Nilgiris Diary

Article published in The Outlook Magazine (issue dated February 29th, 2016) Click here to read

Daal, Roti and 100 Pipers

I’m basically a Daal, Roti and Scotch person !! 

For long I resisted suggestions and prodding from family and friends to write on food.  I was reluctant because these days I find every second person these days is a Food Blogger and almost everyone is a “Foodie” ( a term I detest – but more on that later). I never fancied myself to be a gourmet and an epicure I am certainly not. I don’t know much about the history of various cuisines nor  “Food Anthropology”  (another fashionable term). I have tried my hand at cooking occasionally with the odd success, that too mostly for the family (and once burnt my hand - literally - with boiling oil while trying to over-turn a whole chicken in a Kadai, a scar I still bear )– but can hardly claim to be a modern day metro-sexual wannabe master chef. I hardly watch Food Shows on TV (which are mostly scams anyway) and read only the occasional food column. I’m deeply cynical of Food Reviews – which I suspect are obtained  either through free-meals and wine – or , at times, simply paid-for (unless it's the Michelin Guides - there are very few food critics like the late Egon Ronay - who always paid for their meals). And, oh – I love Nigella Lawson. But, only for her looks, not culinary repertoire (which I have a creepy feeling they are largely outsourced or crowd-sourced).

Then what are my credentials – at all to write on Food ? To be honest, none actually. Like most ordinary people I like to eat.  Hunger is a natural desire we humans have been gifted purely for reasons of survival – embellished with a sense of taste, smell and touch that makes it a pleasurable experience. No wonder someone coined the term 'gastro-sexual' - as enjoying food is very much giving in to the senses. I believe even the most ascetic of individuals – even those practicing strict gastronomical abstinence - enjoy food. That’s why most fasts end with a feast and I have seen spiritually evolved persons of all religions (read - monks, nuns priests  and saints) indulging in the occasional repast with great relish.

I am no different from them. Perhaps, a wee bit more experimental and adventurous – but, certainly not one of those who “live” and are willing “to die for”  food.  For me food is more about memories, company and conversations.  Snapshots stored in the mind’s soft-disk indexed by the taste-buds and aromas.

The posts that will follow are part of that journey that I have taken through highways, by-lanes and alleys of the food trail the meals that I have partaken not only in restaurants, cafes, small road-side eateries, pubs, bars, dhabas - people's homes and clubs that has shaped my own private gastronomical universe. 

Serenity by the lake and Iilish under the fly-over

The Shillong of ‘Shesher Kobita’ is gone – like most places one read and romanticized over in our youth. The same fate of other hill-stations has also befallen Shillong – ruined by unplanned growth. Being the capital of Meghalaya and the seat of the Council of North Eastern States has further contributed to its concretization.

It’s difficult to imagine the walks Labanya and Amit went on. Ward’s Lake in the center of town is an apology. And, I wouldn’t even dare take that drive to Cherrapunji – now called the ‘wettest desert’ in the world.

The Pinewood Hotel remains tucked away on Rita Road above the Raj Bhavan - now run by the government, it’s a shadow of its former self. But, unlike the desecrated Puri BNR (handed over on contract to a Lalu crony – a hotelier from Patna ), it retains much of its old character – the sprawling suites, the garden, the friendly staff ( if lacking the finesse of the ancient bearers from the days of the Raj ) and, most importantly, the wood paneled bar. The worst casualty, perhaps, is the dining room. It’s run down and looks a bit seedy - tho' the food, I am sure not a patch on what it used to be, is still the best you can get in Shillong (which can’t boast of too many interesting culinary options or choice of restaurants).

Admitted, it’s not easy to know a place and the people on quick business trips – when for the better part of the day ( and, often in the evenings as well ) one is cooped up in meetings. But, a visit to the bar at the local Club usually gives a distilled sense of the social scene. The Shillong Club is as old as the town itself – founded in 1874, when Shillong was declared as the Civil Station of the Khasi and Jaintia Hills. The new Club House re-constructed after the fire of the 70s has lost its heritage look and feel - something the other colonial institution – the Shillong Golf Club, the third oldest in India – has managed to retain. Once a preserve of British Officers and Tea Planters from Assam, the club is today the watering hole of local traders – who are the new dominant set.

