Coffee and Mist: A monsoon journal from Coorg

When I was much younger and my universe was constrained by the city limits of Calcutta,
Coorg was a little squiggle on the map of Karnataka, its shadowy presence acknowledged
by half-remembered geography lessons, coffee and by a certain gown-like drape of a
certain Mrs Mundappa’s sari. The latter especially stood out in its uniqueness, eking out
a visual cue for Coorg. Many years later in college, Coorg was one of the many places
that people called home in the multicultural melting pot that was Delhi University. And
almost all of them came from homes set in sprawling estates growing coffee and had an
unbelievably high tolerance for alcohol as well as fiery meat dishes. This naturally led to a
conversation about the Pandi Curry or the famous spiced pork curry of the region. Some
Coorgi folk actually believed that this dish was the sacred rite of passage for all meat
lovers. Since a good Pandi Curry eluded me and those I sampled remained greasy blots
in my food memory, just like the dish, with time, the place faded from the memory. Five
years later as I crossed a bridge over the Cauvery in a well-travelled car, with the familiar
highway markers announcing ‘Welcome to Kodagu District’ in my line of sight, I felt a
sudden rush of excitement as all these half-remembered impressions flooded in.

In a few kilometres after Kushalnagar, the gateway town, the run-of-the-mill state highway
suddenly transformed into a winding hilly road with unending swathes of green on either
side. Monsoon is not regarded as a favoured time to visit this region and yet, whenever I
have travelled across South India, it has been under the aegis of the rain gods. Somehow,
I have always enjoyed this off season experience which drives away the tourist hordes
and returns the place to its serene quietude. The rain-washed land shorn of its summer
dust has a fresh and dewy sheen. Coorg was no different and my first glimpse of the lush
and wild forested tracts interspersed with the vast coffee plantations, was through a gap
between passing rain clouds. As the sun cast its errant late afternoon beams across the
road, the coffee bushes glistened, cementing this as a lasting snapshot of the place.

An interesting fact about the Coorg or the Kodagu district is that it is the least populous of
the 30 districts of Karnataka which make it one of the few places where the wilderness per
square kilometre is far more than the human population around these parts. Also, since
large tracts of this district are privately owned by the coffee planters (Coorg is India’s most
important coffee-growing district), that ensures that the forest cover remains unspoilt and
thus the region supports an extraordinary biodiversity. This also prevents any unnecessary
development in an area which draws hundreds of holidaymakers to its lush hillscapes. As a result
there is the growth of a new hospitality industry -- one which thrives on homestays
and extremely luxurious boutique properties usually the brainchild of the plantation owners
themselves.

As we made our way through the bumpy non-roads a little above Suntikoppa into the Old
Kent Estate, the Coorgi terrain enveloped us in her musky, squelchy and coffee-scented
bosom. An idyll in the middle of 200 odd acres of coffee, cardamom and pepper crops,
the Old Kent Estate is a renovated version of quintessentially English coffee bungalow.
century comforts like sunken tubs and spa treatments are juxtaposed against 21st
coffee plantation walks and traditional Coorgi food. This is the template for most Coorgi
homestays as well as boutique resorts which are a far cry from big banner hotel chains.
We spent our days walking around misty hill roads. Like many other places, Coorg has
also been more about the 'in between' journeys rather than the popular tourist spots. An
initial sightseeing experience at the Abbey Falls left us a little scarred. Buffeted by the jet
spray of the fairly impressive waterfall and trampled by nearly five score camera-happy
tourists who braved precarious rocks and moss-sodden perches in order to get the perfect
shot, we did a quick about turn just as we got a glimpse of the waterfall. The tourist
legions had left in its wake reams of orange Haldiram bhujia packets and green-capped
Bisleri bottles while the excess of water seeping out from every single crevasse had led to
a proliferation of leeches and you were lucky if you left Abbey Falls without a bloodsucker
in tow. Thereafter we drove around aimlessly, tracking the natural beauty of the rolling
hills and stopping where we pleased. Lured by ambling cows, little bridges over gurgling
streams and picturesque sunsets, we were masters of our own itineraries.

A strange fact I discovered is that although this is the land of coffee with green beans
hanging from every bush that you see by the highway, a good cuppa is not all that easy
to come across. The best coffee of the region is actually packed off to the auction houses
and sold off to foreign buyers. They return to India via the circuitous international coffee
chain route with a 100 percent markup and are served in branded cups or as freeze-dried
packs of Arabaica and Robusta with esoteric descriptions on their labels.
Apart from the plantation homestays, it is rather unlikely that one will find Coorgi coffee
at a roadside stall. A single ambitious shop in Madikeri has forward integrated into a cafe
and this was where we had our first traditional Coorgi coffee, made with local beans and
sweetened with jaggery - a perfectly heartwarming brew that kept away the rainy day
chills. However, we managed to wrangle many a cuppa made from the home-grown beans
from the kitchen in our estate. And while we took in the changing light across the coffee
bushes and the colourful profusion of rain-drenched flowers, we drank deeply of the brew of the land.

