The Supernut

(A version of this article appeared in Food Lover's Magazine Dec-Jan '14 issue)

 “When an almond tree became covered with blossoms in the heart of winter, all the trees around it began to jeer. 'What vanity,' they screamed, 'what insolence! Just think, it believes it can bring spring in this way!' The flowers of the almond tree blushed for shame. 'Forgive me, my sisters,' said the tree. 'I swear I did not want to blossom, but suddenly I felt a warm springtime breeze in my heart.”

― Nikos Kazantzakis, Saint Francis

 It is perhaps the abundant heart of this tiny kernel that has transformed the almond into a talisman down the ages. The ancient Romans would shower their newlywed couples with almonds, believing it was a symbol of fertility and there are numerous references to the almond in the Bible as a symbol of plenty. Interestingly enough, these symbolic attributes were ascribed to a nut that was equally a thing of nourishment as well as the raw material for a deadly poison, making it a study in opposites. The bitter wild almond upon processing creates the toxic cyanide. The poison retains a unique smell that has tickled the acute olfactory senses of wily old ladies as well as hardboiled sleuths alike. Their knowledge of this signature scent of bitter almonds have allowed many a Miss Marple to solve a cases and save lives with a series of well-timed sniffs.

At some stage of human history, the sweet non-toxic variety of almond was discovered giving rise to the ubiquitous nut that quickly became a part of our daily food intake. From the flaked almonds in the morning muesli to the chopped nuts in the brownies and cakes, to the luscious paste of almonds in Indian gravies, this versatile genius with its creamy and nutty flavour combination became a perfect addition to drinks, savoury dishes, desserts and even liqueurs. From almond chocolates to rich Mughlai pasandas, from the delicate French macarons in rainbow hues to the sticky ghee-laden badam halwa, the possibilities were as calorific and artery clogging as they were endless and divine. And then there was marzipan. Wedding cakes, Princess cakes, Christmas Cakes and a child's delightful birthday cake would be robbed of elegance, imagination or style without its almond candy icing.

One could dedicate a whole book to marzipan and how it breathed a new life into the art of confectionary. In the days before stodgy fondant, marzipan rolled over desserts made them happier and prettier. This pliable mix of sugar and almond meal could be nudged into a whole variety of shapes and textures that could top off plain looking cakes and toffees and make them the stuff of a child’s sweetest fantasy. Marzipan characters have been the highlight of many a birthday cake and often more exciting than the more flavourful interior of the confection. My memories of a zoo cake for my eighth birthday complete with its menagerie of giraffes and zebras and my exquisite 1st wedding anniversary cake with its blue roses, will be my foremost memories of marzipan love.

The mystique of almonds goes beyond its identity as the star of the pantry. The almond-shaped eye is an aesthetic representation of geometric perfection. It is the evocative beauty of the pink and white almond blossom immortalized by Van Gogh’s exquisite painting that exploded in the tapestry of my mind in all its colour, light, shade and magnificent glory. Amsterdam will forever be denoted in my mental map of the world as a little blue and white shaped patch of almond blossoms.

Almonds will always be the magic stuff that emerged from the Kabuliwalla’s bag of goodies. It will be the nut whose name will be pronounced in a strange rich accent. It will be the nut that forever connects hime with his home. It will be the soul food that lessens the loneliness of this world-weary traveller by giving  him an unlikely companion -- a little girl called Mini who reminds him of all that he has left behind.

A thing of beauty and terror all at once, the almond is life and death -- a dream ingredient in every dessert chef's arsenal, the chief ingredient in the poison capsules worn by spies, terrorists and dangerous cult groups. It is the nourishing must-have in a new mum's larder and a vegan's substitute for nearly everything, an almond deserves every bit of its superhero status.

The Fragrant Tale of Biryani

(A version of this article appeared in Food Lover's Magazine Oct-Nov '13 issue)

Since rice is a staple in vast swathes of the subcontinent and is also abundantly available, it assumes great significance on any table both plain as well as in its fragrant avatars as biryanis and pulaos. Although these dishes are ubiquitous today, they have evolved through history and been influenced by the varied foreign influences, rice is no different. Well-cooked rice is an essential part of any meal, either as the basic carbohydrate component or the centrepiece of the table as a biryani or pulao. In both cases, the type of rice used, its cooking time, texture and aroma determines the flavour of the entire meal.

The journey from an 8^th-century caliph’s court in Persia to a 16^th century Mughal war camp to the modern day biryani chains in every city in India, is a tale of conquests, travels and trade relations.  The biryani and pulao or pilaf piggybacked its way into India on the backs of the foreign cooks that accompanied the various merchants, traders and foreign invaders. They were assimilated into the culture in different parts of the country depending on the availability of ingredients, local tastes and the variety of rice that was popular in the region. The earliest biryani can be traced to the 14^thcentury when Timur or Tamerlane, Babur’s ancestor visited India on conquering raids and probably introduced this particular Persian dish into the native cuisine. It was in the Mughal Emperor Akbar’s kitchens that the Indian biryani was born. As Lizzie Collingham writes in her book on the history and culture of Indian cuisine, Curry: A Tale of Cooks and Conquerers:

Akbar ensured that the central Asian culture and Persian influences melded with Hindustani culture to create a Mughlai culture which was a synthesis of all three. The same process of synthesis went on in the kitchens. Here the delicately flavoured Persian pilau met the pungent and spicy rice dishes of Hindustan to create the classic Mughlai dish, biryani.