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In the midst of all this is a well kept secret across the Bada-pani lake called Ri kynjai - a breath-takingly beautiful alpine-style resort. Promoted by the owners of the Centre-Point (the best known business hotel in town ), the architecture was inspired by traditional Khasi thatched huts built over stilts ( the aerodynamically friendly structures in the shape of upturned boats are designed to face the squalls and storms of the region ). As you look out from its huge French windows –into the serene waters of the lake, you begin to appreciate - a little - why Shillong was ever called Scotland of the East.

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'Food-note'

On my now regular trips to Shillong – I take a mandatory stop at one of the many Sylheti-Bengali eateries in Guwahati. My favourite being Soham – a tiny but clean joint under the Ulubari fly-over ( near the editorial office of The Telegraph ). There’s also Ramu’s Hotel across the road – which many prefer - but I think Soham’s better in terms of its hygiene, ambience and even the quality of food. A lunch home for sales people and the staff of nearby offices – it serves the most mouth watering, Pabda, Iilish and Brahmaputra Chitol in home-style curries and a mean Mangshor-jhol. Gandha-leboo, kacha lanka and shutkir-acchar are essential accompaniments for satiating the senses.

On the last trip, I was introduced to a new restaurant serving authentic gourmet Assamese cuisine called ‘Delicacy’ – in Ganeshgudi (next to the Dispur Polyclinic on the way to the Secretariat ). It’s more up-market than Paradise ( where I had been earlier ) and offers a wider choice in the menu – ranging from pork, duck and pigeons in the meat section to a whole array of fish preparations all served in traditional “kanshar” (bell metal ) thalis. Tho’ somewhat comparable to Bengali recipes by way of gastronomical genre, Assamese food is less on spices and have more delicate and subtle flavours – gained from the greater use of vegetables, herbs and leaves ( sometimes also fruit - such as dried mangostein, I am told) in their cooking – imbibing distinct influences of other culinary traditions of the North-east and its neighbouring regions, including – probably – the lower reaches of China ( Yunnan ). It doesn’t exactly set my tastes-buds ablaze but the Tenga, ( a light sour curry made with tomato ) is one dish that I have come to like over time – thanks to the slow induction by Utpala (of the "Mosaic" fame ) in Delhi and the Bezboras of Pune.

I love Bebo

A Nawab I am certainly not and I have a pot-belly that neatly curls up into six-folds (rather than the now famous 6 ‘Khan-Packs’ ) - yet, I too have a Bebo in my life – not in Bandra but in sultry Goa. As you drive up from Colva towards Martin’s – Bebo’s house comes on the left. Bebo acts in plays – so, is a local celebrity. You have to only ask at any roadside shop and they’ll at once direct you there. Tho’ not many in Mumbai have heard of Bebo – obsessed as they are with Bollywood’s Choti Begum-saheba in waiting and other such sprigly things – my Bebo’s fame too spreads well beyond the Goan shores. Many a lustful, middle-aged marauder like your faithful blogger – in Delhi, Dubai or Dallas begin to salivate at the mere mention of Bebo’s name. Celebrated non-resident Goans and immigrants who have acquired the status of honorary Goans, visiting apprentice Goans of my ilk, Goan politicians of all hues including successive Chief Ministers, local aristocrats and socialites all adorn Bebo’s eclectic fan-club.

Alas !! Bebo is a man – dark, greasy, podgy and reeking of Feni anytime of the day – but he makes the most sinfully divine Goan chorizos in the world. The tenderest of Salcette Pork is marinated in home-made vinegar and purest Kashmiri chilies – stuffed in hog-intestines, tied-up in small knots and hung out to dry on a clothes line in his courtyard. Soaking in the scalding seaside sun and salt from the air, they acquire a red hue and piquant taste that can turn on any man by setting on fire the most uninitiated palate. Bebo’s sausages are not like the commercially produced ones - long with chunky meat inside - that you get in Bombay cold-storages. His are more cocktail size with morsels that you can nibble on – sucking out the last drop of juice from the meat. They don’t have the sharp tang of acetic acid that comes out of synthetic vinegar and the Kashmiri chilies give them a lighter ruddy colour and a subtler flavour that tantalizes the taste-buds without damaging the orifices at either end of the human anatomy.