While coffee is an integral aspect of Coorgi cuisine, a plentiful bounty of the land, so
is meat. Traditionally the Kodavas (the indigenous locals who had settled in the region
thousands of years ago, inherited the land and set up coffee and spice plantations)
were fierce hunters who subsisted on game that they caught and the produce of the
land. This included a limited number of vegetables like plantains, jackfruit and coconuts.
This resulted in meat becoming a central feature of meals. While chicken and fish were
commonly consumed, it was the meat from the wild boar hunt that formed the greatest
delicacy -- Pandi Curry. While we tasted our delightful Pandi Curry in a restaurant with a
jaw-dropping view across a valley, most Pandi curries are best had in traditional homes,
over crackling fires and accompanied by snowy akki rotis. The complex blend of spices,
the varying textures and the fiery edge, made this a meal worthy of a royal repast.

Dotted with a handful of one-horse towns, I discovered that the true beauty of Coorg lies
outside human settlement and in its fragrant coffee and delectable food. Everything is
born of the soil, including its people, who are fiercely independent with a culture that is
as ancient as it is predominant in the region even today. They guard their natural bounty,
local myths and old family secrets with equal zeal.

It rains as I walk under bulbous jackfruits, hanging from mossy branches. I pick an
occasional green berry off a shiny coffee plant and watch kingfishers create a sudden
gash of blue across the green canvas. This is a Coorgi monsoon. And it is like no other
that I have seen.

This was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 18 September 2014

So Long and Thanks for all the Fish

“The angler forgets most of the fish he catches, but he does not forget the streams and lakes in which they are caught."

--Charles K Fox

Anglers are quirky characters full of stories of the river. They are extremely particular about the
whiskey they drink and the doneness of fresh fish grilled over open fires. They are also solitary
figures who tend to disappear from time to time. Historically angling is a gentleman's sport. These
recreational sportsmen approach the sport with the same enthusiasm as wine connoisseurs sniffing out
the best vintage grape. There are no age bars and very basic fitness requirements, all you should be
able to do is clamber through hills, scrub and stand in the water for long periods. Referred to as 'the
contemplative man's recreation' by author Izaak Walton, what it really requires is dollops of patience,
a fondness for your own company and an unerring bond with your fishing rod, the river and the fish.
Fly fishing is a type of angling which is all about good instincts, skill at throwing the line and landing
the artificial flies in the right spot. In the hills, angling and fly fishing is an even more invigorating
affair as the fisherman along with his fishing skills, also has to negotiate the often tricky terrain along
high-altitude rivers to access the best pools of fish especially trout, the celebrated game fish of the hills.

Although I am not an angler, there is a river that has imprinted on on my mind. There aren't too many
fish that I have caught successfully, but I will always remember being in the hallowed company of the
rainbow trout. Reflecting the sun and darting upstream between the rocks and crevasses, this is the
prized catch of the hill rivers and coveted by both novice and expert anglers. For me, it was a moment
of awe chasing this magnificent creature up a river through one of the most stunning vistas I had ever
seen in my life. Despite travelling far and wide, like an old sepia-tinted photograph in a well-thumbed
album, snapshots of the Tirthan River have followed me through the days of my youth, providing
succour when life demanded it.

Nagini, a small village in the Tirthan Valley in the Kullu District of Himachal Pradesh is an angler's
paradise and almost entirely overlooked by most tourist maps. It is a place outside of time and
far away from the city lights, perfectly preserved with its lush unspoilt sunrises and sunsets and
replete with local myths and legends. Nestled in this village is the Himalayan Trout Fishing Camp,
a getaway from it all. The British introduced trout in the Indian rivers to pursue their favoured sport
and this glorious tradition is kept alive and vibrant at this camp by its colourful owner and angler
extraordinaire, Christopher Mitra.

He and his family welcomed me and my friends, a ragtag bunch of young college students into their
lovely home and ensured that that we were well fed, well rested and completely enamoured by the
hills by the time we left. While there, we learnt how to fish fish, feast on all things trout, sip our
morning tea with the river gurgling by below our tents. We spent evening around a bonfire, nursing
our favourite tipple and inevitably guitars would be unearthed and old half-remembered Beatles
songs would be sung gloriously out of tune. The hills would echo with bonhomie even as the shadows
lengthened. I have been to Nagini twice and some of my other companions on our first trip, return at
regular intervals. A very close friend of mine admitted that he had a deep connection with the place
and would return to it every few months to go on long walks, write his PhD thesis, contemplate or
simply fish, and all of this while living in a foreign country.

