Around India in 29 Plates Part IV

Culinary Treasures of the Northeast

While travel and food are intrinsically linked, sometimes the latter becomes a singular aspect of a culture and a reflection of its way of life.Visiting local joints, sharing home-cooked meals with strangers and eating your way around a place is almost the cryptic route to the heart of a land and its people. This week, we visit the beautiful Northeast through its food. The land of the seven sisters has perhaps the most eclectic and diverse cuisine, combining local produce and flavours with an entirely home-grown eating culture that is as exciting as it is unexplored. And no, momos are not a part of their daily diet! If there was a food spectrum with much flogged tandoori chicken at one end, the Meghalayan Jadoh would be on the other with a far richer flavour palette. This cuisine (which varies across each states with some commonalities arising due to a similar climactic pattern and local produce) is only now beginning to pop up in the urban Indian centres reappropriated as nouvelle cuisine for those who like to experiment. However, the best meals would be eaten at eateries by the side of hill roads or bustling markets in the Northeast, or if you can manage it, someone’s house with some a rather potent local alcoholic brew to wash it all down. It is also extremely hard to choose one dish from each state as different tribes and communities within the same state have dramatically different eating habits. The cuisine is wonderful for many reasons with spices, herbs and methods of cooking that predate modern appliances and are healthy, less oily and masala based and protein heavy.

Masor Tenga (Assam)

With an abundance of rivers, lakes and ponds, this gateway state of the northeast is rich in freshwater fish and this along with rice, forms the chief source of sustenance. The Masor Tenga with fleshy and tender pieces of rohu fish cooked in a light and sour gravy is a delight. Unlike the neighbouring rich Bengali fish curries, the tenga is a light and fragrant staple eaten in nearly every household.
 
Jadoh (Meghalaya)

Jadoh stalls are an extension of the community eating in Meghalaya. Jadoh is essentially a rice and meat stall. However, before you start thinking that this just your ordinary pulav, the unique Jadoh combines the joha rice of the region, fatty pork pieces (other meats can also be also used) and the condiments of fermented soya paste as well as companion dish of Doh Neiong (Pork cooked in a sesame paste).

Smoked pork with Akhuni (Nagaland)

While pork is indeed quite a staple around these parts, the Naga preparations of this meat burst with intense flavours derived from local herbs, dried and fermented leaves, shoots and beans and the famous Naga Morich, a close cousin to the bhut jalokia. This particular dish combines pieces of fire-smoked pork with Akhuni or fermented soy beans, lending it a lovely dark smoky flavour.

Gudok (Tripura)

Tripura’s tribal communities greatly influence the food in these parts. The dish was originally cooked inside bamboo stems, lending it a wonderful flavour. Essentially a black-eyed bean and fish preparation, this dish gets its unique tart fishy aroma from Berma, a fermented fish, which works a bit like the Thai fish sauce.

Pasa (Arunachal Pradesh)

While this dish is somewhat of an acquired flavour as it is a raw fresh fish soup, it is a tribal delicacy. In my mind it is a combination of the flavours of sushi and the French tartare. With a host of aromatics and raw fish paste, this dish was believed to have been a wartime inception when cooked food would have been a giveaway for the tribal soldiers.

Iromba (Manipur)

Combining Ngari or fermented fish with mashed boiled vegetables and a pungent chilli paste, this dish has numerous variations depending on the herbs, leaves and veggies used. The Manipuris eat this as a side dish, an entree with boiled rice and even as chutney!

Sawchair (Mizoram)

This traditional dish from the state of the rolling hills is a rice dish cooked with chicken, duck or pork and veggies. This wholesome all-in-one meal in a bowl is a hearty meal perfect after a hard day’s work


This was published in The New Indian Express Bangalore on 26 February, 2015

Around India in 29 Plates Part III

Food as a Map Through Which we Learn 

 This week, we continue our culinary journey across the country continuing from where we left off, somewhere in between the syncretic fulcrum of food and identity in Kashmir and the simple, wholesome and rustic fare of Haryana and Himachal. This week, as we move from the mountains to the northern Gangetic plains which is the ancient seat of power, the heartland of India and the proverbial rice bowl of the country, the task at hand for this humble chronicler becomes harder as this belt is a vast swathe of influences — from the ancient to the medieval to the modern era in terms of religions, culture and, by extension, the cuisine. Food is the cumulative result of a civilisation’s transitions through history and this week’s picks aim to be a reflection of the same.

