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. 

What's on the menu?

The best books are the ones that put some thought into food

The books that got me hooked on reading were the ones by Enid Blyton, more 

specifically the Mallory Towers series, set in an idyllic boarding house where 

Darrell Rivers and her band of intrepid friends had the most marvellous 

adventures. But what I loved most about these books were the scenes that

 described food: the midnight feasts that the girls sneaked off to, the ginger 

beer (ginger beer? What was that about?) they guzzled on days out with their 

parents. Some of the food items they consumed were little more than words to 

me — but they were words that transported me to a world far away from mine, 

introducing me to tastes that I could only conjure up in my imagination. 

Ever since those halcyon days of early childhood I have been captivated by 

books that took food seriously (and by that I don’t mean food books — those

 are a different species entirely). As a teenager, even as I was enraptured by 

the love stories at the heart of Georgette Heyer’s Regency romances, my taste 

buds would come alive when she began describing what was served at the 

endless balls, routs and masquerades that the heroines attended. I still have 

no idea what ratafia tastes like but the name itself conjures up a different, 

more chivalrous age. 

It’s the same story when I plunge into Elizabeth Jane Howard’s Cazalet 

Chronicles, as I do ever so often. Set after the First World War, it describes a 

milieu that is defined by meal times: the nursery teas served to the children; 

the elaborate three or even four course meals the adults settle down to, the 

ritual consumption of sherry and port. All of this with the aid of a devoted staff 

that cuts and chops, boils and roasts, bakes and grills so that those above 

stairs can feed and flourish. 

The most evocative food writing, though, comes from one of my favorite 

writers: Donna Leon. The hero of her detective series set in Venice, 

Commissario Guido Brunetti, takes his food very seriously indeed. He stops by

 for a brioche and a coffee at one of his favoured shops on his way to work. 

He takes a little break for some tramezzini and a small glass of wine (this is 

Italy after all!) half way through the day if he is not traipsing back home for a 

nice hot lunch. And dinner is the highlight of the day, featuring antipasto, 

pasta, a meat course and dessert followed by a glass of Calvados, sipped 

meditatively while sitting on his terrace with his wife Paola and looking 

on to the splendid views of Venice laid out before him. 

At the moment I am reading the new Jilly Cooper novel, Tackle. And even

 though the angelic Taggie, wife of reformed cad Rupert Campbell Black, is 

now a shadow of her former self, being treated for cancer, I find myself 

thinking back fondly to the many meals this gifted cook used to conjure up 

for her oblivious and ungrateful family. 

I know they say that the best books provide food for thought. But I find that

 books that put some thought into food are the best of them all. 

Missing in action

As our world shrinks to travel destinations within a few hours drive, here are some of the places I can’t wait to revisit

 

I guess it was bound to happen. After a few months of driving out to nearby resorts for mini-breaks – because flights are still a no-no in my Covid-paranoid household – we are rapidly running out of holiday destinations. We have done Jaipur, staying in not one but two of my favourite hotels. We have ventured out to Alwar, a place we had never explored before, and loved it. And of course, we have done the tried and tested Agra vacation, right under the shadow of the Taj Mahal. 

 

But now that we have exhausted the possibilities within a few hours drive from Delhi, my thoughts are inexorably turning to destinations that I can’t travel to for the foreseeable future. And the more I think about them, the more I miss them with an almost visceral twist of the gut.

 

First up on the list is London. I first discovered it in my 20s, and since then have been going there at least twice a year. As a consequence, such is my familiarity with the city that it almost seems like a second home. And yet, no matter how often I visit, London never gets old. Whether I am tramping through St James Park or trudging through Hampstead Heath; whether I am traipsing the aisles of Waitrose or Marks and Spencer; whether I am marveling at the paintings on display at the National Gallery or the Tate Modern; London never ceases to amaze and astonish with its cornucopia of delights.

 

If London is like a second home, then Bangkok is like the alternate universe in which I would like to live forever. Over the last couple of decades I have seen the city transform from a somewhat sleepy, sometimes seedy, destination into a sleek, skyscraper-strewn, shimmering capital, which attracts people from all over the world, with its world-class shopping, its amazing food (whether you eat on the streets or in Michelin-star restaurants), and its friendly people who never seem to stop smiling. Small wonder then that I can’t wait to go back.

 

As the winter fog descends on Delhi and the sun goes AWOL, my mind’s eye conjures up the white sands of Maldivian beaches, the azure-blue waters, and the clear turquoise skies of that island paradise, as I fantasize about sitting by the sea and sipping on a cocktail as I enjoy the tropical weather. I am even happy to let the humidity and sea breeze do its worst with my hair, so long as I can soak up the heat and let the warm water of the lagoon wash over me. 