 Travelling across India, one will find a local variant of biryani and pulao in nearly every state of the country. From the long-grained saffron laced goat meat biryani made famous by the Nizams’ kitchens in Hyderabad to the short-grained spice and dry fruit laden Thalassery biryani popular all along the Malabar Coast, there is a nuanced difference of texture, spice levels and cooking techniques that make the biryani a unique and much debated over dish wherever you go. The basic difference between the biryani and pulao lie in their cooking styles rather than ingredients. While the biryani uses the technique of layering parboiled rice and meat and then cooking them in the dum style (cooking by sealing the dish to trap the flavours), the pulao is cooked together with spices, vegetables and/or meat. This is also known as the kachchi or raw style and many debates range over whether a rice dish cooked in the kachchi style is biryani or pulao.

It is a well-known fact that the elegant and flavoursome Basmati is the favourite of biryani makers across the country. Not only does it add to the aroma and texture, it also forms the aesthetic bridge between the local pulao and its sophisticated relative from the city, the lovely biryani. It is this basmati that is the main element in biryanis as diverse as the Calcutta-style biryani with its potato and egg component as well as the Bangalore biryani with its coriander and mint accents. The basmati rules the roost whether it is in the Nizami speciality from Hyderabad or the Awadhi Dum Pukht biryani from the famous chefs of Lucknow. Unfortunately, although the Basmati might be the chosen rice, it is fairly expensive and cannot be the stuff of daily home-cooked meals. There are other cheaper and local varieties of rice that have been adopted to make different types of biryani. The most famous among these is the Kaima or Khyma rice used to make the popular biryani of the Malabar region known as the Thalassery biryani. The medium grained Sona Masuri rice available in Andhra Pradesh and Karnataka is often used a substitute for Basmati while making biryanis and pulaos and many feel that this version is gentler on the digestive tracts.

Apart from biryanis, there are a number of classic pulaos from various parts of the country which get their unique flavours as much from the local ingredients as from the rice used. Jadoh, a Khasi delicacy from Meghalaya uses short grained rice called Joha which is then mixed with spices, fresh ginger, garlic and meat (usually pork) to create a tasty and wholesome staple which is eaten in households and available at nearly every street corner in specialized Jadoh stalls. Bengalis around the world swear by the delicately flavoured Bengali Mishti Pulao or Sweet Rice made with the incredibly fragrant short-grained Gobindobhog rice which is cooked with peas, cashews, raisins and sugar, ghee and whole spices and coloured yellow with turmeric. This pulao is usually cooked for feasts and festive occasions and is delicious on its own or as an accompaniment to spicy meat and chicken dishes or lentil curries.

Whatever be the rice, one thing is certain that the dish complements its maker and each brings its unique flavour to the pot. Pratibha Karan in her introduction to the bestselling cookbook, Biryani (2009) writes about the striking alchemy between biryani and rice –

The magic of the biryani is the way in which rice is transformed into something ambrosial – absorbing the rich flavours of meat and spice, scented with the dizzying aromas of saffron, rose, jasmine or screwpine; the white grains taking on a gem-like mien.

Malaysia truly Asia

Prologue

Malaysian food was not something I considered particularly alien or particularly exciting for that matter. Coconut, red chillies, peanuts, steamed rice, dried fish in various permutations and combinations with chicken, prawns, and vegetables had become a staple in the ever mushrooming clutch of oriental restaurants in my neighbourhood. So much so that by the time we actually decided to go to Malaysia, I had eaten enough Malay food to last me a life time and even the thought of the real deal—authentic Malay food in Malaysia—hardly inspired a spark of excitement, much less a foodgasm.

Part I  

Air Asia might be a low budget carrier, but the food is a surprise. It outshines the rubberized fare we are accustomed to in many of our full service airlines and comes piping hot in little silver foil containers. Remove the lid and you are assailed with the aromas that do more for me than the ‘Malaysia truly Asia’ jingle. They are alien and nothing like the nasi lemaks and rendangs I have had back home. Suspended thousands of feet above ground, in between countries, I ate my first Nasi Lemak in all its pungent, pickled and preserved glory. The first rumbles of excitement quickened my gut. I was ready to touch down in Malaysia.

KL glitters by night. It is Fritz Lang’s metropolis of towers and spires of chrome and glass. It is futuristic and grand sonnet in steel. As we are driven to our bed in the 22-storey tower, I watch the city in a semi slumber. The lights never go out but the people do go to bed. And our food options diminish rapidly. I will gloss over the part where we go to a McDonalds stuff our faces with a Quarter Pounder with Cheese as it is vulgar. Instead we shall fast forward to the hotel/tower with a glorious pool on the roof with a view of the famous Petronas Towers.

It’s nice to wake up to a gorgeous view of the city’s impressive skyline from the glass wall that runs along your bed and continues to the bathtub. We awoke to a new day of sightseeing and eating. Late to rise, short on time (we had one day in the city before we moved to our next destination), we sped through Petaling Street with its impressive gates opening on to an older world removed from the glamorous malls and corporate skyscrapers. As we stepped into Chinatown, we were greeted by strange snake-like creatures on grills, herbal concoctions being served out of beautiful Chinese tea pots in tea shops, a dozen roast ducks skewered through their hearts and precariously balanced from hooks. There were stalls selling longan (a litchi like fruit), stalls selling Chicken Rice (a specialty around these parts and an essential part of Malay cuisine) and stalls selling Indian food with virulent orange tandoori chicken hanging as organic symbols of the tri colour. Most of these stalls were right on the road. Some had a few plastic chairs and a table, while others had even less. We dodged vendors selling ‘fake originals’ and old toothless ladies waving bits of meat, till we arrived at a chicken rice stall which had a crowd around it. This was my test of any non verified establishment, big or small. If people flocked to it, it couldn’t be a complete disaster. The Chicken Rice came with a giant bowl of stock, little servings of red chilli paste, sliced cucumbers and a large portion of sliced chicken. The chicken was poached with its shiny, slightly glutinous outer skin providing nice texture. The reason this dish is so popular is because it’s a simple balancing of flavours and textures--the smooth tender chicken, the sticky grains of rice, the sharp edge of the red chilli, the cool crunch of cucumber and the hot broth to dunk your rice, chicken or your face in it (depending on the size of the bowl).