It has been many years since I have returned to Nagini and yet there are some things about the place
that are fresh and larger than life itself. I remember our guide who was also the village oracle. I
remember the rusty metal basket on which we crossed the river on a metal rope. I remember just
staring at the mountains in the changing light. I remember the freshest and most delicious grilled trout
with the tang of fresh lemon roasted over a campfire and I remember a little dog who looked like a
furry toilet brush and had set up her permanent home in our tent. The tents have since been replaced
by log cabins and huts but the place still retains all its wonder.

For me, Nagini is a time capsule of a few wonderful days spent with laughter, songs , trout, whiskey
and camaraderie like no other. For me, Nagini is a memory of the smiling face of a girl -- one of
the best friends I ever made, who is no longer with us. For me, Nagini is about the Himalayan Trout
Fishing Camp run by the irrepressible fisherman, storyteller and guitarist -- Christopher Mitra, whose
Irish and Bengali lineage is well reflected in his love for good whiskey and a well-cooked fish. For
me, Nagini is the truth in a Billy Joel song where:

"We're all carried along
By the river of dreams"

This was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on 11 September 2014

Soul fish from the streets of Punjab

Nearly every neighbourhood Punjabi dhaba worth its salt in Bangalore boasts fish
Amritsari on its menu and it is one of two fish dishes to find a prvileged spot in
generic menus inspired to give those craving boti and roti (meat and flatbreads),
a quick introduction to North Indian food.

While Da Vinci might argue that in simplicity lies the ultimate sophistication, to the
common man, simplicity could also be well be earthy, wholesome and a touch
loud. Just like the zippy Fish Amritsari. Bursting with spices, colour and tang,
this bright orange-yellow double fried piece of crisp fish is a party in your mouth.
If Fish Amritsari was a girl, she would be a simple, traditionally dressed country
lass doing a crowd-stopping number at the newest disco!

Perhaps the second most ubiquitous Punjabi dhaba snack after the tandoori
chicken is the Amritsari fish that has riven itself from its provincial beginnings
into widespread acceptance across the country and even on foreign shores.
Everywhere the Punjabis went, their culinary traditions followed and butter
chicken, which has established its dominion over the world of global curry, is
a case in point. The Fish Amritsari is not too far behind in the race where it is
served up in forms as diverse as a Norwegian salmon-based kebab, an Indian
style fish and chips and even a sushi roll in restaurant menus across the world.
Like many other Indian dishes, the Fish Amritsari straddles many Indias where
it graces tables at fine dining restaurants of the metros, erstwhile colonial clubs
of India with a stiff upper lip heritage and nondescript stalls in dark alleys of tier-
3 cities. It is, however, most comfortable in a world populated by weather-beaten
faces, blue-and-white Bata Hawai chappals, rugged unshaven faces, large trucks
with neon signs, camp cots and dusty highways.

This deep fried fish tikka with overwhelming notes of ajwain (carrom seeds),
lemon and chaat masala actually finds a respectable place in the annals of
Indian culinary history despite its humble character. While it may be a poor
descendant of its royal Mughal forbears and an across-the-border version of its
Lahori counterpart, it nonetheless holds its own in any gathering of connoisseurs.
The marinated fish dishes from the Mughal and Nawabi kitchens with their rich
array of exotic spices found an echo in the villages and taluks of undivided
Punjab. Thus both Lahore and Amritsar, hoarding their supplies of fresh sole
and carp fish from the Ravi and Beas rivers, came up with a home-grown rustic
spice rub which they slathered on to the chunky boneless fillets, dipped them
in a flour/chick pea flour and deep fried them twice to their preferred levels of
crispness. This snack quickly caught on and every street food vendor, dhaba and
kebabwallah worth his salt was soon deep frying his way to the bank.

The best Fish Amritsari is usually bright orange, fresh off the griddle and piled on
to a simple thali, with some raw onions, lemon quarters and liberally doused with
chaat masala and preferably a fizzy cola on the side. The secret to a good piece
is that it must be eaten fresh and crisp. Let it grow cold and the fish separates
from its sagging orange wrapper. Serve it on a cold winter night around a raging
bonfire with boisterous company and there will be merriment, songs and perhaps
even an occasional brawl. "Amritsari" and "Lahori" are mere geographical
markers of its origin, the real heart of this everyman favourite lies in street stalls
in crowded and colourful markets full of smoke and aromas that fire the belly and
imagination alike.

(this was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore 15 Sep 2014)

A journey into the ancient heart of the jungle

As one travels to Taman Negara in Malaysia, the vestiges of civilization gradually drop off. The journey from the glittering, vertiginous skyscrapers of Kuala Lumpur to the oldest rainforest in the world is a journey backwards in time. Regarded as the world's oldest tropical rainforest, Taman Negara is about 130 million years old, the proverbial green heart of the planet.