Mutton Kebabs (Uttar Pradesh)
It is hard to pick one dish in a state that is synonymous with food. From a royal repast to street food delicacies, from the best of Awadhi cuisine to the princely Nawabi variations of the same, from chaats to an array of desserts, Uttar Pradesh is a gourmand’s dream with every part of the state offering a peek into a way of life and eating and Lucknow is the crown jewel.
While I have chosen mutton kebabs as a representative dish, this is more a sub-genre which covers everything from the esoteric and fragrant kakori kebab, the tender and spiced boti kebabs, the melt-in-the-mouth galawat or galauti kebabs to the robust shami and pasanda discs and the delicately spiced seekh cylinders. There is very little chicken in the kebab lexicon of this region. These kebabs are part of the elaborate set of starters in a traditional Dastarkhwan (a ceremonial meal) conceptualised by gifted khansamas (chefs) as well as the common man’s victuals from the smoky street tandoors paired with a variety of unleavened breads. Uttar Pradesh’s kebabs are ubiquitous as well legendary. Thus there is the myth of the toothless kebab-loving nawab in whose kitchen the famed kakori, or the softest kebab in the world, was born. Then there was the tale of the one-armed genius kababchi called Tundey Miyan who tenderised his meat with the stump of his amputated arm to create perfectly consistent kebabs, earning him legions of fans and a reputation that lasted generations. These stories are part of the food lore of a state whose cuisine has to be experienced to be believed.

Bal Mithai (Uttarakhand) 
The beautiful mountain kingdom of Uttarakhand is washed by the River Ganga, resplendent in natural beauty with its misty mountains, folk traditions, ancient temples and sprawling national parks. The fairy tale setting of the region is in sync with this iconic sweet of the region which is rich, sweet and milky and covered in sugary balls that pop in your mouth. One can imagine this to be the treasured candy out of an enchanted edible house that tempts all with its appearance and aromas. Especially popular in Almora, some version of the Bal Mithai is found in most towns of the state. Cooked with khoya, cane sugar and covered with sugar coated poppy seeds (posto), this home-grown fudge which was invented by an enterprising Almora halwai, is a hit among kids and adults alike. With no cocoa content, it is interesting that this sweet is locally known as ‘chocolate’ and is a delicious treat on winter days that will warm you right till the cockles.    

Laal Maas (Rajasthan)
This list does not escape the bias of the listmaker and in this case, my own love for meat. Despite being an avowed carnivore, this state’s vegetarian food is a treasure trove with offerings that smack of invention and are derived from the local produce. With culinary influences ranging from the all-vegetarian Marwari community to the robust meat-centric Rajput cuisine, Rajasthani food is an amalgam of its land, its weather conditions and its people. Thus one can pick from an assortment of savouries like mirch ka pakora (batter-fried chilli peppers) and pyaaz kachori (onion fritters) and preparations like the ker sangri sabzi (a piquant desert preparation of dried beans and tart berries). But for me, Rajasthani food shall always be the eye-popping and aromatic Laal Maas, a fiery red mutton curry cooked in a dried red chilli paste. Redolent of garlic, chillis, yogurt and more chillis, the base meat can be goat, deer or any other game meat and while sure to raise your temperature by a couple of notches, this food of the Rajput warriors will transform food into a sensory experience intended to fire your blood with new life and vigour.

