Subjective Culinary Histories

1993, The East Coast.  My love affair with Indian food began when a massive blizzard struck the East Coast just as I was trying to get back to college. I distinctly recall being on my final flight, delayed beyond belief, when a young male figure in bright red pants walked down the aisle and sat down next to me. To me, red pants signified that either a) he was gay(1), or b) we were sailing off the coast of Nantucket. Since we weren't anywhere near Nantucket, I was open to conversation, only to discover that we had a mutual acquaintance from Pakistan, and that this person was part of a group of wealthy Pakistani students that were also studying in [city].

We exchanged numbers, and, after running a background check, I began to spend social time with those guys during what was an incredibly fun summer of clubbing(2) in downtown [city]. During that period, they introduced me to Northern Indian cuisine at the Indian restaurant that would also sustain me through graduate school.

Unwilling to let my guard down around them, I stayed sober at the clubs while they drank, which meant that after dancing the night away I got to drive everyone home in the most amazing sports cars imaginable. Alas, our friendship faded, as one can only say no to being a kept woman in Karachi so many times(3). However, my love for the food endured. In whatever city I was working in after graduation, I was quick to find the best Indian restaurant and incorporate dining there into my weekly routine.



Summer 2004, Bangalore, India.  Having discovered that the Paris offices of the most prestigious consulting firms hire only people who have attended the same high school, I ended up in Bangalore for my internship. I was excited to finally be visiting India.

Work was at an immaculate corporate campus with more than 40 office buildings and multiple open air dining halls, set behind large gates that excluded the chaos of the largest commuter road in the city. Dining options included eye-wateringly hot South Indian food. After having emerged from lunch crying several times, I learned to avoid that dining hall. Then there was Indian Chinese food (an unexpected and tolerable hybrid), completely unrecognizable Domino's pizza, and a freestanding outpost of Amul, an Indian dairy cooperative, that would make a grilled cheese on demand.

Fortunately, South Indian breakfast food is mild. I survived by eating dosas, idlis, vadas, cream crackers, laughing cow cheese, grilled cheese, canned gulab jamun, and Coke, losing ten pounds that I didn't have to lose in the process. At the end of my internship, I toured Northern India alone because I wished to see the Taj Mahal and had no desire to return to the country. As for Indian food, at the time of my departure it was uncertain whether or not it would ever become a part of my diet again.  Once back home, it took over a year for me to again cross the threshold of an Indian restaurant.




2009, Bombay (Mumbai), India.  The fates must have heard me when I vowed never to return to India, because Mumbai became my second home in 2009. This opened up a whole new world of fantastic snacks and Indian home cooking, amongst other things.

A few friends and family members flew in for our Indian wedding reception, an intimate gathering of over 400 people. Friend Patrick was a notable presence. While the rest of us made every attempt to avoid getting sick, avoiding the water, fresh fruit and vegetables, and any dining establishment that hadn’t been vetted, Patrick threw caution to the wind and headed to the first fresh juice food cart he could find on the street, his rationale being that the sooner he assaulted his digestive system, the better.

Despite all of our precautions, even local Mr. Bebe was vomiting the morning of our reception. In retrospect, perhaps that wasn’t because of any food...

Over the following years we continued to visit a select list of local restaurants, many of them in five star hotels, at the direction of family. Our culinary experiences were not without their challenges, including one notable occasion when all twelve attendees at a supposedly safe dinner became ill. Even dining at home was challenging. Unbeknownst to us, the cook was incorporating something into the dal that was making me sick; we didn’t realize until the cook changed a decade later. All of a sudden I could visit without feeling vaguely ill every day, and without having to make surreptitious visits to the Taj for club sandwiches.

And then there were the snacks...

Present day, Mumbai, India

Dishoom: Cookery Book and Highly

Subjective Guide To Bombay With Map

Bringing us to the present day, I was recently given Dishoom, an absolutely delightful Bombay-themed cookbook. "Dishoom” effectively means “pow.” I will leave it up to you to decide in what manner you will allow its contents to assault your senses.

Dishoom paints a lovely, romanticized picture of Mumbai dining that goes well-beyond subjectivity into the fantastical. I wouldn't dare set foot in any of the restaurants on its map.  

 

The first red flag was the mention of street snacks on Chowpatty Beach. I still can’t dress myself in a sari, don’t really speak Hindi, and don’t claim to begin to understand this complex culture or city of over twenty million people. However, looking down at Chowpatty from the apartment, I know deep in my soul that it should neither be treated as a beach nor as a dining destination, at least not by anyone wishing to enjoy the rest of their trip.

Thus, it is your choice.  Kebabs on Mohammed Ali Road?  Fraught with peril.  Butter pepper garlic crab at Trishna in Kala Ghoda?  I love crab, but I love my life more. Of course drinks at the Taj are safe, but none of us needed a book to tell us to spend time there.

Alas, Dishoom is a wonderful read. The photos are lovely and the recipes supposedly good.  However, the dining guide was apparently designed for those foolish enough not to know better.  That, or for those interested in indulging in a fantasy while safely dining at the associated London(4) or NYC restaurants, under the watchful eyes of the local health departments.  Or for Patrick. 

 

 

 

 

(1)  In the end, he wasn't gay

(2)  This song still reminds me of clubbing with that group of guys.  Of course the associated cassette tape is still upstairs

(3)  At one point he suggested that I put on a bikini and some makeup and go lay out by the pool.  If you know me, you are now laughing...
(4)  The word from London is that Dishoom is not only overrated but also does not accept reservations. On my most recent trip I didn't attempt Dishoom, but instead had a wonderful meal at Gunpowder Soho