After many icy tender coconut drinks and many miles walked on burning asphalt and air conditioned mall floors, we decided to make our next food stop at the giant among malls – Berjaya Times Square. From steamboat restaurants to tropical fruit salads to sushi bars, it was all under one cavernous roof. After one poached meat, we decided to go the raw way despite the very inviting Uncle Duck’s Steamboat Restaurant around the corner which beckoned with its bubbling cauldron and pile of raw meats ready to be dunked, cooked and eaten. We were distracted by the cheerful lime green and yellow exterior of Sakae Sushi and promptly walked into what I regard as my best assembly line food experience till date. Our orders were on an ipad, our food came in little tagged bowls on a conveyor belt and we got a little photo op at the end of the meal which were the best photos of us on the trip.  Our first day ended with a strange experience at a leery beery odd little bar called the Beach Café Bar which even our cabbie disapproved of saying that it was not the ‘right’ kind of place for a young honeymooning couple like ourselves although we were neither all that young or honeymooning. But a few beers later leery men and beery women look pretty much the same. And happy and hungry we swayed into a place advertised as an Argentine steak house. With glorious peppered rib-eye steaks and Argentinean vintage in our bellies, we slept like well-fed cats.

Part II 

Morning saw us ensconced in a bus on our way to Taman Negara, believed to be the oldest tropical rainforest in the world. A 4-hour bus drive brought us to the Kuala Tembeling jetty. Thereafter the road ended and a boat awaited us. It felt like a journey into the green heart of the planet. The ancient, impossibly tall trees standing as gnarled sentinels to the ravages of time.

Our resort was right at the edge of the reserve itself. I walked under the soft spray of the constant rain, I heard bird song and I ate Beef Rendang (a spicy and semi sweet meat curry) Nasi Lemak and Chicken Rice for three days which was very nice. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth and that was a good thing because the resort was quite lacking in the dessert department with bright pink, synthetic cream pastries and angry green turgid jellies on offer.

But the place was far too lovely to complain about the food. I walked over the forest on a swaying walkway in the pitter-pattering rain. I saw as the birds did, the majestic sea of green seething with life and age. Everything around me had been here since the beginning of time.

We were hungry most of the time and we ate what was on offer without a whimper. Simple no-fuss Malay food is what we got. And we were content.

Part III

We returned to KL for Christmas Eve celebrations before our flight out to Penang. Arriving in the middle of the Christmas bustle, we were ready to eat. After an overdose of the lemaks, we wanted something a little more global. And thus we discovered Changkat Bukit Bintang. This particular street was buzzing with colour, food and drink. Lined with bars, al fresco restaurants and cafes specializing in food from across the world, this was a street with character and drama. Quiet and sunny during the day, this looked like a street grabbing a quick afternoon siesta in preparation for the big night ahead.

We were lured into Giovinoby the ‘Homemade Wild Boar Sausages’ scrawled on the blackboard outside. The quaint wine shop and restaurant serving Italian and Greek food and a lovely collection of wines did live up to its promise. The home made wild boar sausage was excellent and so was the wild boar stewed in red wine.

As the late afternoon sun faded into a dusky orange, I watched the city begin to heave and awaken. As I watched the first rumblings of activity, I realized the cultural mêlée that chequered the fabric of this country. It was a traditional country keenly aware of its history, its religion, its language and its roots. It was also a supremely liberal country. A small case in point was the fact that I was sitting in an outdoor cafe, gorging on wild boar and cider near the heart of a predominantly Muslim city. Across the road, a Tamilian family in traditional attire were dumping bags of groceries from an international supermarket chain into the boot of their car. A few streets away pretty young things were powdering their noses for a raucous night of partying on the party strip at Jalan Sultan Ismail. A few intersections away, Chinese housewives were gathering their pots and pans with simmering soups and crackling roasts and making their way to the night markets on Petaling Street. While, we were eating lunch Bukit Bintang had bedecked herself with tinsel, silver bells and fairy lights. Even in the sharp humid air, the smell of Christmas cake and mulled wine were hard to miss. As the muezzin gave the call for the evening prayer, I linked arms with the husband and made our way back to our temporary home in the clouds.

Only to emerge a few hours later. Christmas Eve celebrations were in full swing. Expats, Malaysians, tourists from the sub continent, tourists from the western world jostled for space on Bukit Bintang. A group of bikers on giant machines had arrived at a pub across us. We were drinking our nth bottle of cider, digging into the roast turkey and peoplewatching. Santa hats, crackers, whistles and a street wide countdown and crazy impromptu jigs made this a Christmas to remember. We hugged strangers. We danced with new friends. We ushered in a truly merry Christmas on a balmy tropical night.

Part IV

Next morning we took a leisurely afternoon flight to Penang: the much awaited food capital of the country with its heritage buildings, its heritage food and white sand beaches. We were living in the heart of the Georgetown, the UNESCO world heritage site and the possibly the one of the most interesting and charming parts of Malaysia. Georgetown is street food paradise. On our very first night, ensconced in trishaws we made our way around the oldest part of the island just taking in the smells. There is nothing I enjoy more than sight-smelling. The aromas and odours of a city are so intrinsically twinned with its appearance that I can rarely remember one separately.