Litti Choka (Bihar)
This traditional celebratory food, this spiced wheat and powdered lentil ball is infused with fragrant ghee and roasted over coals or a chulha (traditional oven fired by cow dung cakes), or even deep fried. This cross between bread and savoury fritter is accompanied with chokha, a delicious flame-roasted eggplant and tomato preparation. Litti-chokha is a wholesome meal in itself to be had on winter evenings by a raging fire and while time-consuming to make, is equally comfortable in both urban and rural settings.   

This was published in The New Indian Express Bangalore on 19 February, 2015

Durga Puja: a time to eat and pray

 It is a fact universally acknowledged that conversation at a Bengali dinner table will inevitably revolve around food and matters of the digestive tract. And it is in perfect sync with this idea that almost every big or hole-in-the-wall shop selling sweets and fried savouries is flanked by a medicine shop for that quick after-meal pudin hara digestif. Thus for any self-respecting Bengali, all festivals big or small are as much about the special foods prepared for the occasion as they are about the rituals and religiosity. Durga Puja, which is the biggest festival of the Bengali calendar is an occasion to pray to the goddess, show off the entirely new Puja wardrobe (with a new daytime and nighttime outfit for each of the five days) and eat with abandon and without a care for diets or restrictions otherwise followed through the year. And this is hardly a tradition restricted to Calcutta or the big metros across the country. Every community or household puja in India, has its own special menu for each day of the festival. Typically, most Bengali households close their kitchens for the five days of the puja and queue up for the afternoon bhog. The evening is a different ball game altogether when all and sundry dressed in their Sunday best make their way to the numerous food stalls and gorge on deep fried and terribly delicious temptations on offer. Here is an easy primer to help identify the foods blessed by the goddess and eaten by her ever-hungry devotees.  

Bhog
Among one of the unique aspects of the Durga Puja is the fact that there is a clear demarcation between sacred food or food that is offered to the goddess and then eaten by her devotees and street food. Bhog (or the offering to the goddess) is typically vegetarian and comprises Khichudi (the Bengali version of Khichdi or Kedgeree). This wholesome dish has its own special recipe in every puja pandal and household. Accompanied by deep fried vegetable fritters and a mixed vegetable preparation, the khichudi, while varying in its sweet and spice index, remains a community puja food, cooked in giant cauldrons and relished by thousands on a daily basis. Dashami is usually celebrated with a lavish meal of Kosha Mangsho (dry spicy mutton) and Luchis (the Bengali version of pooris made with maida).

The Street Food
Large food courts serve tangy chaats, jhaal muri (the Bengali version of the popular bhel which is dry puffed rice with julienned onions, green chillies and peanuts and topped with a generous sprinkle of mustard oil), fat kathi rolls overflowing with kebabs, fried and crumbed fish fillets, chicken and lamb.
Interesting Bengali innovations and Puja pandal favourites include the Dimer Devil or the Egg Devil (a hard boiled egg covered in a minced layer and then crumbed and fried), the Kabiraji Cutlet (literally the poet’s cutlet where minced mutton or chicken is crumbed with bread and covered with a layer of egg to create a greasy, filling) and the mochar chops (a minced banana flower filled chop). For those looking for a more substantial meal, there are numerous specialties like Hilsa fish and prawn stalls offering generous portions of curried, steamed and fried fish with mustard sauces and steamed rice. Then there is the Kolkata-style biryani — a unique evolution of the saffron yellow Awadhi biryani, but with a whole boiled egg and potato.
There really are no rules and from all— vegetarian thalis to tacos and burritos, the Durga Puja street food courts straddle the local and the international, the big brands and the neighbourhood caterer with equal laissez faire.

Anandamela
Literally translated as a fun fair, this all-woman initiative brings together families, old and the young as they turn cooks as well as entrepreneurs for an evening. Wives, daughters and mothers of committee members and associates of a particular puja whip up their family favourites gleaned from age-old recipes and set up little stalls to sell their produce. From pickles to pakoras, from cakes to pilafs, the sky is the limit and the imagination is extraordinary. This little food festival encourages healthy competition between the ladies and also provides first timers with a perfect and expansive introduction to Bengali cuisine.

