordes who have sat in a cafe in the shadow of the Louvre in Paris. The love affair with the city has been as much about walking the streets by night as it has been about sharing space with skinny French women on the outdoor terraces of cafes in the August sun watching the world go by as we all sipped on our cafe au lait in comfortable silence. Paris was the city I had dreamed about my whole life and in those dreams, I was always sitting by the Louvre or the Seine, drinking black coffee, smoking elegant slim cigarettes, eating flaky croissants and talking to strangers about Sartre.

Urban Cafe Crawlers
Today, as an urban migrant moving from one city to the next, anonymous as I search for the familiar -- the cafe that I can haunt. Since I have no emotional maps to refer to any longer, all I can do is break down the familiar into familiar smells and tastes of caramel macchiato and hazelnut frappes. Thus I have become a part of the floating population that lives in neon-lit chain coffee shops, drinking cups of characterless coffee and over-sweet confections in order to stave off being a legal alien.

(This was published in the New Indian Express Bangalore on 30 October 2014)

Eight Decades in a Flurry

One more cup of coffee for the road

One more cup of coffee 'fore I go

To the valley below

This is the place that always made me  linger over my cup and I often found it amusing that the most common mispronunciation of the name would be "Flurry". Rarely, very rarely, would anything come in through the doors of Flury's in a flurry.

Bedecked in her tafetta pink splendour, Flury's is a confection of the times past and present. The gigantic Iron, an award from MTV for being the most stylish place in Calcutta is prominently displayed amid the towering model cakes. For a pastry shop that opened in 1927, it has been a rather remarkable  journey from neighborhood confectionary to a decrepit colonial coffeehouse to a stylish cafe/restaurant/bakery after the fashion of a turn-of-the-century European tea room.

Growing up in this city, my earliest memories of Flury's were its delightful pastries. This was still the pre-liberalization era. There were no coffee chains, no shops selling brownies, crepes, or gelatos. hell, we didn't even know what gelato was and the only ice cream around was the sort served in virulent orange cones.

This was also prior to the fresh fruit purees, whipped cream extravaganzas, and professionally designed cakes that looked as good as their airbrushed counterparts in the glossies.
I grew up during the era of marzipan. And the old Flury's made the most delightful marzipan concoctions. There was a marzipan treat for just about every occasion. There were the multi-hued marzipan coated easter eggs and bunnies. There was the legendary strawberry cube with the bright pink marzipan icing.

And then there were the cakes. the stuff of imagination, these cakes could bring just about every childhood fantasy to the table.
Birthday parties in Calcutta often saw wide-eyed kids waiting with bated breath for the magical moment when the box would open and unveil a fantastic creation that could range from the grand – a miniature Noah's Ark, to the scary - a black Gothic castle complete with towers and turrets to the cute – a little Tom and Jerry moment crafted out of Marzipan and decorating the creamy chocolate below.

My earliest memories of Flury's were these memories of marzipan.

This was the middle phase of Flury's before its 21st century facelift. It was a dingy, cavernous room with air conditioning that would chill you to the bone. The chairs were too heavy to maneuver and I always remember being at a rather uncomfortable distance from the table. I remember the waiters who looked as old as the place.
I remember one particular day. One particular waiter. A small bug crawled up the table on to the jug that he lifted to pour water into my glass. It then crawled up his arm and on to his collar and was about to inch its way into the hairy tufts in his ears when I screamed, half in horror and half in awe. He flicked it off with one single dextrous move. I remember being impressed at his composure.

I remember the old men with their newspapers. I remember watching the steaming cups of coffee till they stopped steaming.
This was the time when Flury's sold delicious cream rolls with thick, snow-white cream piled into the pastry shells. These were special treats for picnics and special holidays. This was also the time when the Viennese Coffee was not served in the delicate white china cups, but piled high with cream and slopping over the sides as the rather heavy, functional and ugly cup was plonked before you. The servings used to be larger and the coffee used to be more milky.

I was a child when Flury's  and Park Street in general seemed to be groaning under its colonial past. The buildings looked shabby. The restaurants seemed to have lost their music and joie de vivre and Flury's itself seemed a straggler confused by the coming of the new millennium.

The first few years of the 21st century saw the economy open up. The malls arrived along with the fast food chains, the coffee chains, the ice cream chains, the noodle chains, the dosa chains. Soft-serve ice creams, colas in cans and mass produced burger patties began to appear.
I began to worry about my own future and Flury's nearly at the same time, wondering where we were headed and venting my trepidation over the nth cuppa. I left the city soon after. Flury's was left far behind as well. It became a space of nostalgia and memory on gloomy days in the big bad capital city when I absolutely craved familiarity and comfort food.

I saw the downed shutters on a holiday one summer.  I was about to begin the process of mourning when I heard the whispers. The air around Stephen Court was thick with it. The word "renovation" was murmured by all who passed the mysteriously shrouded corner.

And one fine day it reopened. Flury's reentered the city's consciousness like a giantess...grabbing eyeballs and standing a mile taller than the nearest cafe with its orange walls and ambient electronic music. The new Flury's straddled history and a modern chic. It was just like your favourite 50 paise candy had been wrapped in delicate gold paper and handed to you on a silver plate. You unwrapped it and popped it in your mouth...and it tasted just the same.