Me and my husband set off from KL and a 4-hour bus ride later, we arrived at the Kuala Tembeling jetty where the next leg of the journey was to be by boat. The passage down the snaking river was unlike any other experience I have had. As the sounds of the mainland were left far behind, I felt more and more like the narrator/protagonist Charles Marlow journeying down the Congo river into the mystical core of nature in Conrad's magnificent Heart of Darkness.

The Tembeling river swollen by rain, heaved and sank against the sides of our boat and the sky darkened above our heads and the rain pelted down as if on cue. The banks of the river grew more untamed as the undergrowth spilled out of every crevasse and patch of land. The trees themselves changed character, untouched by time or human intervention they had been growing unchecked, fighting for survival as they arched their green canopy further towards the life-giving sun. The bird calls sounded alien in the late afternoon light. Everything was impossibly green, rain-washed and wild beyond the constricted
urban imagination.

By the time we arrived at our home for the next few days, the Mutiara Taman Negara Resort, right at the edge of the reserve, the light was fading. Ensconced in the middle of the jungle, this eco-friendly resort was designed to fit in with its surroundings seamlessly. There were no boundaries with the forest and the path running through it just meandered right into the forest. There was a soft spray of constant rain and the air was warm and dense. Oft-spotted denizens of the resort included long-tailed macaques, deer, fruit bats
that had its permanent residence in the verandah of our cottage. Then there was the surreal experience of befriending the over-friendly tapirs, a monochromatic creature that looked more like a mythical hybrid rather than part of any extant animal species.

The three days we spent there saw us taking several walks through the forest on the exciting canopy walk - a series of high tensile rope and wire bridges strung over the tops of the forest canopy allowing walkers an unparalleled vantage point. It drizzled all day with differing intensity as we clambered across swaying bridges, hundreds of feet above the ground. Although the activity is not recommended for those with tendencies towards vertigo, the 360 degree view of the forest, the river in the distance and the swirling mist that rolls in and out, more than makes up for the initial shaky knees. Down on the ground, the experience is entirely different.

Here, I saw the rainforest up close and understood for the first time in my life how the term 'steaming' could be applied to a jungle. The ground beneath our feet squelched and exuded vapours, everything was larger and somehow more feral - massive fungi overran their plant host, trees vied with each other stretched vertically as far as the eye could see, poisonous snakes, spiders and all manner of creepy crawlies waited in the dense undergrowth, while leeches silently drained unsuspecting walkers of their blood and we were glad of our sturdy trekking boots and leech socks at every turn. In the rainforest, nature is relentless and unforgiving. The Darwinian theory of natural selection is tested to its limit as plant and animal species fight it out in order to survive. The sky is barely visible and even the most intrepid trekker will be wary to wander these paths without an experienced guide.

Evenings in the rainforest are dark and best spent eating, drinking and discovering the simple joys of board games. Bereft of modernity, cell phone signals or cable television, one is glad for the small comforts in the wild - like the unexpected ice lollies in the solitary provision store.

On our last walk before we head back to civilization, we look one last time skywards. In my mind I see the ancient trees as gnarled sentinels who bid us a grim farewell just as they have to the thousands of travellers who have come and gone since the beginning of time.

(This was published in the New Indian Express, Bangalore on Sep 3 2014)

Tomato à la Nicoise

(An edited version of this piece was published in the July issue of National Geographic Traveller India)

The first time I held a Nicoise tomato, it was a moment of wonder. It was perhaps the label under this slightly misshapen, pert little berry with green pointy leaves that first sowed the idea of Nice in my overburdened mind. The husband and I were planning a trip to France while juggling deadlines, reorienting ourselves to South Indian ways (we had recently shifted to Bangalore) and struggling with an errant cook. I had to replenish groceries, read and edit manuscripts, plan a holiday and stick to a budget all in one crazy month before we took off for the much-awaited vacation. It was on one such day that I ran out of tomatoes among other things. Now Bangalore is a city of many choices. While the local markets provide a variety of fresh produce, the idea of being an incompetent haggler in an unfamiliar language is as unpleasant as it is a blow to the ego of a die-hard bargain hunter. So there I was on a pretty Sunday morning, in a bright, airy and air conditioned gourmet store sprawled across the top floor of a swanky city mall. The visit to this store was always more of an outing rather than a chore as unfamiliar food and artistic culinary displays always had 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, was our 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. 