 This was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 29 September 2014

This is no lily-livered tale

LIVER, n. A large red organ thoughtfully provided by nature to be bilious with. The sentiments and emotions which every literary anatomist now knows to haunt the heart were anciently believed to infest the liver; and even Gascoygne, speaking of the emotional side of human nature, calls it "our hepaticall parte." It was at one time considered the seat of life; hence its name— liver, the thing we live with.

Ambrose Bierce The Devil's Dictionary

My earliest memories of Liver were bitter - they were of cod liver oil capsules

Then i remember liver being spicy.

It was my grandfather's favourite Sunday afternoon nosh and wound up on our tables ever so often without any preamble unlike the fussy mutton curry and rice which announced its arrival hours before it made its way into our bellies. Spiced and fried into a delicious kosha alu mete (a spicy fried liver and potato dish), it embedded itself as a taste memory of my childhood.

In my terrible teens, liver became the stuff of horror movies - Hannibal Lector in Silence of the Lambs destroying my sleep with a single line:
"A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti."

 And somewhere in the recent past, liver got pounded into becoming a chronicle of my kitchen.

While I am no lily-livered kitchen warrior, this particular skirmish with liver left me pale faced. It is a good thing that chicken liver has fantastic restorative properties and it especially helps the production of red blood cells. Thus I survived, though there were other casualties...

a. my World War II era Sumeet mixer grinder
b. my favourite paisley-patterned-pretty-pink apron
c. my already shaky self confidence in my somewhat questionable and often flawed culinary abilities

and all these great sacrifices of objects grand and inconsequential - for one measly little hospital-white soup bowl of liver pate...sigh...I wallow in the slush left behind by all my flimsy food fantasies.

And this particular episode was inspired by a book. Ha! Of all the foolhardy things to use as a guide...a book written by a neurotic non chef having an early mid life crisis...a book so close to my heart and a protagonist who could be my soul sister...it reeked of a bad idea. And it was a meaty kind of reek.

Yet, since my life is a case study where idiocy usually triumphs better sense, I did eventually follow Julie Powell's excessive obsession with offal. For weeks on end, the only thing i could think about was offal. I fell in love with the syncopated syllables of the word that had previously existed in my vocabulary as one of those dirty words that could desecrate a place by its mere utterance. I was fascinated by Julie's downright graphic description of these bitlings of meat and sex and forbidden fruit all rolled into one.

And after obsessing about it in theory, I went on an eating spree. I revisited all the offal I had ever eaten from the squidgy heart in a broth to the divine devilled (tee hee...i love the silly oxymoronish nature of offal) kidneys on toast, from the fiery capsicum and onion braised ox tongue to the lovely creamy-kernel of carnivorous pleasure, every gourmand's favoured posion - the exquisite liver pate.

If i ever wrote a book on food, I would devote an entire section of it to foie gras. Sophisticated, sexy, stark, with a touch of S&M (the obese goose with its bulging fatty liver), it was a bit like a jazz maestro delivering his magnum opus before slitting his wrists.

It was fresh new love forever etched in my memory. I tasted foie gras for the first time at a French restaurant in a wonderful colonial hotel circa 2001. Where every mouthful of beauteous beige tasted even sweeter because it was the fruit of hard labour. It had been earned over a month of hour long sweaty bus rides populated by lecherous groping hands and foul breath and fouler tongues over the winding streets of Old Delhi.

It was a grown up romance. A sinful duet of minced meat that would melt in your mouth and a surprising centre of tender foie gras that would settle on your tongue for a second before melting away and leaving behind memories of gold. It was a quiet candle lit anniversary dinner at a quaint manor hidden amid leafy vines circa 2010.

It was a meeting between old lovers over a glass of their favourite spiced wine. It was foie gras, radiant in all its glory unmasked, unpretentious, demystified. Served on fine white porcelain, it was devoured by twin forks awkwardly touching in the quiet scuttle for the last dashes of this precious organ.

I speak of a time past and a time that is yet to come. Through all of it, the obsession with foie gras remains constant.