Gerogetown is not a town. It is a giant pot where culture, food and history melts into a curry that is entirely unique. The Peranakan or Baba Nyonya culture is predominant here. The early Chinese settlers married Malaysians and fused with them in an organic manner adapting their traditional food, clothes, architecture and language to a life in the erstwhile British Straits. Variously known as the Straits Chinese, Peranakan and Baba Nyonya, their food is exciting and redolent of flavours fused seamlessly to create a love child that is creative and full of surprises.

Randomly chosen off the internet, the wonderfully quaint and beautifully appointed Yeng Keng Hotel with its super nice and friendly staff was just perfect. This 19^th century mansion is a heritage site in its own right and also serves authentic Hainanese food.

From carts in the street serving up Chinese fare to Thai and Malay Indian food, this is street food paradise. Carts, makeshift stalls and a few plastic chairs is the basic infrastructure provided. But the food is fresh and delightful. I can’t help but lapse into clichés. But if there was a paradise for street food junkies, Georgetown would be it.

To cut a long list short, we ate from dusk till dawn. We ate Char Kway Teow, a staple consisting of flat noodles, assorted sea food and some veggies tossed and tossed on a wok till it waylays a hungry tourist and makes its way onto a plastic plate and a happy belly. Dim sum, banana fritters, sticky sweet rice and local fruit combos wrapped in banana leaves formed our breakfasts. Washed down with copious quantities of Ipoh white Coffee (coffee beans roasted with palm oil and either served as a flavoured premixed powder or served black with condensed milk) served on ice, we set out to explore the city. Colonial buildings, Nyonya architecture, south Indian green grocers, Chinese tea shops, massage chairs in swanky malls and a gorgeous promenade by the sea jostled for our space and time. And thankfully we were perpetually hungry.

I visited my first night market, the grand Red Garden Food Paradise and Night market which was a colourful permanent street food tent serving up everything from a claypot stew of frogs legs (which was delicious) to fried oysters, karaoke singers and the works ensuring that your night is a good one. We spent the evening wandering from one bar to the next on Upper Penang Road drinking ourselves silly at the line of bars with imaginative names and equally imaginative neon signage. We took a break to eat at the Night Market and then wound up the lovely evening with a nightcap at the gorgeous Eastern and Oriental Hotel, the grand dame among all the buildings in Malaysia with an unrivalled view across the ocean.

We spent our last day in Batu Ferringhi getting our fill of the sun and sand and NOT eating any seafood. A word of warning. Many of the seafood places with live tanks and aquariums on display housing all kinds of large and exotic creatures are traps as ‘price according to weight’ is a dubious thing indeed. We settled for a nice fish done Malaysian Indian style (in other words a fairly fiery curry with recognizable Indian spices and a dash of Malay herbs) at Helena’s Cafe and were not disappointed. Homely and full of natural flavours, the food was good and hearty. Batu Ferringhi is the assembly-line striped store wrapping to the hidden homemade toffee that is Georgetown and despite the sea and the sand, is good only for a day trip.

Epilogue:

Our last meal in Malaysia exorcised my devils and distaste in one fell sweep. Nyonya Baba Cuisinewas where we ate our last meal in the country. It was a serious name for a serious restaurant. Formerly known as the Dragon King, this was a restaurant with its heart and wok in the right place. Every dish on this family-run restaurant was lovingly created by the lady of the house and served fresh and steaming hot on beautiful red plates with delicate Chinese patterns. The restaurant was housed in an old Nyonya style building with Chinese and Malay accents. It was small, cosy and completely authentic. From the Otak Otak (fish steamed until soft as mousse in a banana leaf with an exciting array of Malay and Chinese herbs) to the deep fried and absolutely divine pork rolls served with a sweetish chilli dip, from the Hong Bak, or pork in a thick flavourful gravy to Curry Kapitam, a chicken curry with distinct Straits Chinese flavours, each dish was spicy, meaty, rich and bursting with flavour.

This was a meal to expel all pretenders who claim to know the truth about Malaysian food. The truth that is often missed by the expensive oriental restaurant in most countries and the truth that is apparent in a simple street cart in Georgetown and the truth that stares at you from red plates with Chinese patterns. That food is history and this history was contained in every mouthful of every meal that I ate in Malaysia.

(A much shorter version of this piece was published in the February issue of India Today Travel Plus)

If Life was a Beach Part II

If life were a beach I'd wear cockle shells in my ear
I'd douse my hair in yesterday's leftover beer.

I'd love the smell of spiced pig blood
Every newcomer in my square foot of sandy paradise would be a long lost bud

I'd wake every morning wondering which crustacean to skewer
And go to bed dreaming about a pink and juicy porker.

The Tale of a Lobster called Shushanto (circa 2008)

As I fell hook, line and sinker for the artful poesy of a romance stolen from Woody Allen and Satyajit Ray involving country boats, rainy days, shared umbrellas and stolen moments under bright city lights, there was little that could stop the deal from being sealed. And so a whirlwind followed and the events ended with a missus tag, a bag full of sunscreen and an air ticket to Port Blair and a raging appetite for something other than the rich Mughlai kebabs and curries that had dotted the week-long wedding festivities.

I had acquired the look of a half starved newly wed through a rigorous cud-chewing diet of salad leaves and boiled chicken in order to squeeze into my expensive wedding outfit tailored to perfection to a size I used to be three months before the wedding. Now that I had survived the endless photo ops  without a major wardrobe malfunction...I was a woman on a mission. A mission to make up for all those missed luncheons and dinners.