Bebo sells them not by the dozen but strings of fifty or a hundred ( not as much as you might think – because they are much smaller in size ) at a price less than third of the branded variety. And, if he really likes you – he would ask his wife to pack some of his secret Rechado masala in a bottle to take home for just the cost of the red-chilies (which come at Rs 150 a kg in the market, by the way). So next time – you are in Goa and in a mood to stray a little, give Bebo a call (9822584195) and drop by at his humble hut in Betalbatim to pick up your parcel. I promise you won’t be disappointed – or I would buy the sausages back from you ( cooked or uncooked ) – and that’s a Ghose lot of guarantee.

In Cloud 9 or close to it...

87th floor of Jinmao towers isn't exactly the top of the world, but after 3 martinis it begins to feel like it. Perched on the window-sill of 'Cloud 9' - the bar at the top of the Grand Hyatt, touted as the highest 'bar' in the world - this 'no-JamesBond-me' kept ordering the Martini's as I waited for the Oriental Pearl Tower ( the Chinese answer to the Eiffel Tower ) in front to be lit up, while watching the illuminated tourist barges lazily sail past on the Huangpo with the lights in the restaurants on the bund and glowing neon-signs above them providing a distant back-drop. The young waitress ( Chinese, of course ) kept assuring, the lights would come on "anytime now", until I began to suspect that it was just a ploy to make gullible guests order more drinks. So, 250 RMBs down I began my descent on the 9.1 m/second elevator - rewinding my steps back to the river-front - only to be told later that after the terrible power crisis earlier in the month the government has put restriction on illumination .

So once more fishing out the 'LPG' from inside the over-coat, one sets out for another culinary conquest. If Sichuan is like fiery Chettinad - then "Shanghai-nese" is close to Gujrati - both sweet and savoury. But, the real gun-powder stuff is Hunan - hot and explosive, like an Andhra 'bombshell' (And, we are talking only of Food here - not any other drivers of culture and evolution as expounded at the Pudong Museum). The real find of the trip was the unpretentious 'Di Shui Dong' tucked away on the second-floor of a small shopping Centre on the junction of South Maoming Rd and Changie Road - diagonally across the Lyceum Theatre. The guide book says it's named after a cave in Mao's home village of Shaoshan. Like all such places which manage to worm their way into the LPG it's always packed to the gills ( except at lunch time - as I found on my second trip in 2 days ) with chattering firungs guzzling Tsing Tao to wash down the chillies. Ordering the food was easy since the menu is pictorial with Enghlish "sub-titles" ( the Mao's Quick Fried Chilli Crab, Duck in a Chilli-pot are to die for - or to die of, depending on the severity of your IBS, as were the pickled spicy pork ribs. Didn't try the broiled Bull-frogs or baby Turtles, 2 other specialities of the house. And, no they don't serve snake heads or monkey brains. But they had fried Donkey Meat on the menu !!). But ordering Soya sauce for the steamed rice was bit of a struggle. First, I got an extra plate, then extra chop-sticks and finally an extra wet-paper towell, when I finally decided to call it a day. Perhaps, they don't need any sauces to add on as the food is so good, anyway.

By the time I leave - I am actually walking on "Cloud 9" - what the Martinis couldn't do for me. And, I take a minor detour to the hotel via Lulu's massage parlour for a severe kneading of the body at the hands of her expert blind masseurs. By the time I hit bed - dreadfully anticipating the morning after in the loo - one defining image from the Pudong Sex Museum remains indelibly imprinted on the mind: that of the giant laughing Buddha tied up in chains except for one part sticking out into the skies and the caption reads - " some things can never be locked".