Meanwhile, in the recent times I was dreaming of liver and its meaty, dark and brooding flavours, I would wake up in the morning hungry. Like there was a little gooey liver coloured man in my head, asking me to feed it...well...liver. 

After scouring five meat shops and two supermarkets, I manged to collect what looked like a respectable amount of chicken liver. Alas, my meagre bank balance and an obvious scarcity of cackling white geese around these parts makes raw goose liver a hard thing to come by. So I settled for chicken liver which strangely enough I have developed quite a soft soft for.

I mention the word 'strange' because there is not too much that is likeable about chicken liver. It turns an ugly grey once cooked. It is bothersome to cook. If overcooked it turns hard and mimics the consistency of cork and leather cricket ball. If undercooked it resembles a bloody science experiment gone wrong. However, if cooked right, it can knock the wind out of your gut with its powerful aromas. And I mean that in a good way.

I ran my fingers through the red, jelly-like nearly alive bits of liver in my kitchen sink almost trilling with pleasure at their velvety softness and fatty trims. I washed, patted them dry and dressed them in a winey, herby, buttery sauces. Then waving a metaphoric good bye to my little meatlings, like the veritable Mother I grilled them, broiled them and pureed them with a dash of this and that .

I survived some tragic losses. I broke some family heirlooms and nearly lost a finger. I nearly required smelling salts by the time the whole process was over and also nearly destroyed my own liver with the copious quantities of alcohol consumed in a really short capsule of time.

Yet, at the end of it. There it was. Love on a plate. Sex on toast. My liver pate in a bowl.

To be lovingly shared with the husband. Since I can't sing, I will render my love song in pate.

We smeared it over our crackers, our whole wheat loaves. We stuffed it into tarts. We paired it with jellies. We laced it with crisp salad leaves and bounced olives off its buttery crust.

It was liver-induced madness. With a hint of humour lurking around its edges.

Searching for Amritsar's Soul in a Pan of Hot Oil

While Da Vinci might argue that in simplicity lies the ultimate sophistication, I a mere, humble nobody choose to disagree. There is something perfectly vulgar in simple things. And this rough, un-pretty edge to simple things is what makes them so earthy and wholesome.

If Fish Amritsari was a girl, she would be a simple, earthy and wholesome country lass doing an item number!

Pile the virulent orange pieces of freshly fried fish high on a stainless steel thali, slap some raw onions and lemon quarters on the side, pour a few (large) shots of good ol' Old Monk rum into glass tumblers and serve it on a cold winter night around a raging bonfire...and there will be merriment, songs and perhaps an occasional brawl.
Fish Amritsari belongs to a world populated by weather-beaten faces, dusty cowboy boots/blue-and-white Bata Hawai  chappals, unshaven faces, dirt beneath the fingernails, large trucks with neon signs, camp cots and dusty highways. Take it out of this world, dress it up with vinaigrette reductions and vegetable art, pair it with a vintage French wine, serve it in expensive china, dismember it with your carefully placed fish knife and fork and you would have just destroyed the soul of Fish Amritsari, which lies in street stalls in crowded markets that fumigate your olfactory canals with their charred meat smells. It is perhaps the name "Amritsari" which gives the dish its charm rather than the actual bland looking white meat tacked on to it. It truly is the gloriously evocative name which conjures up old markets, the spires of the Golden Temple and centuries of history with a mere utterance.

