Anjoo Mohun returns to Kolkata years later, and takes us through her nostalgic, mouth-watering weekend in the city.
The best thing about nostalgia is that your memories are always rose-tinted. My feelings for Kolkata run very deep. I don't see anything that my Bong friends-in-exile-in-Delhi crib about. I just see the city where it all began for me. Food, Noddy books, charm and a street with Shakespeare's name; my loyalty has never wavered.
I first saw the city through the eyes of a five-year-old who couldn't take in the entire span of the Howrah bridge in one look. After a 22-hour journey from the North Eastern hills, it was hard to stay upright, so a bit like Salman's Rushdie's character, my view was a bit tilted. And I have remained tilted towards Kolkata ever since.
That first taste of jhaal muri
My engineer father trooped us all across the iconic bridge (twice) just to point out the engineering marvel - all girders, angles and bolts. My mother was heaving on one side (I thought with humidity) but with the hindsight of age and romance, I think she was having her own 'Amar Prem' moment.
At the end of the tour, Dad bought me a 'thonga' of jhaal muri and I was smitten. What magical place could sell that delightful concoction for 10 paise and satisfy every taste bud--the twang of the mustard oil, the crunch of the chana muri, the freshness of the onion and chillies, the blast of salt and lemon!
Today we watch masterchefs trying to create these layers of flavours through complex cooking using techniques and ingredients more bewildering than the last season but in 'aamar kolkata' I could get it for 10 paise and now 45 years later, I still get it for Rs 10 and have it custom made too, ' aar ektoo jhaal diye den dada,'.
Egg rolls? Yes please!
I would be hard put to list all the fancy places to eat in, and there are better qualified critics to do that. I have my own food routine since I usually don't have more than 36 hours in the city. So as the flight landed past 10.00 p.m., my entire plan was to get to an egg roll shop, any egg roll shop and get my first fix. I managed to find one just round the corner from the hotel and obviously it didn't disappoint.
Those expert hands have been breaking eggs over fried dough for dozens of years. I prefer to have the first one just with double egg (the filling is for later encounters). It tells you exactly how egg and paratha should be married. Of course it helps to sleep soundly with lip-smacking dreams.
Phuchkas, biryanis, and all that jazz
Over a weekend, I have a lot of eating to do and I refuse to reinforce the obvious. Bengali puchkas rule and they rock and no one is even close enough to dislodge them. So there, end of argument.
I go past my biryani joint and place an order for aloo mutton special biryani with a side order of mutton boti kabab. Only a true carnivore can understand my pleasure of piling meat upon meat. Don't ask me about the potato.
I have no time to tell you about the Nawab of Awadh's exile to Calcutta and how his entourage had to be fed too and the meat dish needed to be extended. Whatever the origins, the bite of potato which has been simmered alongside the meat gives that welcome interlude to the rice and the 'boti'.
As I walk past the maidan and watch traffic which is surprising smooth and all the blue and white lights which have lit up Kolkata, I reach the turn at Esplanade, just off that famous hotel where anyone wants to stay. And I have a cup of tea in the kulhar.
A thimbleful really, sweet as cane juice, hot and soul satisfying. It reminds me of my mom and her endless cups she asked me to fetch when I was allowed a sip. Drinking an entire 'kullah' feels like I am doing something naughty and surreptitious.
Chinese and Continental can go a long way
But now I mull on my dinner. It has to be Chinese...fresh deep fried prawns are de rigueur. For hill kids like me, any sea food or fish was luxury. Along with double roasted pork with five spice, the best chicken kung pao in that little eatery off Park Street, egg fried rice and a corn soup with shrimps. Do I need to describe heaven?
In the '90s I used to love that 'Waldorf' place just for the Russian Salad and continental dishes. There are several places to eat that food now. I am so wary of ordering 'kantinentaal' food in my 'karmabhoomi'--New Delhi (a grim brown sauce over a stringy chicken 'steak' has put paid to any ambition to be adventurous).
But you won't go wrong in Kolkata: Ancient favourites like prawn cocktails or angels on horsback, baked crab or a chateaubriand, it works every which way I want it to.
Something fishy this way comes
All those years ago, my kid brother seemed to be on a hunger strike till a plate of flat, deep fried, flaky fish cutlets was placed before him. My relieved parents realised that he considered anything that was not meat, fish or fowl unworthy of his lofty palate. Now isn't that a mark of a true Bengali?
I once had the best rui maach and bhaat with bhaja at a tiny little place just off the Howrah station on my way to Jessore (by road). I avoid any place which is 'marketing' Bengali cuisine and make my way to Ballygunge for my favourite pabda and rice. Since it is the monsoon, I order a plate of fried Ilish and devour it, but it is more a homage.
That is followed by my Kolkata paan. Nowhere else will you get your 'gilori' wrapped in a cone of banana leaf. And my Lucknawi heart sings (yeah yeah, that's where my roots lie) at the finesse of it all. I then sleep all afternoon as I will later head to the Tollygunge Club for an old girl's gang do. We have club staples like fish fingers and tartar sauce and momos which are ordered even without thinking.
Bidding Kolkata a sweet adieu
Before I leave, I have to tackle the sweet. Bengali sweets are, well, too many to list. So I stick to the basics. Turn any street corner and look for a 'mishti' shop where the name is written in Bengali. That's the authenticity test for me.
If there is a single word in Hindi, turn, walk away and pretend to be lost. I point to two pieces of sandesh: one white and one brown and a generous helping of 'mishti doi'. I usually do this on the way to the airport. The taste lingers all the way to Delhi. And I know I am just back from home.