Knotted, be-ringed and otherwise tied to each other for what was to be presumably a long time, we we set off to the Andamans with love in our hearts and a rumble in our bellies.

Our first port of call was Port Blair - a strait-laced administrative capital...a rocky non-beach...the dreaded home of the Cellular Jail, a pitstop serving toast, chicken sausages and tea.

 I remember going on a long ferry ride. I remember the smell of cauliflowers which despite my fondness for the vegetable is a very rotten smell indeed. I remember the smell following me to the corners of that boat. I also remember the endless shades of blue as the sun glinted off the water. I remember a European girl with a very flat belly that she promptly decided to sun on the deck. I remember two very sullen newly weds (not us!) and an American Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum.

I remember arriving at the island that unlocked that perfect picture postcard which had been in my head since I was a youngling. I remember glimpses of white sands, a pair of elephants, red-roofed villas, coconut trees and a long menu of seafood specials. And I remember every detail of the first meal.

The sun shone benevolently. The bamboo curtains in front of our lovely gazebo style resort restaurant parted and we walked in, our bare feet slip sliding over the burnished wooden floor warmed by the balmy weather.  The meal ordered, we sipped on chilled coconut water and whetted our appetites which seem to have grown meaner and keener with the smell of the sea and could slash a poor crustacean to shreds with its sharp-edged fury.

And I remember my first meal. All these years later, the taste of that freshly grilled, gargantuan crab doused in garlic butter still makes me burst into a corny song:

You know I'm such a fool for you.
You got me wrapped around your finger, ah, ha, ha.
Do you have to let it linger? Do you have to, do you have to,
Do you have to let it linger?

It has lingered in my taste memory somewhere just like the blood memory of vampires. You could tap into some neuron and see the dark fantasies of my teeth closing over a tender, bright red claw or my hands pulverizing a belly full of sweet flesh.

We had all the conventional must-haves for any honeymoon.
There was the dappled sun, azure seas, sun dresses, glorious tans, canopied four poster beds, open-air luxurious showers, yellowfin tuna, wine at sunset, kisses by the moonlit sea. 

We also had games.
We played scrabble on the beach and 'count the tentacle game' with our deep-fried whole baby octopus platter.

We had accidents and adventure.
We fell off our scooter on day two of our honeymoon after deciding to see the island like the other young and freewheeling sporty outdoorsy sorts. Thereafter the  husband being too traumatized by the 'accident' decided to nurse his wounds in our lovely four poster with a book and his ipod, while I decided to continue on our scheduled activity for the day -  'kayaking for two'. With the first fledgling wings of adventure sprouting on my shoulders, I rowed my not-so-sturdy sea vessel into the ponderous roots of the mangrove-studded riverine canals. After the first half hour entangled in acute embarrassment, I managed to steer into the widening rivulet, all the way out into the open seas. Buffeted by the salty air and carried by the gentle waves, I freed myself from my city sloth and  pulled and pushed with my gravel-scraped palms into a wonderful ride over yellow coral beds.

We also had alcohol.
We drank a most exotic tropical cocktail. If there could be a drink that could act like a portal  into a land of summer, spices and the ocean breeze, the starfruit martini would be it. This tiny drink without any frills or cocktail umbrellas packed a deadly punch with the muddled fruit, dollops of salt and lime and some sugar syrup and oodles of vodka/white rum. We rubbed the salt off the rim and watched the last rays of the setting sun getting distorted through the condensed glass.

We also made friends.
The man in question was a jolly Italian cook, who for some strange reason had chosen this spit of land to get marooned on (four years ago, living on Havelock Island was akin to getting marooned here. dark patches of forest, erratic electricity, basic infrastructure, lots of fresh seafood) with his wife and had started a lovely restaurant called Mahua serving rustic Italian fare with seafood as its focus.

We had a murder.
Two minutes after we met Shushanto and posed for a photo together, we ended up murdering him.
He was handsome after the green-blue fashion popular among his kind, dripping salt water and smelling of the sea. He struggled bravely trapped in the Italian man's vice-like grip in what he knew were about to be his last moments. There was an air of gravity and tragedy about him. And in a spurt of sentimentality we decided to name him, Shushanto, a perfectly peaceful name for a creature that grew more thoughtful and more still as its end drew near.
We sealed the deal with the Italian and became the sea lobster's de facto executioners.
In order to honour him, we dressed for the occasion and ate a meal akin to the last supper. We were so deliriously well fed by Shushanto, that we didn't mind if the punishment for our crimes led to an eternity in an underwater hell in the belly of a giant green lobster.

 We had a haunting.
In an odd twist of fate, we got lost after this meal and as the last twinkling light of the restaurant (which was a good 30 minute walk from our resort) disappeared, we found ourselves in utter darkness. We walked through damp undergrowth on that especially moonless night with all kinds of night creatures hooting around us and little crabs crawling across our flip-flopped toes in a spine chilling manner. We were convinced it was Shushanto's revenge from the beyond and we laid our feet carefully on the ground in order to avoid stepping on his crab cousins. The husband sang some old silly ditty about farm animals (most of which we had eaten in the recent past) increasing the dread in my heart at the awarness of our growing ledger of sins.

We had a moment.
But just as I was about to take a dreadful vow of vegetarianism, we stumbled back on the path we knew. The gods had spoken. Shushanto was at peace and we were ready to fly back home with love in our hearts and our bellies full of optimism for the life ahead. 