It was here that I saw the wonder that was a Nicoise tomato. This was a strange cousin to the ubiquitous, varying-between-Rs-5-to-Rs-50-a-kilogram, commonly used berry of the not so deadly variant of the nightshade. Swaddled in paper tissue and carefully labelled ‘Vine-Ripened Nicoise Tomato’, this was like the discovery of a rare postage stamp to an unknown country. I picked up a couple of these prohibitively expensive, plump beauties and sniffed in their tart aroma and made a mental note to google “Nice”.

A month later and thousands of kilometres away, there I was in an old market burnished by the sun and fringed by the azure Mediterranean waters, staring at tomatoes again. Only this time they were all of the Nicoise variety. From dwarf green variants to oversized and ridged red berries, the food stands on the Cours Saleya were exploding with tomatoes. August was tomato season on the French Riviera and every dish was liberally sauced, every salad was abundant in and every sandwich was generously filled with these tomatoes.  

As one of the integral ingredients of the cuisine of the French Riviera and especially Nice otherwise called Cuisine Nissard, tomatoes are the stars of quite a few of the specialties of the region. We feasted on dishes that were crafted as tributes to the magnificent produce of the region which spanned the freshest seafood platters as well as the locally grown and sourced Mediterranean fruits, vegetables, cured meats and sausages as well as the lovely varieties of tomato. Even the simplest dishes, take for example the Coeur de Boeuf (beef heart) tomato and fresh mozzarella slices doused in virgin olive oil with some freshly cracked pepper and sea salt tasted just yum. And then there was the Salad Nicoise which was as much a French cultural icon as it was a personal favourite. The tuna, the anchovies, sun ripened tomatoes, local black olives, artichokes, fava beans and hardboiled eggs combine with salt, pepper and a simple vinaigrette to create a symphony of flavours and an ode to the sun and sea. I ate this on my first afternoon in Nice and on the way out. 

There is something about these heirloom tomatoes around these parts that goes perfectly with the innate style of this breezy seaside town on the French Riviera. While gorgeous women in designer hats with their little dogs walk the Promenade Anglais and sleek cars in tomato shades whizz up to the porch of the dazzling Negresco hotel, I contemplate the town and its laidback vibe. Part French, part Italian and all Mediterranean, Nice with its beautiful people and its unshackled bonhomie is a land that enjoys its seaside indulgences. As a haven for eclectic as it is encompassing, In Nice, the backpacker and the luxury traveller jostle for space at the same cafes in the vibrant streets of the Old Town. Art aficionados follow the trails of Matisse and Chagall while those who worship haute couture can find their boutiques and galleries and the bohemian lot can pick up quirky and vintage clothing from shops tucked away in narrow streets. Live music in the pubs till the wee hours to the opera at the grand Opera de Nice, to bustling historical open-air markets like Cours Saleya which are a treat for tomato eaters like, Nice is a panoply of food, drink and plenty and excuse the cliche which in this case rings true, a perfectly rejuvenating break for the mind, body and soul. 

It has been many days since I have returned from Nice to my regular life. Memories of that time have changed from the sharp clarity of a photograph and have acquired the softness of an impressionist painting. I remember odd things like the tomatoes and one single moment which I chose to preserve by scribbling a few lines on a ticket stub rather than take a photograph... 

This is our first day at the beach. The wind is in my hair, the sun warms my face, my toes curl against the smooth pebbles that keep the azure waters at bay. There is a fromage and heirloom tomato platter balancing on my knees, a glass of bubbly sits under my parasol, at arm’s reach. The man I love is sunning himself by my side. I think Nice is going to be quite lovely indeed...

Truck of Treats

                                           (This was published in BLink on 5 July, 2014)

A gleaming knife cuts effortlessly through a charred brisket to reveal a juicy and glistening pink interior. The meat is quickly sliced up, piled on to fluffy white bread slathered in rich butter, laden with pickles, topped with stretchy, melty cheese and toasted gently, a sandwich fit for the gods. 

While some could call this a slice of heaven, I had friends watching this scene with expressions of misery on their faces for this was extreme food porn designed to torture all those who love to eat. Even as the gorgeous Scarlett Johansson and Sofia Vergara slurp up fresh-from-the-stove herby pasta or dig into a melty-cheesy Cuban sandwich, strangely enough, your attention is drawn away from these beautiful women — to what they are eating. In Jon Favreau’s Chef, the screen is set ablaze by the food that is in turns sexy, playful, nostalgic, homely, sophisticated and always delicious. While the film itself is not without its flaws, the food that Jon Favreau pays homage to, is most definitely flawless. From the exquisite farm-fresh, and inspirational dishes crafted in his tiny home kitchen and presented on rustic wooden platters — the meal that could have impressed Internet millionaire and food critic, Ramsay Michel, once and for all, to a simple buttery, three cheese grilled sandwich that Chef Carl Casper makes for his son, every dish is honest and intends to please the person it is created for. His journey from Chef de Cuisine at a celebrated L.A. restaurant, to an out-of-work Internet joke, to a food truck hero, is one of discovery and love — of both the culinary and the human sort.