(Source: India Today)
The best thing about nostalgia is that your memories are always rose-tinted. My feelings for Kolkata run very deep. I don't see anything that my Bong friends-in-exile-in-Delhi crib about. I just see the city where it all began for me. Food, Noddy books, charm and a street with Shakespeare's name; my loyalty has never wavered.
I first saw the city through the eyes of a five-year-old who couldn't take in the entire span of the Howrah bridge in one look. After a 22-hour journey from the North Eastern hills, it was hard to stay upright, so a bit like Salman's Rushdie's character, my view was a bit tilted. And I have remained tilted towards Kolkata ever since.
That first taste of jhaal muri
My engineer father trooped us all across the iconic bridge (twice) just to point out the engineering marvel - all girders, angles and bolts. My mother was heaving on one side (I thought with humidity) but with the hindsight of age and romance, I think she was having her own 'Amar Prem' moment.
At the end of the tour, Dad bought me a 'thonga' of jhaal muri and I was smitten. What magical place could sell that delightful concoction for 10 paise and satisfy every taste bud--the twang of the mustard oil, the crunch of the chana muri, the freshness of the onion and chillies, the blast of salt and lemon!
Today we watch masterchefs trying to create these layers of flavours through complex cooking using techniques and ingredients more bewildering than the last season but in 'aamar kolkata' I could get it for 10 paise and now 45 years later, I still get it for Rs 10 and have it custom made too, ' aar ektoo jhaal diye den dada,'.
Egg rolls? Yes please!
I would be hard put to list all the fancy places to eat in, and there are better qualified critics to do that. I have my own food routine since I usually don't have more than 36 hours in the city. So as the flight landed past 10.00 p.m., my entire plan was to get to an egg roll shop, any egg roll shop and get my first fix. I managed to find one just round the corner from the hotel and obviously it didn't disappoint.
Those expert hands have been breaking eggs over fried dough for dozens of years. I prefer to have the first one just with double egg (the filling is for later encounters). It tells you exactly how egg and paratha should be married. Of course it helps to sleep soundly with lip-smacking dreams.
Phuchkas, biryanis, and all that jazz
Over a weekend, I have a lot of eating to do and I refuse to reinforce the obvious. Bengali puchkas rule and they rock and no one is even close enough to dislodge them. So there, end of argument.
I go past my biryani joint and place an order for aloo mutton special biryani with a side order of mutton boti kabab. Only a true carnivore can understand my pleasure of piling meat upon meat. Don't ask me about the potato.
I have no time to tell you about the Nawab of Awadh's exile to Calcutta and how his entourage had to be fed too and the meat dish needed to be extended. Whatever the origins, the bite of potato which has been simmered alongside the meat gives that welcome interlude to the rice and the 'boti'.
As I walk past the maidan and watch traffic which is surprising smooth and all the blue and white lights which have lit up Kolkata, I reach the turn at Esplanade, just off that famous hotel where anyone wants to stay. And I have a cup of tea in the kulhar.
A thimbleful really, sweet as cane juice, hot and soul satisfying. It reminds me of my mom and her endless cups she asked me to fetch when I was allowed a sip. Drinking an entire 'kullah' feels like I am doing something naughty and surreptitious.
Chinese and Continental can go a long way
But now I mull on my dinner. It has to be Chinese...fresh deep fried prawns are de rigueur. For hill kids like me, any sea food or fish was luxury. Along with double roasted pork with five spice, the best chicken kung pao in that little eatery off Park Street, egg fried rice and a corn soup with shrimps. Do I need to describe heaven?
In the '90s I used to love that 'Waldorf' place just for the Russian Salad and continental dishes. There are several places to eat that food now. I am so wary of ordering 'kantinentaal' food in my 'karmabhoomi'--New Delhi (a grim brown sauce over a stringy chicken 'steak' has put paid to any ambition to be adventurous).
But you won't go wrong in Kolkata: Ancient favourites like prawn cocktails or angels on horsback, baked crab or a chateaubriand, it works every which way I want it to.
Something fishy this way comes
All those years ago, my kid brother seemed to be on a hunger strike till a plate of flat, deep fried, flaky fish cutlets was placed before him. My relieved parents realised that he considered anything that was not meat, fish or fowl unworthy of his lofty palate. Now isn't that a mark of a true Bengali?
I once had the best rui maach and bhaat with bhaja at a tiny little place just off the Howrah station on my way to Jessore (by road). I avoid any place which is 'marketing' Bengali cuisine and make my way to Ballygunge for my favourite pabda and rice. Since it is the monsoon, I order a plate of fried Ilish and devour it, but it is more a homage.
That is followed by my Kolkata paan. Nowhere else will you get your 'gilori' wrapped in a cone of banana leaf. And my Lucknawi heart sings (yeah yeah, that's where my roots lie) at the finesse of it all. I then sleep all afternoon as I will later head to the Tollygunge Club for an old girl's gang do. We have club staples like fish fingers and tartar sauce and momos which are ordered even without thinking.
Bidding Kolkata a sweet adieu
Before I leave, I have to tackle the sweet. Bengali sweets are, well, too many to list. So I stick to the basics. Turn any street corner and look for a 'mishti' shop where the name is written in Bengali. That's the authenticity test for me.
If there is a single word in Hindi, turn, walk away and pretend to be lost. I point to two pieces of sandesh: one white and one brown and a generous helping of 'mishti doi'. I usually do this on the way to the airport. The taste lingers all the way to Delhi. And I know I am just back from home.
(Source: India Today)
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