 |
| Lunch from Katy’s Kitchen |
‘Which is the veg pulao dal?’
‘There is no ‘veg pulao dal!’ The dals for the veg and the mutton pulao dal are the same.’
You don’t want me to give you my lecture on the difference between pulao dal and dhansak dal do you”, I added cheekily.
K raised her eyebrows. The message was clear. ‘Focus on the task at hand.’
I had just finished laying out the Parsi food that we had ordered from Katy’s Kitchen. After opening many plastic boxes. I usually find this part tiresome when it comes to food from outside. Yesterday was near meditative in contrast, as I took the food out from one container after another… veg pulao dal…mutton pulao dal…kachumber… khaman pattice…veg cutlet…identified the right plates and serving bowls so that everything fitted properly. I photographed everything in the sub-optimal natural light in the kitchen. Hindered furthered by the damp weather outside. Edit panel to the rescue. The resultant click had a batik-like feel to it.
I stood back and looked at my handiwork and that’s when something rather strange struck me. I realised that I possibly know more about Parsi food than Bengali food. Or at least feel more confident talking about it.
I am Bengali. Not Parsi. I did live in Iran for a year if that counts.
I grew up in Kolkata after spending my initial years abroad. My mom is a Delhi Bengali. She was a working mother. Her cooking repertoire was limited. As it would be with most normal people. I marvel at those who write cookbooks based on their mother’s or their grandmother’s cooking and which have 150 to 200 odd recipes. Who cooks so many dishes? Not the chefs at the Bukhara for sure!
I went to English medium, Protestant run, schools. I was not immersed in Bangaliana in most aspects of my life in Kolkata. This included food. I moved out of Kolkata in ’97. I have spent the last 25 years in Mumbai. 20 of them married to a Parsi. I have learnt a fair bit about Parsi food in these 20 years. Through my new family as well as through some of my friends who are Parsi. Parsi food occupies a disproportionately high share of voice when it comes to discourse on the food of Mumbai. Little wonder that my understanding of Parsi food has grown and deepened over the years. And a lot more in comparison to my understanding of Bengali food. Especially compared to those who live in Kolkata and in a far more Bengali milieu. Or so I believe and hence am more diffident while talking about it when compared to Parsi food.
K’s mom, mama and masi had come for lunch yesterday. The occasion was festive (K’s roz nu divas) and hence a Parsi meal was warranted. For them, this has to be from Katy’s Kitchen. That suits their palate the most. Mama for long has been a vegetarian and a teetotaller. Mummy was more fond of veg than non-veg in any case and turned vegetarian after my father in law passed away in homage to his love for non-veg. She has eggs. Don’t ask us why. Daddy loved eggs too. And does not mind having rice from a non veg biryani or curry either. She has made her own rules and that is what matters I believe. And works. Self imposed abstinence versus that imposed on one. I saw that in the case of my own diet.
 |
| Freddy mama. The OG vegetarian. |
The main reason why they love the food at Katy’s is that the dominant flavour is ‘khatoo mithoo.’ I remembered this as I licked a little bit of the dal that sat snug on my fingers from when I was pouring it out into a bowl. I licked my fingers clean and then washed my hands. I kept washing them while unloading the food. A covid lesson. (I used a hand sanitiser but let’s take a bit of creative liberty.)
It had that characteristic sweet and sour taste of Katy’s dhansak dal. Very different from that from home chef Mahrukh Mogrelia from whom we order often too. Her dals, and food in general, is a lot hotter than that from Katy’s.
There is a reason for that. Mahrukh was born in Navsari in Gujarat. She moved to Mumbai after her marriage and this has been her home for decades. The cooking idiom that she follows comes from from Navsari where, she tells me, ‘food has to be spicy. Rustic. Not bland like Bombay.’
Kurush’s mum, the late Dr Katy Dalal, belonged to Nargol in Gujarat. Kurush tells me that the palate there is khatu meethu, sweet and sour dominated, without a predilection for chilli heat.
This suits our folks who were born in Surat which is not too far from Navsari. The flavours preferred in their house were mild compared to K’s dad’s side who apparently loved their spice. Mahrukh’s cooking reminds K of that of her late paternal grandmother’s who was a great cook according to K.
 |
| The cake was from Theobroma. Parsi again. |
Come to think of it, every dhansak that I have had in my life, or pulao dal for that matter, have had some variation in terms of colour (shade of brown) and taste. As K and I took the food to the hall yesterday, I remembered the time I had gone to the Theobroma cafe at Bandra (in their early days and when they used to serve breakfast) and pompously declared on my blog that their akoori was not ‘authentic’. Owner Kainaz Messman’s mother came to her daughter’s defence in the comment section of the blog in a very authentic Parsi mom manner and we had an honest exchange of thoughts. I cringed at the memory of that incident. Or of the time when I went for lunch at a new Parsi restaurant that had opened at Bandra Reclamation. Possibly the first new Parsi restaurant to have opened in Mumbai in decades at that point. This was long before the first Soda Bottle Opener Wala came up. It did not last long. I remember writing on my blog that the dishes were not ‘authentic.’ “I would know. Hmph,” was the tenor of the article.
After 14 years of writing of food, the one thing I have learnt is that ‘I would not know.’
Not just me. No one would.
There is so much diversity when it comes to food. So much of the character and personality of its creator that goes into a dish. So much of history. Personal and social. And the present too.
To declare that food should confirm to one form and no other, as I have come to realise, tantamounts to the cardinal sin of hubris.
I began blogging at a time when the notion of a food critic reined supreme. The voice of God. The final authority. The one who would tell us what right and what was not. That’s what I aimed to do at the start. Hence, the name ‘Finely Chopped,’ as given by Kainaz whose idea it was that I start a blog.
 |
| Baby Loaf flummoxed to see the his picture taken by masi a few seconds before |
The lesson I take back from them is to enjoy what is put in front of you. Do not analyse too much about what is ‘right’ and what is ‘not’. Just focus on whether you like it or not. That is all that matters.
And that’s why, tempted as I often might be, I try not to think of myself as a critic anymore.
I am still very clear in my head about what I like and do not like. I am too Bengali to not be opinionated!
 |
| When the Parsis were not in a minority for a change |