My experiences with the dish itself have been wildly disparate. On the one hand Fish Amritsari is the stuff of my childhood memories. Dinners to the Army Officer's Institute located inside the impressive Fort William in Calcutta, were a weekly tradition. This grand British citadel used to be the pivot of the empire's defences at some point in history, however as a frivolous youngling oblivious to even the most obvious historicity of things, to me it was a mere cluster of walls, tunnels and buildings. The only highlight was the nice family club (the aforementioned Army Officer's Institute or AOI) which was a space for weekly entertainment, movies, May Queen balls, New Year parties and bingo nights. The point of the flashback is the connection with Fish Amritsari - a regular feature on the weekly dinner menu which maintained its spot on our preferred menu with each changing season due to my particular affinity for the dish. As a hybrid Bengali-Punjabi child who hated all the maach and maccher jhol she was fed every day (and today misses dearly), this orange fried fish preparation was something from another planet. Having none of the characteristics of the fish she knew, this dish was her own way of rebelling...by loving a fish dish that was disrespectful and considered a non fish dish according to every Bengali piscine norm because you couldn't taste the damn fish inside the orange Amritsari skin.
The second experience with Fish Amritsari was in the Deluxe Suite of Best Western Merrion Hotel, Amritsar where the weekend romantic/cultural getaway with the husband had transformed into a medical nightmare with the selfsame husband contracting dengue upon arrival. As I sat taking in the city skyline through the large picture windows of our incredibly plush room (the only bit of Amritsar I would see on this trip), I gnawed my way through a gigantic plate full of Fish Amritsari, I wondered at the popularity of this dish. The fish gleamed white inside its slightly soggy orange case which had separated from its body as it cooled. I tried to like it as much as I tried to be a good nursemaid and not have selfish thoughts about a ruined holiday...and in both cases I half succeeded...and half didn't.
This is one of my first posts where I will put up a recipe. I take no credit for it. It is in fact the much feted celebrity chef Sanjeev Kapoor's recipe. And like all his recipes, it is darned simple (am beginning to like the connotations of the word) and gives you a "no frills" dish swimming in authenticity and flavour.
Also I am putting up this recipe as I have strangely mixed feelings about this dish. I am not convinced it is a winner. I am not convinced it is a loser. In the midst of a crisis of indecision, I am hoping this recipe will be like a beacon of light drawing a lost sailor home or like a team mascot convincing me to believe in my losing home team.

Sanjeev Kapoor's Recipe for Fish Amritsari

Preparation Time: 15 mins
Cooking Time: 10 mins
Serves 4

Ingredients:
King Fish/Sole/Singhara fillets cut into fingers - 600 gms
Red Chilli Powder - 1 Tbs
Salt to taste
Carom Seeds (Ajwain) - 1 Tsp
Ginger Paste - 2 Tbsp
Garlic Paste - 2 Tbsp
Lemon juice - 1 Tbsp
Gram Flour - 1 cup
Oil to deep fry
Egg - 1
Chaat Masala - 1 Tsp
Lemon wedges - 2

Method:
Take the fish fingers in a bowl. Add red chilli powder, salt, carom seeds, ginger paste, garlic paste, lemon juice, gram flour and mix well. Set aside for a bit. Heat sufficient oil in a kadhai. Break an egg into the fish mixture and mix. Put the fingers, a few at a time, into the hot oil and deep fry till done. Drain and place on an absorbent paper. Serve hot sprinkled with chaat masala and lemon wedges.

The Accompanying Image for Sanjeev Kapoor's Fish Amritsari

Dear reader while you go through it, do take a minute to deliberate why fish in all its multicolored states and deboned avatars is still by and large an alien creature in the land of five rivers. The average Punjabi  makes fillets out of the most characterless fish, bludgeons any inherent flavour with spices and food colour into a kind of rubbery acquiescence and then usually deep fries them till even a seasoned gourmand wouldn't be able to distinguish between a piece of  wild, fresh river sole or a clump off the bottom of your shoe's sole.

I think it is quite apt to end with this piece I read in Punjab Newsline, an Internet news portal called the "Secret of Amritsari Fish". Its weird humour and surreal implications had me going from the word "fish". And I quote...

"The best fish for the dish are the verities caught from the Harike Pattan and Beas rivers."

So dear reader if you do land up on the strange shores where verities are fished out of a lake, fried and served to you with a sprinkling of good humour, you will know you have arrived in Amritsar...

Pig-Tales III: Trial by Fire

Many tales have been told,
Now before you go to cook, eat and make love
Here is a tale of caution
For all intrepid cooks.