The chronology of this little travel series is a little flawed. While Part I started with the most recent holiday, part II and III are earlier trips and the pieces themselves are half-remembered pieced together versions which might not reflect journalistic accuracy. I choose to call these my personal vignettes based on smells (good and bad), memorable meals, standout dishes, gorgeous sunsets, midnight walks and crabs by moonlight. This story has more to do with the actual surf and turf of things rather than detours off the beach.

If Life was a Beach Part I

If life was a beach
dotted with crabs, cocktail umbrellas and drinks smelling of plum and peach
I'd begin my day with a seafood stew
I'd wash it down with some pungent coconutty local brew
I'd splash about in the waters till lunch
To sate my belly with a lobster brunch

But well, life rarely lets you sunbathe in peace and so it is only on rare occasions that one trades the computer mouse for a bright yellow toy spade and thus armed embarks on a journey to search for the perfectly sunny clime, the perfect stretch of unbroken white sands and the sweetest grilled crab in butter garlic sauce there could be.
With such humble ambitions the husband and I embarked on our longest vacation till date to explore Goa in all its lovely rain-washed splendour.
The fact that this was off season, meant great discounts, lower numbers of seekers searching for the elusive 'self', lesser raggedy shacks and many more fresh catches of the day to go around.
Our journey started on a rather ominous note as we  found ourselves on a roach infested, smelly interstate bus. What was advertized on the Internet was a glamorous coach with pop art on its body and  luxurious extras. What we clambered into on a rain sodden night was a rattly tin can airing mindless David Dhawan juvenile sex comedies at top volume.

The dreams of sun and the sand on the other side helped me survive the night.
The moment we entered the state I felt my spirits lift. My heart soared as i could imagine the spray of salt in my face. Although when I embarked from the bus all i felt was a light rain drizzling down and wetting the end of my freshly painted pink toenails.
The sky was grey as we took a cab to our hotel of choice, a highly recommended spanking new and small little resort in Anjuna. I was dreaming of the sound of the sea and a view of a vast blue expanse from my room and I nearly missed what was right under my nose.

It was not the beach, it was not the sea and it wasn't even sunny.
But here was Goa like a hidden pearl glinting in the watery sun. There were rows of gleaming pink walls, latticed windows, red tiled roofs, purple geraniums in little pots, spotlessly white churches with jet black steeples. Old Portuguese architecture cleaned by the rain, offset by shades of emerald green. Life bursting at every corner as creepers unfurled and waved delicately as our car whizzed by at breakneck speed.We had been travelling for over an hour through the rural heart of North Goa awash in the tender green of young coconuts and strangely I had forgotten all about the sea.

As we turned into a little village road and drew up into the driveway of our hotel - the Hacienda de Goa, there were no sea facing windows. In fact the sea was a good 15 minute drive from this place. Before I could voice my disappointment, the Mediterranean design, the sprawling suites, spotless white walls, chintzy curtains, red tiled roofs and chirruping of birds had turned me into a convert. A few moments later, as I sat by the pool side with a beer in my hand every hint of a grumble had escaped with a burp.

Run by the friendly and gracious Mr. Thomas who was as hands on in the kitchen as he was in the office, the Hacienda de Goa truly embodied the grand maternal warmth of a family run estate. As i took large swigs of the local King's beer which to be honest is not the best brew in the world. But the price point (it costs as much as bottled water), the thrill of consuming an authentic local drink without worrying about alcohol poisoning and the fact that it was icy cold really smoothed out its imperfections. Combined with home-cooked Kerala beef cutlets with the crunch of coconut and whole black pepper, a succulent beef fry and  mounds of steaming rice, the day seemed full of potential. Coming from a beef deprived state, these tender and flavourful bites of meat did all that its tough as nails buff  counterpart constantly failed to do.

A few winks and some more beers later we decided it was time. To see the sea and eat all its divine creatures. As we made our way to Baga Beach, that buzzing centre of north Goa in our newly serviced sturdy steed of a Santro, we expected the tourist hordes, the honeymooners, the hippie relics, the yuppie NRIs etc but what we saw was woebegone shopfronts selling dusty I heart GOA t shirts, roadside shacks with their shutters half down and puddles of rain water collecting on their thresholds and a few vendors hawking their florescent sticks and lurid devils' horns rather half halfheartedly. while we expected it to be slow, we didn't expect it to be a somnambulist's paradise.
In hope of a meal that might compensate the lack of  bright lights and festivities, we made our way to a tried and tested Britto's - that much visited bastion of drunken nights, seafood binges and idle days. At least our collective nostalgia had hued it in all those rosy tints. And like most nostalgic lenses the view it offered was a little askew.

Rambunctious little boys played tag around our chairs. Precariously balanced on a wooden platform with one chair leg buried in the sand, staying upright had become a task. The plate full of butter garlic prawns cheered me up some although it lacked that fresh 'I was swimming around under your toes under a minute ago' taste.

The husband reliving his bachelor days boy's trip had ordered his drink of choice - a swimming pool - a strange looking pale blue concoction of curacao, pineapple and coconut cream. Admonished by the waiter for demanding something as absurd as coconut water on a beach, I sheepishly sipped on my Malibu and diet coke and attacked another prawn dripping butter. The crabs that I wanted were ominously expensive, the ambience missed a certain joie de vivre and the congealed butter on the plate made my stomach churn enough to want to leave and go somewhere new. Nostalgia does leave an aftertaste sometimes that is not altogether pleasant. I walked out to catch my first glimpse of the waves, a sight that made had made me smile since I was a wee child. I saw the white crested stormy sea, felt gusts of cold blustery wind and drops of rain on my upturned face. It wasn't quite the balmy-summer-night-on-a-beach-where-you-could-hold-hands-under-the-stars. I felt bits of garbage under my toes and heard a gaggle of Punjabi housewives shrieking at a baby wave licking at their toes.