A European tea room in the mornings, late afternoons, an eraly evenings.  A restaurant by noon.  A dining room by night.  Flury's juggled many roles, served many foods, and tickled many a taste bud.
While the pink and chocolate theme could make a first timer blush or blanch, it was easy to get used to. The colours were redolent of the trademark Flury's, the strawberry cubes and the chocolate pastries; the fruitcakes and the cheesy patties. While the glass display now holds fresh and strawberry tarts, decadent chocolate mousse and puddings, they remain carefully stacked against the strawberry cubes, the rich rum balls and the old fashioned fruit slices, the age-old favourites, made according to the same secret recipe since the beginning of Flury's time. One of my favourite additions to the old menu is the All Day Breakfast with the creamy, melt-in-your-mouth scrambled eggs or the perfect sunny side up eggs or the fluffy omelettes with hash browns, tomatoes,  freshly toasted bread and as many side orders of crisp bacon, fat and succulent sausages or generous portions of fragrant as you wish. Then there are cups of freshly brewed coffee or aromatic Darjeeling tea. It is truly a meal that makes me feel happy at any hour of the day.

I returned to the city. I returned to Flury's taking to the pink with all the enthusiasm of an adolescent teen.
It became a place for endless conversations, bitter reminiscing, good-natured camaraderie, sweet romance, and maddening love. I lived out all my separate selves here – as a poor masters student scraping together just enough for that Viennese coffee and a rum ball; as a struggling lifestyle journalist covering the launch of new menus, new books, and new chefs; as a true blue romantic indulging in snatched cups of coffee through a busy workaday week; as a tourist introducing the newcomers to the delights I had known; and as a lover, falling in love over cups of coffee, sharing intense moments over cups of coffee, professing love over cups of coffee, fighting over cups of coffee and existing in comfortable silence as we drank our coffee.

The sweet smell of freshly baked cakes and just brewed coffee has the warm familiarity of a place you'd call home. Walk in through the huge glass doors, sit by the large window, and watch the world go by in a flurry. Outside Flury's

(This is Part II of my tribute to an old favourite housed in the ground floor of Stephen Court)

Pictures courtesy www.flurysindia.com

A Cat called Peter

The reason I write this piece is because of the recent horrifying fire in the grand old Stephen Court. decrepit and a death trap in making, it still was an icon and the grande dame of Park Street. in the wake of the fire, the numerous deaths and the general pall of gloom, all one can do is draw what they hold nearer to them in a protective hug. This is part I of my tribute to two of my favourite spots in the city housed in that building. These are the two spaces I grew up in, of my individual memories that go into the pool of the collective past shared by the city.

 The original Peter was a cat who lived in the Lord’s cricket ground and actually got himself a place in history as the only animal whose obituary was printed in Wisden, the famous sports journal. In a continent away, nestled in the heart of the cricket-crazy city of Kolkata, there is an iconic restaurant that has do with either a Peter or a cat.Peter Cat is a mecca for foodies from within and without the city. It is a place for making memories. A dimly-lit space that is ideal for a secret rendezvous, it is that perfect place for that romantic first date where the cramped interiors and overhanging lamps create a sense of intimacy. It is an institution for a number of reasons and food is often not the most significant of them.
Nostalgia is often the most overpowering emotion evoked here.
The prices come from another decade as do the uniformed “bearers”. The names on the menu roll around your tongue with the familiarity of an old Cliff Richards song. Yes, they all seem to come from the same place.
The peculiarities of this place lie in the lovingly polished German silver receptacles used to serve Prawn Cocktail and the spotless white napkins carefully folded in the shape of the cat’s head.
This cat’s head, reminiscent of a child’s doodle, is omnipresent in the mats and the menus.
Peter Cat is where you will never get a table unless you were willing to sweat it out outside the restaurant with the ballonwallahs and the magazine sellers. The place takes no reservations and need never worry about empty tables, for someone in some part of the city always has a craving for a Peter Cat meal.
The restaurant has its own mythology with little anecdotes and fictional characters who have lent their names and stories to the food and drinks.
Then there are the lamps that remind one of a torture chamber spotlight and are perfectly placed at a height best suited for a midget.
Ironically, they are also among the best things about the place. This is the original multi-cuisine restaurant with faded roses on the carpet, a low hum of voices, pickled pink onions in stainless steel bowls and a constant flow of people and waiters.
The waiters can ignore you or give you their undivided attention, depending upon their personal whims.
You can escape to Peter Cat for a quick lunch from work, you can escape to Peter Cat for a quick drink or many...
to escape the world. You can come here as a raucous gang of girls on a night out on town.
And you can come here when you are older to simply relive all that is past and marvel at how the food and the prices have remained unchanged.
And then there are the chelo kebabs...While I could write an ode to the buttery rice, sing a paean to the succulent kebabs, still remember the flavour of the slightly charred fresh vegetables and the freshly fried egg oozing its delicious yolk over my plate...I shall restrain myself...
I could tell you Peter Cat is where I went for my first date like many young girls with stars in their eyes.
Peter Cat is where I returned to as a married woman indulging in my favourite foods on a sunny winter afternoon.
Peter Cat is where I came with my mum and granddad to enjoy a leisurely meal and compared notes on the chicken cutlets and caramel custard.
My list could extend like a never-ending roll of toilet paper...
A devastating fire nearly gutted the top floors of the historic Stephen’s Court, an old building from the Raj at the corner of Park Street. The selfsame building that is home to both Peter Cat and the legendary Flury’s Tea Room. Thankfully these establishments remained untouched and even bounced back to life soon after.
They say a cat has nine lives and Peter Cat has barely lived out one.