The girl who ate the world

Visiting some cities is just as excuse to eat the food they are famous for 

I guess it’s a measure of how important food is in my life that I associate every city I have ever visited with a dish (or dishes) that I enjoyed there. And the first thing I do when I arrive at any destination is to make a beeline for a place that does the best version of that dish. 

So, if I am visiting Kolkata — or Cal, as I still call it, as I did when I grew up there — one of my first stops is a little lane near New Market where my favourite puchkawallah is stationed. After I have had my fill of those fire-filled taste bombs, I indulge myself with some churmur — that’s when they smash a few puris, mash them up with the aloo mixture and make a delicious new dish of the same parts. Next up, it’s the turn of the jhaalmuri guy who sells his stuff outside Loreto House, a staple of my school and college years. For dinner I order in the rolls from Nizam, reliving my days in the ABP office, when this used to be our office lunch (at least until the money ran out by the end of the month). This is the taste of Calcutta to me — and will remain so, no matter how many times they rename the city. 

Similarly, Mumbai to me means vada pav. No, not the overgrown monstrosities that are served in restaurants and caffès. It’s only the real stuff that is sold on the streets will do it for me: soft buns cradling a perfect bite-sized potato patty smeared with green chutney and garlic and chilly, served up in yesterday’s newspaper, to be devoured in two or maximum three bites. If it’s the monsoons, then it is time for yet another Mumbai special: the kanda bhajiya. This is as far removed from the North Indian onion pakoda as a jalebi is from an amriti, being an altogether more delicate creation, crisp with just a hint of besan to hold it together, dashed with a tangy chutney to make it come alive. 

As for the city I live in now, well, to me Delhi brings with it associations of the best chaat ever. There is the deliciously deep-fried aloo tikki, served in a puddle of channa with a generous sprinkle of chopped onions on top; there is the sweet and savoury mix of dahi bhallas; and then there is the decadent pleasure of a plate of channa bhatura. 

Even when I travel abroad, each city brings with it its own food associations. In Venice, it is cicchetti, the open sandwich with interesting toppings, that has become synonymous with the city. In Naples, it is the pizza that the city made famous the world over. In Frankfurt, it is sausages and potato salad, the no-frills combination that all Germans swear by. In London, it is fish and chips, with a squeeze of vinegar, eaten hot off the stove, standing on a busy pavement. In Bangkok, it is a plate of krapow (minced pork with basil) served with jasmine rice, a fried egg, sliced cucumbers and a small bowl of nampla. 

Every city, to me at least, is a dish best served up hot or cold. And as for me, I am just the girl who ate the world. 

Comfort food

It’s whatever you want to eat first thing when you finally come back home

Whenever I fly back to India after a long trip abroad, the first thing I do after I have checked in is call home and order dinner. It's always the same menu: khichdi and aloo chokha with a side of onion raita. That, to me, is the authentic taste of home. And that's what I long for after a week or so of eating Thai, Italian, Chinese, or generic Continental food.

I guess it is true what they say: your taste buds are set by the food you grew up on. And in my case, it was bog-standard, fairly bland, vegetarian fare, the kind that Ayurvedic buffs would classify as satvik food. And that is the food that I always long for, after my palate has been over-stimulated by spicy, exotic, even esoteric fare.

I assume it’s the same for all of you reading this. It is the tastes of your childhood that you miss most as you grow up and travel far from home. For some it may be a simple dal-chawal and subzi; for some it may be an aromatic biryani; for others it may be a masala omelet wedged between buttered toast; or some curd rice with pickle and fried papad. But while the choices may vary, the idea remains the same. We long for the food we cut our milk teeth on.

Speaking for myself, I still fantasize about the singada (samosa to all those who grew up in north India) I ate at my Calcutta home. The highly spiced potato mix, encased in the most delicate pastry, and dunked in an unctuous sweet-sour sauce. Bliss! Over the years, I have eaten samosas all over the length and breadth of India but nothing ever comes close. And each time I experience a little pang of disappointment as I take my first bite.

The jhaal-moori sold outside the school gates, all the more special for being contraband; the orange-stick ice-cream lollies which left our tongues a lurid colour; the kanji my grandmother would make each season; the sambar that was the Sunday special at home; all these tastes still linger in my mouth, all the more flavorful for being infused with nostalgia.

No matter how much we grow up or how far we travel, the taste of home is always comforting. Brits who are exiled across the pond, whether in New York or Los Angeles, long for a jar of Marmite (no, I don’t get the appeal either). Australians are a bit mental about Vegemite, which tastes pretty ghastly to the rest of us. Italians hunt out the local pizzeria the moment they hit a new city. The Japanese think nothing of spending a minor fortune on eating sushi and sashimi on their travels. And we all know of those Gujarati/Marwari groups who go everywhere with their own Maharaj (that’s cook, not king) so that they can get their fill of theplas, undhiya, gatte ki subzi, raj kachoris and other deep-fried delights no matter where in the world they are.

Even hardened soldiers who go out to war do so while kitted out with their home staples because – as Napoleon Bonaparte so famously said – an army marches on its stomach. We recently got a good look at the pre-packed meals of the soldiers of different countries serving in Afghanistan when they were served at a charity dinner organized by The Guardian newspaper.