Jon Favreau’s Chef celebrates food and there is a beating heart at the squishy centre of this indie offering that is bound to leave you feeling warm and very, very hungry. This little film from the director renowned for his big ticket outings like Iron Man follows in the tradition of Chocolat (directed by Lasse Halstrom, 2000), Julie and Julia (directed by Nora Ephron, 2009), Woman on Top (directed by Fina Torres, 2000), Eat Drink Man Woman (directed by Ang Lee, 1994), Like Water for Chocolate (directed by Alfonso Arau, 1992), Babette’s Feast (directed by Gabriel Axel, 1987), and the delightful animated classic Ratatouille (directed by Brad Bird and Jan Pinkava, 2007), among others. 

This mix of big studio Hollywood films as well as indie and foreign cinema has a common thread. All of them capture the interplay between the cultural, emotional, sensual and extremely visual aspects of films food. Cooking and eating remain at the centre of the narrative while cultural mores, myths, stories, love, loss, sex and humour are stirred in as the secondary ingredients in food films, which can tickle the appetite like no other. 

Just like Chef Carl Casper, other underdogs of the culinary world include Remy the rat from Ratatouille whose biggest dream is to cook and Julie Powell from Julie and Julia who wants to transform her life through the magic of Julia Child’s recipes. These characters overcome great odds through determination, spirit, a little love from food critics, an occasional friendly chef spirit and some Internet hits and trends. Their stories are ones that leave the cockles of your heart toasty as well as inspire you to take that step, even if it be only off the edge of a first floor sublet above a grimy pizza parlour in Queens.

Cinematic representations of food intertwine myth, storytelling, culture and community. In Chocolat Juliet Binoche’s Vianna Rocher mixes together her decadent chocolate filled confections in a little French town under the disapproving aegis of its stern mayor, stirring up emotions and unraveling the true nature of people who live together in this apparently tightly knit community. Sometimes food takes on magic realist proportions and is used as symbolic representations of the protagonist’s emotions, be it love, lust, betrayal or sadness. The food that Tita cooks at her lover’s wedding feast causes sickness as well as great longing in the hearts of all those who eat it in Like Water for Chocolate. It is as much a reflection of her Mexican heritage as it is of her own personal dilemma. An enchanted crab and a stunning Penelope Cruz all clad in tomato red dresses (probably the only saving grace of the film) cook up a sensual repast that make strangers fall in love in Woman on Top. Food can be the connection and the bridge between estranged lovers, family members and members of a community. There is nothing more comforting than the warmth of a large family meal and it is this idea that forms the central tenets of Babette’s Feast and Eat Drink Man Woman. From lives and worlds as far apart as a small village on the Jutland coast in Denmark to Taipei, Taiwan, food plays the common role of a healing salve as well as the glue that holds families together. Thus Babette’s marvellous feast costing 10,000 francs and featuring quail with foie gras and truffle sauce, a blue cheese, fig, papaya, grape and pineapple platter, turtle soup, endive and walnut salad and rum cake with glaceed fruits is hardly all that different from Mr. Chu’s extravagant dinners for his daughters where he whips up delicacies like steamed chicken with black mushroom, shrimp and water chestnut croquettes and San Pei chicken from the fish he has raised and chickens he has bred to ensure his extremely high standards. 

Chef is in most parts a worthy successor to these films. It draws on many of their tropes and whips them together with a dollop of New Orleans jazz, Latin dance music, Facebook updates and Twitter feeds, making it a delectable all-American concoction about the indomitable human spirit. And as Chef Carl, his sous chef Martin and his son lip sync through the brass band version of Marvin Gaye’s ‘Sexual Healing’ in their food truck, riding across America selling their food dream, we realize that we have bought into it as well. 

Walking the Vinyl Track

(This was published in National Geographic Traveller India, November 2012)

“This will change the way you listen to music,” the note read. When I unwrapped the cheery red record-player that came with the message, little did I realise that the birthday gift from my husband would became an obsession. I didn’t know that we would spend the rest of our weekends of the year 2009 hunting for rare albums, quirky cover art and our favourite artists on vinyl.

While LPs had made a comeback and were available freely in large format music stores in the city as well as online, it was worth its price in gold and a luxurious indulgence for audio aficionados. While we loved music, our pockets didn’t run so deep and although we did pick up a few new LPs, something wasn’t quite right. Two of our brand new LPs turned out to be defective. There seemed to be a strange dissociation as we picked LPs from shelves stocking Blu-Ray DVDs, new indie CDs and pulsating Drum and Bass Mp3 collections. LPs seemed like gawky misfits in their specially proportioned shelves in these neon-lit digital music havens.