The first time was as tension fraught as a primeval hunt. I felt like primitive man crashing his way through a hot and steaming jungle in hot pursuit of his prey – in this case – a wild boar.

Armed with my shiny meat cleaver, it was me on one side and the pile of raw pork belly on the other. The dead pig looked as if it was going to jump out of my colander at any moment and all the chunky pieces would piece themselves together into a ghastly reconstruction of its former self. Terrified by my own flights of fancy, I could imagine this monster pig suspended five feet above the ground, at eye level with me, carrying with it the memory of its recent murder as well as a millenia of stored vengeance.

At that particular moment, I felt as if the burden of the worlds' crimes against this animal rested squarely on my frail shoulders. I stopped short in my tracks. I turned and fled from the kitchen. That, was the first attempt.

Five minutes later, I calmed myself down sufficiently, uttered a little war cry and entered the kitchen again, waving the cleaver in front of me like a holy talisman.

The pork belly lay washed, pink and gleaming in the humidity of the summer evening.

My blueprint for the meal lay spread out in uneven piles of recipes.  A vindaloo and a pork roast with gooseberry sauce jostled for space on my tiny table. I walked towards the sink in slow motion. The whirring blades of the fan blew scraps of paper all around me with pork emblazoned on them in different fonts.

I chose to be ambitious. It was gooseberry season and the vendors had appeared at street corners with baskets of the succulent golden yellow fruit screaming "rasbarry rasbarry" . Hailing from a tropical climate I had never really seen a fresh raspberry. My younger and naiver self actually thought that these orange fruits might metamorphose into the beautiful pinkish red drupelets that were the stuff of English tea parties and European cupcakes.
When I finally discovered that these were an entirely different species, I just scoffed at the vendors for getting the taxonomy of berries completely wrong. I thought that they were just using the more exotic name to trick people into buying the raspberry's relatively plainer country cousin. That was before I had ever tasted a gooseberry.

Many summers later when I finally tried this fruit, I was in love. One bite caused a whole explosion of flavours in my mouth. There was a sharp tartness mixed with a sweet undertone and a lovely musky smell. It was around this time that I also realized that what the fruit seller was screaming was not a vernacular variant of raspberry but the perfectly correct "rasbhari", an apt and evocative term for this juicy fruit that remains quite underrated.
My memories of this fruit had stayed in storage till I decided to cook my first pork dish. In a flash of what I thought was sheer genius, I imagined delicious chunks of well cooked meat with a tangy and spicy gooseberry sauce. I imagined fame and accolades at the prospect of this award winning combination, only to come back to earth after Google informed me about dozens of roast pork recipes with myriad gooseberry sauces, relish, preserves, toppings, and jellies.

A Recipe for Disaster.

Step One:
I was on my knees scraping off a fragrant gooseberry paste infused with an especially piquant, freshly ground red chilly powder from South India, fresh basil and some lovely balsamic vinegar from my cream coloured walls. I had shifted the mixer to my dining table in the living room and somewhere in transit the cap had come loose and well, you know the rest. There was an explosion of gooseberries over my table, my walls, my lamp and my pretty summer dress (it was supposed to be a romantic dinner with the husband).
I managed to rescue 45 percent of my gooseberry sauce.

Step Two:
90 minutes later the top layer of the fat pieces of pork had turned a strange dark brown while the bottom remained a pasty raw pink. My oven was emitting strange sounds as the metal expanded and contracted but the pork refused to cook.  The husband was home by now. Hungry and harassed. The pork was light years away from edibility.
Fried pork could somewhat mimic a roast. Assuming that it could at least finish up the job, I quickly transferred the meat to the frying pan.
I was inspired by an unforgettable pork dinner at this quaint Korean restaurant called Gung.
The pretty girls serving us were from the Northeast, dressed up to look like Korean belles. No knowledge of English and fantastic sign language abilities helped perpetuate the illusion.
One of them came to our table with a portable gas stove, a few pieces of garlic, a handful of mushrooms, and some lovely pork belly which she then proceeded to cook with such skill and speed, that in precisely 7 minutes, we were consuming the softest and most delicious pieces of meat wrapped in tender lettuce and dunked in sauces of our choices.
While that was a dream meal, my own pork looked increasingly like a distant mirage.
My memories of the Gung pork assumed mythical proportions and my tired self began to envision the pretty fake Korean girl gliding through a vast, arid plain carrying a samurai weapon in one hand and a huge dish of the pork belly in the other, conquering all the lands she walked through.