Here are just some of the items in the kitty. The Brits get Typhoo tea and Tabasco; the Italians get minestrone and a tiny measure of alcohol (coyly called cordiale); the French get (no surprises here) cassoulet with duck confit and venison pate; the Americans get peanut butter and spiced apple cider; the Germans get liver-sausage spread for their rye bread; the Singaporeans get a pack of Sichuan noodles and soya milk; and the Australians get steak and (you guessed it!) Vegemite.

Because at the end of the day – whether you spend it on the warfront or in a boring conference room – everyone longs for a taste of the home they grew up in. And that’s why even Michelin star-quality Chinese food doesn’t hit the spot quite like your Mom’s Maggi noodles.

That Madeleine moment

We all have food memories that take us effortlessly back to the past

I don’t know about you, but I rather relish the prospect of room service breakfast at a posh hotel. There is something so glamorous about being served on a starched, white table-cloth with a red rose standing stiffly to attention on the side, while a gloved waiter pours you a nice cup of coffee. And what could be more decadent than having someone squeeze a glass of fresh orange juice and cook a nice French toast for you (note to self: must get out more!) first thing in the morning?

Though I usually go for the more sinful options when it comes to hotel breakfasts – bring on the pancakes, the waffles and the parathas – last Sunday I decided to go for the (relatively) healthy option and ordered akuri. For those of you who haven’t had the pleasure, this is basically Indian-style scrambled eggs seasoned with lots of onion, ginger, tomato, and green chillies, and liberally garnished with coriander. It is usually served with toast but on this occasion the chef sent it with a Bombay-style pau (the kind that makes up one half of pao bhaji).

I stuffed a generous dollop of the eggs between two halves of the pao and popped a generous mouthful in. As the buttery eggs coated my tongue and the ginger and chilli hit the back of my throat, I was instantly transported back in time. With just one bite, I was taken back to my days as a callow, young sub-editor on her first job, who kept herself fortified for the long nights of page-making with a double-roti and omelette sandwich in the ABP canteen in Calcutta.  

And even though the akuri was perfect – just on the right side of runny, creamy and unctuous, at that moment I would have killed for the sandwich of my misbegotten youth, oily junk food though it might have been.

Now, I don’t want to get all Proust – remember his Madeleine? He certainly did – on you on a Sunday morning, but it is strange isn’t it, how some kinds of food suddenly evoke a memory so strong that you find yourself going back in time? Which bring on such a craving that you can’t think of anything other than their taste, their smell, and how you can best replicate them?

Like most people, my food memories are rooted in my childhood. I still remember the taste of those tiny, pink berries that I would tear off the tree in the back garden, having slipped away to investigate the vegetation as my mother undertook her afternoon siesta. If I close my eyes and think back, I can still taste the shingara (that’s samosa to all you non-Calcuttans) and jalebi that used to be my holiday breakfast as a child. The coconut-jaggery prasad that used to be served on Janmashtami has assumed near mythic status in my mind. And nothing tasted quite as good as the churmur chaat that we used to eat during the break in school, with the chaatwallah slipping it under the school-gate like the contraband it was (having been outlawed by the nuns, like everything else that made life worth living).

As you can tell, most of my food nostalgia is Calcutta-related: the puchchkas in front of New Market; the jhaal-muri outside Loreto College; the dosas of Jyoti Vihar; the junk Chinese served up in Chung-Wah, the official canteen of all ABP employees back in the day; the biryani of Shiraz; the rolls of Nizam.  

As they say, you can take the girl out of Calcutta; but you can’t take the taste of Calcutta out of the girl. (And please don’t send me irate letters about how it is now Kolkata; it will always be Cal to me.)

But even if you discount my food memories of Calcutta, there is still a vast swathe of things that I feel nostalgic about.  The home-made idlis that a former colleague would bring to work (paired with the most divine gunpowder and green chutney); the chilli con carne I once had in a Washington restaurant;  the pad Thai served up at a roadside stall in Bangkok.

There is certain pattern to food nostalgia. Britons living abroad often long for a taste of Marmite as a reminder of home. Americans express a craving for steak or the barbeque sauce of their childhood. Italians long for sun-dried tomatoes and a good olive oil. And the French turn up their noses at any cheese that doesn’t stink like the ones they grew up on.

Ask any random sampling of Indians living abroad what they are most nostalgic about and the phrase ‘dal-chawal’ will drip off most tongues. And I can totally relate because when I come back to India after a vacation abroad, the first thing I want to eat is dal-chawl with a nice spicy pickle and lots of roasted papad and lashings of raw onion.

Within India, food nostalgia can be rather region-centric. Rare is the Punjabi who isn’t nostalgic about the kadhi-chawal or rajma-chawal or aloo-vadi that his mother or grandmother made. Bengalis tend to wax eloquent about their fish curries or shukto. Gujaratis bang on about the fluffy dhoklas and the perfect theplas that their Maharajs turned out in their ancestral homes.

As for me, I still fantasize about the double-roti omelette, the shingara-jalebi, and the puchchkas of my youth. And I often wonder if they would taste just as great in real life as they do in my dreams. Or whether remembrance has given them a flavour that they never possessed in reality.