 

Speaking of lagoons, how could I possibly forget the most stunning of them all? Venice! I was fortunate enough to first discover it in the depths of winter, when the tourist hordes were missing in action. I spent days wandering the near-empty calles (streets), bundled up in my overcoat and woolen cap, marveling at the architectural marvels that lay around every corner. Since then, I have been back several times, and each time La Serenissima has shown me a different facet of her undeniable beauty. I guess the streets are empty again – now because of Covid – but this time I can walk them only in my imagination.

 

Thinking of Venice leads me inexorably to other destinations in Italy, in all of which I have left behind pieces of my heart. Rome, whose magnificent monuments are a testament to the talent and ingenuity of mankind. Siena, with its cobbled streets and medieval structures that take you right back in time. San Gimignano and its dreaming spires. The shimmering waves that lap the beaches of Liguria. The stunning vistas you can feast your eyes on from the Amalfi coast. I could go on, if it wasn’t for the small matter of the lump in my throat. 

 

I don’t know when the world will have healed enough for us to venture out and explore it anew. But I do know that when that day dawns, I, for one, am going to be spoilt for choice. And I hope that you are just as lucky.

Ho, Ho, Ho

What I would like Santa to get me for Christmas...

Sometimes I wonder just how stupid we were as kids to actually believe in Santa Claus. Wasn’t it obvious that the fat Indian man (who looked suspiciously like Uncle Chatterjee from next door) with the fake white beard couldn’t possibly have travelled down from the North Pole in his reindeer-driven sleigh? Did we ever stop to think why every shop we visited while Christmas shopping had a Santa Claus who looked completely different from the one before? Or did we just wilfully ignore all these alarm bells because we needed to live in a world where Santa came around annually bearing gifts that we had longed for the entire year.

I like to think it was the latter. And so, in the same child-like spirit, I decided to compile a list of all the things that I would like Santa to bring me this year. So here it is: my own Christmas wish list (in no particular order of importance)

* A longer attention span. I’d like to revert to the days when I could watch a movie without feeling tempted to tweet my views about it half an hour into the show. I’d like to read a book with stopping to dip into Facebook to see what my friends are up to. And I’d really like to be able to finish my writing without breaking off every 15 minutes to ‘research’ something on the Net.

* An internet connection that times out automatically. I often wonder how people procrastinated in the days before the Internet was invented. How did they waste time before the Google search engine came along? And by ‘people’, of course, I mean myself. I have lost count of the number of hours I have wasted on news sites, on following threads that lead me into the darker corners of the Net, and looking through picture albums of people I barely know. And given my complete and utter lack of self-discipline, the only thing that will free me is a net connection that turns itself off when I am unable to do so. 

* High heels that I can walk in without throwing out my back, crippling my knees, and mutilating my feet. Yes, I know every woman always insists that her stilettos are comfortable enough to run in; but believe me, she lies. The pair of high heels – and I mean really high heels – that both look and feel good are yet to be invented. Which is why I am pinning my hopes on Santa.

* A machine that exercises all my muscle groups for me. Come on, admit it. You’d like one too. Just imagine the joy of lying supine, reading a book or listening to music, strapped to a contraption that stretches your hamstrings, tones up your abdomen, tightens your bum, and elongates your legs, without your ever having to make any effort whatsoever. Bliss!

* A new neck: Yes, this one has given me great service for many decades but truth be told, it is beginning to look a bit tired now. So tired, that it can barely keep my double chins in place. (And if I am wishing for things, how about a brand-new jaw-line as well, all taut and jowl-free? And all the hair I have lost since my 20s, in its original black colour.)

* A magic carpet that whisks me away to Venice every January. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Why January? Isn’t it cold as hell? And raining? And flooding, thanks to the acqua alta? Yes, right on all counts. And yet, that is the month that Venice appears most magical to me. There are no hordes of tourists jostling you aside in Piazza San Marco. The streets are deserted so that you can actually gaze on undisturbed at the many architectural gems carelessly displayed on them. And the hotel rates are, relatively at least, affordable.

* A device that wipes my memory clean of all my favourite books so that I can discover them anew. I can still remember the joy I felt when I read my first Elizabeth George or Donna Leon. I had to restrain myself from calling up all my friends late at night and sharing my discovery with them. It’s been a long time since I felt that way about a book (the last time was when I devoured Hilary Mantel’s marvellous Wolf Hall in one big gulp) and I miss that slow burn of excitement that comes with stumbling upon a bright new literary star.

* A time machine to whisk me back to my college classroom. All those great writers and poets I read then in my English literature course – William Shakespeare, Leo Tolstoy, James Joyce, Charles Dickens, John Donne, T.S. Eliot – would make so much more sense to me now that I have lived a little.