Frying pork in a non stick pan in lukewarm oil is a dangerous idea.
I dropped the pork in and the oil jumped out of the pan and attacked me with the sharp sting of a desert scorpion.
I bounded out of the kitchen like a whipped whelp and made my way into a dark corner to nurse my wounds. However, time and frying pork wait for none and soon I could smell, the terrible smell of scorched meat.
I ran back in to see the pan smoking.
At the speed of lightening, I flipped the pieces that were still unstuck to the pan on to a plate.
I managed to rescue 60 percent of the roast/fried pork.


Step Three:
The twice-cooked pork still remained inedible. I was a second away from taking the half-done meat, tearing it apart with my bare hands and throwing it to the neighborhood dogs.
The meat sat in the pan raw, rubbery and stubbornly refusing to yield to my prodding fork.
Some false hope bubbled through me as I spotted the pressure cooker from the corner of my eye.
I dunked the pork into the water in the cooker, added some fresh herbs, a dash of salt and pepper and fixed the lid.
Hunger often makes you do terrible things. My hunger usually yielded a vindictive self torture mechanism. I was thinking up the best pork curry, I had eaten, Lightly seasoned, flavoured with typically local herbs, shoots, leaves and the fieriest chilli in the world, the Naga Pork Curry with Raja mirchi simmered on the fire till the all the different ingredients diffused into each other and then opened up in your mouth clearing the last clogged sinus in your body.

My eyes glazed over and I had teleported myself into the colourful food stalls of Delhi Haat, when my nose began to twitch. The by now familiar smell of scorched meat filled my kitchen. Cooking in a pressure cooker with inadequate water and the flame on high, is always a bad idea. Today, it was the final nail in the coffin. I yanked the lid open to find ashes.
I managed to rescue 10 percent of the roast/fried/boiled pork.

Time: 1:00 am.
Background score: The constant ticking of the clock gradually growing louder and ominous electronic music by the Flaming Lips.
The scene: The candle had nearly burnt to the wick and the bottle of red wine was empty. The crockery and cutlery lay untouched. The kitchen looked like it had been hit by a tornado. There was an exhausted, greasy and drunk cook standing over the stove. A ravenous and drunk husband was standing behind her somehow managing to be supportive and egging her on to the finish line. The cook's hands moved furiously. Then the two of them stood hunched over what looked like a single plate emitting some kind of an unearthly glow.


There were precisely three pieces of pork, drizzled with a dark orange gooseberry sauce and nestled in a bed of crisp iceberg lettuce. Four herbed baby potatoes lightly roasted along with a slice of mandarin orange and a sprig of mint tried to cover up the empty spaces in the pristine white plate. The sheen of tender fat around the meat truly glowed with an otherworldly light.


I had started cooking at 9 pm. Four hours later 1 kg of pork had whittled down to fifty grams. The intended indulgence in gluttony ended up being an exercise in molecular gastronomy.


Four hours later, we settled down to our dinner tired, weary, drunk and miserable.


We sat with the plate between us and took our first mouthful almost simultaneously with our forks. A strange goofy smile spread across the husband's face and I looked up to see the same expression mirrored in his spectacles.
Roasted, fried and boiled, the pork melted away in our mouths with a slightly charred top. The gooseberry sauce was perfect and everything was as fresh, tiny and perfect as a newly unfurled leaf.


We went to bed wondering why some of the best things in the world came in extra small sizes. 

Postscript:
I still struggle with pork. Maybe I shall write a fourth pig-tale when I win this battle.