And a few hours of research on the internet sent us down the roads our audiophile forbears had walked and the alternative second-hand universe of vintage records. The little record player became my ticket into the dusty underbelly of the city with its cavernous warehouses and alleyway stores.
We dug out second-hand LPs in flea markets across India, from the back alleys of Mirza Ghalib Street in Calcutta to the dusty multipurpose antique stores in Bangalore’s Avenue Road. From the colourful hippie shops of Thamel in Kathmandu to the twisted alleys of Chor bazaar in Bombay, we dug our way through stacks of old vinyl records or forced/cajoled/bribed friends to trawl the selfsame markets with our serpentine lists in hand.

There was something that drew us to the LPs almost immediately. Both the husband and I loved music in our lives and although we weren’t experienced audiophiles, there was a certain purity of sound in a vinyl record that you couldn’t miss. The analog-era richness and warmth was so well...natural. Some LP lovers insist that listening to LPs was akin to having the band performing live in front of you and while I’m not entirely sure of that, listening to an LP is a visceral and involved experience entirely different from the commonplace plug n play digital sound. The soundscapes are different, the associations are different and above all the way we listen to music is different. A record lover is a more vibrant butterfly compared to its modern ipod toting worker bee.

Many of our records had their sleeves restored with duct tape and scratches and dust lines removed by multiple wet wipes. They became a substitute for postcards from kind friends who had been subject to the endless sessions of Floyd’s Medal and Kraftwerk’s Man-Machine (our earliest findsin a decrepit warehouse in Daryaganj sold to us by the enthusiastic Mr Syed Akbar Shah, an enthusiast and an eagle-eyed connoisseur of rare old LPs, who travelled the country in search of records old, forgotten and lost that had the habit of showing up in the unlikeliest spots). We would get emails at odd hours and would snatch calls over skype during our work day and manage to convince the friend in question as to what genre we liked, which group of artists we preferred and which era we pandered to. A few weeks later the selfsame friend would arrive with a brown paper wrapped LP. Needless to say he or she would be welcomed with much fanfare. 

As our pile of LPs increased from a measly two to a more respectable dozen, both the husband and me would itch to come home after a long day’s work and plonk ourselves on the floor with a drink in hand and go through the ritual of unveiling the well-worn record from its sleeve, giving it a quick wipe, placing the needle on the correct groove and drowning in the mellow sound while we lovingly caressed the sleeve and admired its incredible artwork.

However, a general passage of time dulled our initial enthusiasm. Our trips to Chandni Chowk and Daryaganj reduced and by the summer of 2010 we were back to our iPods and the LP player lay in a corner, dusted off for use on occasional weekends.

But all of that changed after a holiday in Melbourne in the winter of 2011.

Melbourne was the second leg on a grand vacation spanning Malaysia and Australia. We had travelled for a good week and a half around Malaysia through luxurious suites and isolated forest resortsand by the time we reached Australia, we realised that the holiday fund had dwindled substantially. Here we were with eight days to kill, little money to spare, and a city full of pricey art galleries, theatre shows, big-ticket music concerts and cutting-edge restaurants.

I quoted Bruce Chatwin to my husband: “Walking is a virtue and tourism is a sin.” What better way to learn a city than to see its underbelly, to sniff its stinks and discover the music on the streets? Armed with a day pass on the Melbourne Tram network, a much-thumbed copy of Lonely Planet Australia, regulation sunscreen and a couple of packaged meat pies, we were ready to take on the city.

Our first stop was Queen Victoria Market—a heritage site and bargain hunter’s paradise rolled into one. We wound our way through racks of faux crocodile boots, dubious Chinese herbs, tacky cowboy hats, artisanal cheese stands and boomerangs. Fate struck. My husband and I had been walking our separate ways, but suddenly bumped into each other at the entrance to a stall selling second-hand records.
I had been drawn into the shop by the sensuous black and white sleeve of Madonna’s iconic Like a Virgin album. In addition to being one of my favourite albums from the 1980s, it reminded me of many evenings spent with girlfriends dancing ourselves silly to ‘Material Girl’ and ‘Like a Virgin’. My husband, on the other hand, picked up Miles Davis’ A Kind of Blue in nearly mint condition. As we jostled each other, excited by the piles of LPs, the owner looked at us with a bemused expression. An elderly man with twinkly blue eyes, he gave us a great discount and also handed my husband a pamphlet. “Well mate, if you like your vinyl, that’s the best kind of tour you can go on,” he said.

The fold-out pamphlet-map had been created by Diggin’ Melbourne, an initiative started by a bunch of vinyl enthusiast, store owners and resellers. The simple Q and A listed on their home page made their conviction for the medium obvious.

“Q: Do they still make records?

