For the love of Biryani

For anyone who has grown up in Kolkata, biryani is the holy grail of food in the city and one that is available in plenitude, around street corners, in nondescript eateries, five-star establishments and historical hole-in-the-wall establishments. The distinguishing mark of this biryani is the gleaming white boiled egg and the delicately spiced potato perched on top of the otherwise Lucknowi style of dum pukht biryani. Having been weaned on this particular meat-rice-egg-potato combination my entire life, in my later migrant wanderings, while I discovered much by way of food, the perfect biryani remained elusive even as I trawled the back alleys of Jama Masjid and Nizammuddin in Old Delhi, the heart of Mosque Road in Bengaluru and Mohammed Ali Road in Mumbai. It is true that my quest has been far from perfect and I have missed the the two essential stops on the biryani map. Lucknow and Hyderabad, rival bastions of biryani, still remain like hidden pearls.

I have however eaten countless degs of this dish inspired by the styles propagated by the two cities. From Luknowi dum pukht biryanis by specialist cooks to numerous plates of Hyderabadi biryanis from various establishments called Hyderabad Biryani House serving up a spectrum of the dish ranging from virulent to dull-orange.

The entire point of this prelude is that I stuffed by belly with many artery-clogging plates of biryanis, always to return home disappointed. In all those years that I lived away from home, the only plate of biryani that has sparked my taste memory has been a plate of reheated biryani brought by a friend from the legendary Paradise Hotel in Secunderabad.

Even though this box had spent a few hours on a flight before landing up on my plate, the taste was unmistakable and from the saffron-laced long grains of rice to the spiced gravy from the melt-in-the-mouth pink mutton pieces to the mirch ka salan, this pukki-style biryani was as different from the Kolkata-style one as could be and yet it was a keeper in my taste memory.

Many years later, while doing the usual weekend round of our neighbourhood high street, Indiranagar, I spotted a sign which immediately jogged that half-remembered memory. While I may not be an expert on the original Paradise, my sample portion being too small, I know that it is spoken of with the same reverence that I have for my  much-loved Kolkata-based eateries.

While this gleaming avatar of Paradise on CMH Road may not score high on the character and history attached to these legendary joints, it is a smart fuss-free modern format that works for the diner on the go and also serves up a pretty good biryani. And even though   it missed the egg-potato accompaniment, it did check many of the other boxes.

Our group arrived in the middle of a chaotic day as the restaurant had just opened and despite being hungry, we were also feeling rather charitable. And even if it took a few long minutes, the food did arrive without too much of a delay, only our lime sodas were forgotten till the very end, but given the biryani in front of me, I could wait. The mutton biryani was flavourful with the trademark pink-tender mutton pieces, a surprising find in a city where the meat has always been a bit too chewy for my liking. Layered with a rich and flavourful gravy, this typical Hyderabadi pukki biryani came with a cooling raita and a mirch ka salan.

Unlike the over-spiced orange rice in most packaged Hyderabadi-style biryani, this dish with individual grains of white, yellow and saffron-coloured rice, although spicy was also a complex combination of flavours.
Apart from this, their chicken biryani, something I usually avoid like the plague due to the tendency of the over-large pieces to dry out, was rather good.

A plate of chicken tikka did not disappoint though it was a tad on the spicy side. Their mutton tikkas were really well-grilled and tender.  Comparisons always tend to be scathing in their dismissals and a tad unfair and while I am sure there will be those who will argue about the merit of the original joint vis-a-vis these far-flung outposts, Paradise brings to Bengaluru a flavour of an old city and its Nizami kitchens albeit in a 21st century package.  