And onwards to Cavala, one of the oldest bars in the area. It warmed the cockles of my heart and I felt like a  traveller on a cold winter's night who had walked into a Victorian inn warmed by a roaring fire and pitchers of ale. Warm wooden interiors, soft light bulbs imaginatively imprisoned in bird cages and little fairy lights hidden inside squat, green coloured King's beer bottles, with a bar menu that included exotic absinthe cocktails as well as an old man playing Frank Sinatra songs on the piano. If I was a fish, i had just been hooked. Dinner was a Goan sausage curry - pert pieces of fatty sausage in a fiery potato and onion curry and a rather overpowering prawn masala. We never ate there again but we returned time and again to partake of the tipple and the wonderful ambience. Cavala was like a colonial club for the locals, a lace to meet and greet and sing all the 60s songs you knew and dance atop tables with as much flair as you could manage. It was a place where the old and the young mingled with equal ease and friendly banter flew around the room.

And sometimes life's a bitch...even on a beach. dissatisfied with our night time hello to the sea we decided to brave the busiest of beaches which is Goa's Chowpatty - Calangute. A beach that is depressing in its built up squalor and filth, Calangute was crowded (come hail or storm, Calangute is always crowded) and teeming with life. I wanted to run the moment I arrived. back to my peaceful Hacienda and my chilled beer at Cavala. However there we were to try one of the restaurants which had received much praise and success...enough to open up branches in Delhi. That should have been warning enough as north Indians are not big on seafood and as I sat munching my crisp tandoori lobster with tasted all tandoori and very little lobster in a character-less restaurant, I rued the waste of half a day at Calangute and an unappetizing meal.

Goa in the monsoon is not a place where you lounge on the beach. It rains all the time and is clammy and still when its not raining. The beach is muddy and squelchy and every single shack serving Goan treats and Goan tipple has been dismantled and dumped under layers of tarp for the season. It is not the time to hunt for fresh seafood because even the fishermen take a break and there is no fresh catch of the day. So the buttered and garlicky grills are not a good idea unless butter garlic rubber is your thing.

Goa in the monsoon is a place where you explore the lovely country side, when you soak in the laid back vibe of the land without being an idiotic tourist and learn how to bring a little bit of susegad into your life...Goa in the monsoon is where you go trekking in the hills, where you stand behind the ramparts of old Portuguese forts and where you eat full bodied meats cooked in the familiar-yet-unfamiliar gullet burning spices and souring agents.

It is the time of the year where you do as the locals do, eat as the locals eat and party as they do. Abandoning the idea of a beach holiday we tried to discover Goa shorn of its hummus and pita bread, schnitzel and pancakes and welcomed the sausage pulaos and vindaloos with stomachs reinforced with Uni-enzyme pills.

Lloyd's Steak and Grill - a non assuming eatery was a surprise of the good sort. with four tiny tables packed into a tiny garage, the only cooking surface was a large sized charcoal grill and the only ingredients - the best cuts of beef, pork chops, lamb racks with a few fat homemade sausages thrown in for company.The tiny space behind the counter had a microwave and boxes of freshly made Goan food prepared by Lloyd's mother. This place operated from 7 in the evening till 4 in the morning and was a veritable treasure trove for a meat lover. I broke into meat sweats but I savoured every last bite of the perfectly done, smoky flavored grills.

A quiet meal comprising a fish recheado, meaty and fragrant vindaloo and sausage fry  at the pretty Charcoal & Cheese tucked away on the road leading up to the Taj Aguada was better than anything we had eaten as we drove from one pitstop to the next all over north Goa eating fried calamari and butter garlic prawns till we felt like the two of us had made a sizeable dent in the population figures of these creatures.

Churches, cathedrals, old Portuguese markets, a mackerel recheado, vindaloo and more prawn and squid later we realized that our time was nearly done. Just as I was getting used to the gentle drizzle and learning how to put up my umbrella at the exact moment before it turned into a downpour. Just as I was learning to love the winding roads through green fields without worrying whether we would skid off the wet roads and land with a crash in the self same fields. Just as I was falling deeply in love with this state and planning my post retirement home here which would NOT be on a beach. As we made our way to the airport through the heart of north-central Goa, the changing scene outside my window and the promise of a meal with potential kept me from sinking into utter despair.

And what a delightful last supper it was. Ferdinand's Nostalgia nestled in the heart of Salcette is a neighborhood joint as well as a well kept local secret. We crossed grounds with local football tournaments going on in full swing, neighbourhood schools which had just given over for the day and majestic country churches hunting for a restaurant whose address had cryptic local references such as 'near Eduardo Faleiro's residence'. We pestered the helpful lady who ran the place and every passersby on the street every 200 metres to make sure we didn't miss it and finally drew into a leafy driveway with an old brightly painted Portuguese mansion. Not knowing what to expect we walked into one of the most charming places I have been to in my life. A large open hall had been converted into the restaurant space with a stage and a dance floor. The tables were nestled on a raised platform  and covered in bright cloth. An array of quirky bric-a-brac cluttered most spaces giving the place a very unique look. The bottles on the set out in no particular order and the whole place had an air of gay abandon. One whole wall had a mural by Goa's most famous son, Mario Miranda and right in front of that was a long trestle table with a huge family of 20 odd members come to celebrate the 80th birthday of someone who looked like the grand patriarch of the household. The space, the setting, the warmth of the sun, it all felt like a Buendia family dinner straight out of One Hundred Years of Solitude.