“A: Yes—they still make records, they still make turntables, and yes—new bands are still putting out records. To some people the idea of putting out this kind of map may seem a little pointless. But if you’re reading this you know the score. Vinyl will never die.”

Our trip was suddenly given a whole new purpose.

The next day, we started working our way through the musical byways of Melbourne.  We set out for the artsy and bohemian Brunswick Street in the suburb of Fitzroy. By the mid-twentieth century, Brunswick Street, with its low rents, had become the street of choice for immigrants from Europe. With them came open-air Mediterranean cafes serving good coffee and wood-fired pizzas. Music venues, graffiti, vintage clothes stores, edgy pop art boutiques and record stores followed in the subsequent decades.

But instead of getting to the cool Brunswick Street in Fitzroy, we found ourselves in an altogether different part of town in the distant suburb also called Brunswick. Not only were we lost, we also ambled along with different agendas—I wanted the record store and vintage shops, but my husband wanted some food. A florist came to the rescue, pulling out a sheaf of maps to show us how far we had strayed. She gave us a flower for good luck and we clambered back on to the tram.

When we got to Fitzroy, we were thrilled to find that Brunswick Street was everything that the guide books and Internet had promised. The pavements were filled with chic people dressed in alternative fashion while the sound of jazz bands practising for an evening gig. Between drinking the best cider I have ever tasted, nearly inhaling a delicious crisp pork belly in apple sauce and shaking hands with a crazy man who wanted a few dollars for bestowing us with good wishes, we found what we had come all this way for–Dixons Recycled.

Established in 1976, with outlets all over Melbourne, these guys call themselves the ‘original second-hand specialist’. The store had something for ever whimsical buyer on a budget. Neat rows of records awaited us tagged according to their condition, rareness, album art and assorted other categories. We figured that if we’d been brave enough to buy battered records from Shah Music Centre in Daryagunj in Delhi, we could take a chance with Dixons’ lower-quality discs and gain in quantity what we’d compromised in quality. Who knows when we would find such a mind-boggling variety of LPs again?
Soon, our arms were piled high with the classic albums we had first heard on tape and later possessed on CD: Simon and Garfunkel’s sound track for The Graduate, The Best of Cream, Santana’s Greatest Hits, U2’s Joshua Tree, Dire Straits’ Brothers in Arms. Substantially poorer but much happier, we put our Diggin’ Melbourne map away for another day.

That day dawned sunny and warm after the debaucheries of New Year’s Eve. The first day of January was perfect for a walking tour around Federation Square and the colourful gates of Chinatown in the city’s central business district. Shorn of office crowds, the lanes were deserted, like unopened oysters full of hidden promise. While the city slumbered, we walked through a glorious sunny afternoon and a mellow dusk creating our own stories under the awnings and empty promenades along the Yarra River, the alleys of Flinder’s Lane painted with careless, colourful masterpieces by some of top street artists.  Since rents were high in the CBD, some of the stores on our map had vanished. Others had been transformed into strange animals. One second-hand vinyl shop along Elizabeth Street had become a specialist Japanese supermarket selling odd edibles and even odder pink Hello Kitty-themed bric-a-brac.

Then, as we were walking along a crowded intersection along Swanston Street, we realised that we had dropped our Diggin’ Melbourne map somewhere along the way.  Terrified at the prospect of losing our lifeline to the city, we retraced our steps, peering into dustbins where we had emptied plastic takeaway coffee cups, sifting through the public ashtrays where we had stubbed out our cigarettes, carefully circling every bench and every clump of grass we had trod upon. As we descended into the dumps of despair, we saw a familiar piece of paper fluttering round and round a lamppost. We were on the road again.

After discovering that at least three stores in the vicinity of the CBD had shut down, we stumbled upon the sign and ponderous stairway to Collectors Corner. ‘From the dirt cheap to the ridiculously rare’ is what they claimed to stock. The no-frills space was filled with piles of vinyl stacked in cardboard boxes. We spent so much time browsing and querying that the once-friendly owner soon lost his smile and growled at us till we left the place—but not before we had got ourselves a rare twosome: The Best of the Mamas and Papas and From the Mars Hotel by the Grateful Dead. Gratified by the loot, lulled by the evening nip and stuffed by grilled crocodile in a friendly cafe in Chinatown, we were nearly done with our tour and our time in the city.

We had seen the city through squares on our map. We had smelled a city of slightly stale dust and old paper in vintage stores. We tapped our feet and clapped our hands as an ignored street band belted out some great music.  It seemed that elves had come out of the crevices and taken us on a tour of a parallel city of forgotten music. We had relived our rock-n-roll preteen years, our waspish teenage love for grunge, our pretentious jazzy early twenties and our fun, indie, peculiar whims of the years that followed as we indulged in some good ol’ vinyl love in the land down under.