This was published in The New Indian Express on 24 January, 2015

You gotta roll with it

The quintessential kati roll was born in a cavernous and smoky Mughlai restaurant in the Byzantine back alleys of Kolkata called Nizam's way back in 1932. The classic kebab cooked on a bamboo skewer or kati (as it was called in Bengali) and stuffed in a fluffy paratha, was a quick meal on the go and a substantial snack that nurtured generationsof Calcuttans. The kati roll shortened to a simple 'roll' soon travelled with enterprising Bengalis to other parts of the country and was soon appropriated as Indian street food available in every nook and corner in every city across the country. Everyone had their own secret spices, their own meat and veggie variation and their own secret sauces. From Delhi's kakori kebab rolls to Mumbai's aloo filled frankies, the roll has many avatars. However, it is the Kolkata-style kati roll that has survived many pretenders and converted even the health food junkie to break their resolve and try a bite of this delicious, greasy and unbelievably hearty meal on a stick. Bangalore as a shape-shifting city of expats is home to varied cuisines and cultures and a large Bengali population (numbering in lakhs) has ensured that the Calcutta-style kati roll has found its way into the leafy bylanes of neighbourhoods across the city. Surprsingly, we found some delicious rolls hidden away in the backlanes of Indiranagar, that posh high street of gourmet restaurants and chic pubs. Move away from the glittery neon lights of the main roads, through the warren of bungalows and boutiques, use your nose as a GPS radar, follow the smoky smell of burning charcoal and before long, you will find yourself at these popular hole-in-the-wall establishments that have become my comfort food on blustery and rainy days.

Chakum Chukum: Calcutta on a Roll: This little roll shop tucked away in a corner off
7th Main Road, Indiranagar is always busy and the few plastic chairs and stools outside its outlet are almost always occupied and many others stand by waiting for the parcels or chowing down hot rolls under the tree. The three or four member staff operate out of minuscule kitchen churning out rolls by the dozen with assembly line precision. The paratha in each roll is equally crisp, the lemony onions creating the perfect balance with the charred edges of the kebab or veggie filling. Started by an advertising executive, Sujoy Das (also the man behind the innovative Bengali and Anglo-Indian restaurant Bow Barracks which has unfortunately shut shop) and his wife Arpita Sinha, this little joint has a loyal; customer base as well as daily converts. My favourite: their Double Chicken Egg Roll where the paratha is cooked on the griddle along with egg, creating this flaky hybrid paratha-omelette which is then given that right bit of heat with the green chillies, the sweet and sour red onions and the melt-in-the mouth and tangy chicken tikkas. This one is really Calcutta on a kati. Priced at `140, this is a perfect substitute for dinner. The  prices start at Rs 50.

Khan Saheb Grills and Rolls: Just down the road from Chakum Chukum, Khan Saheb
is located on the ground floor of Sri Shiva Sai Complex on the 13th Main, HAL 2nd stage Indiranagar and is a roll shop worth patronizing. Another primarily takeaway joint, they make their rolls in paratha, roomali roll as well as whole wheat
wraps. They also have a more extensive menu with kebabs and tandoori items as well
as beda roti and bhuna combos. However, since rolls were what I wanted, rolls werewhat I stuck to. I tried their Chicken Reshmi Tikka Roll in a whole wheat wrap. This healthy option was surprisingly tasty and holding the succulent kebab filling with elan. The Mutton Seekh Roll (one cannot have do justice to a mutton roll unless it comes in a paratha) was a delightful spicy concoction of finely ground meat kebabs and julienned onions. Priced at Rs 70 and Rs 120 each, the two rolls were an economical and satisfying
late evening snack. While this roll joint combines the Kolkata kati roll with local flavour, it does so with finesse, making sure that kati roll junkies or wrap-eating fitness enthusiasts get their fix.

Kitchen of Joy: This tiny and cheerful snack joint is bedecked with snapshots of the city,
stuffed with Kolkata-themed memorabilia and little tables and mudas where your knees and elbows might graze against your neighbours, providing the perfect session for intimate adda sessions or a frugal first date. Apart from chops, samosas, boiled eggs and a range of teas, the little shop modelled after a neighboured snack joint in Kolkata, also serves kati rolls. I picked a Chicken Egg roll and was surprised to find a generous portion of a tawa-style chicken stuffed inside a flaky paratha. While there are some purists who argue that the regular kati roll can sometimes be a tad too dry, this roll is the answer to all those cribs. Coated in a spicy sauce, onions and slivers of capsicum, this roll is hearty and fillling. Quell your tingling tastebuds with a soft rosogolla from the same shop and you will leave as a happy camper. The Chicken Egg roll is competitively priced at Rs 90.

(This story was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 15 November 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.