The restaurant was started by a locally renowned chef called Fernando who incorporated some of the most interesting elements from Goan-Portuguese cuisine in an attempt to popularize the lesser known food as well as preserve the traditions of making them. His wife continues to run the place and the aptly named Fernando's Nostalgia seems as much a paean to her husband and their shared life as it is to the food that he created.

As the jolly old saxophone player came up to our table playing an old fashioned ragtime tune especially for us, I sat spellbound. This was the moment of our trip where we clasped hands across the table without a care as to how we would catch our flight which was a mere hour and a half away. We felt old fashioned, romantic, like we had discovered our very own hideaway for a special date. We ordered off little metallic lids with the menu engraved in ink and ate among the most spectacular meals ever. Sauteed ox tongue in Goan spices, a meaty, brothy, bloody, spicy sorpotel (made with pig blood and offal), a pomfret ambotik (a spicy sweet and sour sauce) wiped up with fluffy sannas (idly like steamed breads) and washed down with gallons of beer.

We ate, we ran to the airport and boarded our flight. As we were taking off, we burped nearly in unison...to a holiday well eaten.

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.

The Shop around the Corner

I live, like many other migrants to Bengaluru, in a well-guarded multi-storied bastion, keeping the rest of the world out. I also live on a bustling main arterial road and the nearest market is a good 20-minute walk, 20 minutes too long after a long working day. My early days in the city thus saw me heavily dependent on a well-known supermarket chain which has its outlet right within the campus of my building. While it is adequate enough for daily groceries, it is a disaster as a greengrocer. With maggoty fruits, holey salad leaves and bruised veggies, this was the nail in the coffin for my supermarket adventures which had started with a rat which jumped out of a shelf full of wilted spinach in a neighbourhood supermarket in Delhi. For me, that moment marked everything that was wrong with our so-called retail food boom.
I had grown up in Kolkata, going to the local market with my grandfather, where everyday's veggies were bought fresh from the vendors whose burlap sacks upended piles of fresh seasonal vegetables straight from the local farmers. There was no excess and there was no wastage from the seller to buyer and from the cooking to the eating. It was a way of shopping and eating that has become alien in our workaday lives. We now live away from our families and their expansive kitchens. We shop on weekends at chain stores, buying stuff for the fortnight and the food we eat comprises limp, half-frozen vegetables that are turned into quick and insipid curries.   
In my mind I was an old-fashioned sort. It is the early morning market visits with my grandfather which taught me that. I liked handpicking my veggies. However, as a recently grown up, working and married woman who had recently left her pampered home and hearth, these shopping rituals were hardly a luxury. From Delhi to Bengaluru, my experiences with local sabziwallahs have been complicated. As they looked at my discomfiture vis-a-vis veggies that I had grown up hating, they would give me withering looks. My naivete made me especially gullible to the vagaries of these men and women who would convince me of the seasonal freshness, the problems with the crops and the unfamiliarity with the local prices.
This is what drove me to a supermarket and its everything-under-one roof convenience. As I would move from aisle to aisle towards the vegetable section with my hope still afloat. Every single supermarket disappointed. Every fruit and vegetable on the shelf looked like it had travelled the breadth of the country fighting disease and deprivation till it reached this particular metal shelf—its chosen spot for its last breath. It was organic carnage. The potatoes had either turned green or into mutant flowerpots with little leafy stems. Tomatoes would burst into a bloody mess the moment I dropped it into my empty cart and once, I even saw a few little worms clinging to the plastic of the cling-wrapped Washington apples.
My local sabziwallah would set up his cart-shop ten minutes away from my apartment every evening from 5-9 pm without fail. I would return to that shop over and over with a woebegone face. I imagined him smirking as he imperiously tossed fresh-from-the-field veggies into my bag while charging me a premium and dismissing my arguments about the supermarket deals with a single "take it or leave it" look.
It is quite the conundrum, one that eludes a perfect solution. Bengaluru is a city of many choices from the exorbitant organic to the weekly farm-fresh produce in mandis at the other end of town. However, in all these situations, the idea of being an incompetent haggler in an unfamiliar language was as unpleasant as it is was a blow to the ego of a bargain hunter such as myself.
In my search for options, I often ended up at a bright, airy and air conditioned gourmet store sprawled across the top floor of a swanky city mall. The visit to this store ended up being weekend entertainment like visiting the zoo rather than a chore. As unfamiliar food and artistic culinary displays have a strange allure for me taking me to unknown lands on the culinary map. This particular store with its piles of delicate berries, smelly cheeses, exotic mushrooms and candied fruits, is my vicarious food trip across the world. Rare mushrooms, Mediterranean peppers and hairy tropical fruits jostled for space in this alien smorgasbord straight out of a Ridley Scott masterpiece. The end result, I purchase no useful staples that we can actually eat, but overpriced and useless exotica which sit uneasy in a good home-cooked meal.
Despite my aversion to aisle store fare, I do recommend its fair pricing. In the many veggie cons that have been pulled on me, most famous was the one where I went to a specialist Bengali market where I met a vegetable seller with the gift of the gab though and I was the recipient of the one standout sale he made that day. I bought a lau (a bottle gourd), which according to him had arrived that very day from Kolkata on the superfast train. And with such a narrative flourish, he sold us a `15 vegetable for more than five times its worth.
As I returned time and again to my neighbourhood sabziwallah, his grouchy face seemed to occasionally carry the hint of a smile. It was a less-than-perfect relationship. Yet, we learn to make do. And he always sold me the plumpest, reddest and freshest tomatoes which made up for my disillusionment with the pre-packaged "lowest price" supermarket rotters.