Des in the City

Aadaab, New York! Bollywood Haazir Hai

Avinash — Tue, 11 May 2010 05:57:24 +0000

There is some seriously good Urdu cinema coming to Lincoln Centre.

Curated by Richard Allen, chair of cinema studies at the Tisch School of Arts, New York University and Ira Bhaskar, associate professor of cinema studies at Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi, a beautiful set of Bollywood films will be screened between May 19 and May 27, under the title Social Dramas and Shimmering Spectacles: Muslim Cultures of Bombay Cinema.

My special recommendations from this stellar lineup are:

1. Garam Hawa (M. S. Sathyu, 1973, 146m) on May 21 & May 24

2. Mammo (Shyam Benegal, 1994, 124m) on May 22 & May 25

3. Mughal-e-Azam (K. Asif, 1960, 173m) on May 21 & May 24

4. Pakeezah (Kamal Amrohi, 1971, 146m) on May 21 & May 25

5. Salim Langde Pe Mat Ro (Saeed Akhtar Mirza, 1989, 111m) on May 21 & May 24

Conquering the Brussel Sprout

Avinash — Mon, 03 May 2010 12:34:23 +0000

in memory of Sitalakshmi Viswanathan.

It was an important decision, which is why my mother and I were fighting about it. My room was an unholy mess, stacks of books on my bed and clothes on just about every surface. On the floor were my two gigantic suitcases. When I bought them, they looked big enough to fit provisions for a small army. Now I was finding out that they weren’t big enough for both my ideas of life in a foreign land and my mother’s concerns for her son’s comfort. I was already irritated that my suitcases were too heavy when my mother gave me six kilos of rice, double wrapped and vaccum sealed. I had just squeezed in some spices and lentils that I was sure would be hideously expensive in America. There was no room for the rice. “I am going there to study!” I said a little too loudly, “Not to eat! I am not throwing my books out so I can fit in all this rice!” I had pulled out the trump card. My mother sighed and patted the nearest stack of books, and didn’t say anything when I left four kilos of rice behind. She turned out to be right. Every Indian store in New York carries spices, but that particular kind of rice isn’t easy to find.

I actually started cooking quite by chance, on a day when my mother was ill. She had lain in bed all morning coping with an upset stomach, and I just couldn’t stand the thought of her dragging herself to the kitchen to make lunch for the two of us. I was at home, in between projects, with time weighing heavily on my hands. So I volunteered. I picked two very simple dishes that I knew would be easy to digest but comforting for her. Then I went to her for instructions. I was expecting something in the nature of a recipe, but I got a few vague directions about the food and more than a earful about correct conduct in the kitchen. I kept interrupting her, “So how many red chillies should I put in?” “It depends on how much yogurt you start with,” she said, “But whatever you do, don’t use the big stainless steel pot, it heats too fast and you’ll burn the chillies.” Very helpful.

So I entered the kitchen with some trepidation. I knew my way around very well, because I loved that comfortable warm yellow room. It had shiny black granite counters that I loved sitting on, chattering endlessly to my mother while she made fritters on rainy afternoons. When my house was built in 1954, my sensitive grandfather had insisted on the kitchen being one of the largest rooms. That kitchen was the nerve centre of my home. Conversations happened there, as did celebrations. And for the very first time, I was in charge.

The French scholar Michel de Certeau, who specialized in theorizing about everyday life, refers to cooking as a “tactical” activity. Cooking involves some amount of planning, it is true, but so much of it is making do. “A tactic,” he says in his book The Practice of Everyday Life, “depends on time – it is always on the watch for opportunities that must be seized ‘on the wing’.” The making of food depends on so many variables: what’s available at home, what’s on sale at the market, how much time one has, and –perhaps most importantly – one’s mood. De Certeau also cautions us not to forget how much of the joy of cooking is derived from “manipulation”. The ancient Greeks had a word for this kind of joyful manipulation – metis, under which they included “clever tricks, knowing how to get away with things, hunter’s cunning, maneuvers, polymorphic simulations, joyful discoveries.” Sounds exactly like my first cooking experience.

I had decided to make Kadhi: a soupy spicy yogurt concoction that was a personal favourite. I assembled all the ingredients and set the oil to heat in the small copper-bottom pot. In went the first ingredients, mustard and cumin seeds, perfectly in accord with my mother’s instructions. But as they spluttered in the hot oil, popping their skins and releasing their flavours, the other spices in the box called out to me. I boldly reached for the fenugreek seeds. They were bitter, it is true, but fenugreek in yogurt was a famous home remedy for upset stomachs. In they went. Then I dutifully whisked the yogurt and gram flour together, but stopped just before I tipped it into the pot. The fenugreek would be strong, would it overpower the dish? I’d lived four years in the western province of Gujarat, where they made their Kadhi sweet. My mother didn’t like sweet things too much, but a little sugar would set things right here. And some fresh ginger. It smelt fabulous now, but I couldn’t sneak a taste. My grandmother believed that cooking was a pure and sacred activity, and that tasting food before it was served was sacrilege, an impure act. I was nervous as I set the table. I watched as my mother served herself and tasted the first mouthful. “What did you put in it?” she said, “It tastes great!”

In the two years between that day and the evening before my flight to the US, I built up quite a reputation as a cook. At first I found it surprising, because I never stuck to any recipes. When people asked me how I achieved my results, I found it hard to provide any exact measures or proportions. And nobody believed me when I said that I cooked by smell. I stood staunchly by my grandmother’s interdiction against tasting, but I always knew when something smelt right. I later discovered that this is easier with Indian cooking, which depends so heavily on strong smelling spices. The first time I tried making pasta sauce, it was disastrous precisely because I had no idea what it should smell like in the early stages.

When I moved into an apartment of my own, I experimented freely. I used any equipment that was available. I made Spanish omlettes in a round bottomed pan, and used grated carrot for the filling. Turmeric was an essential ingredient in my pasta. I’d wake up in the morning with the vague idea that caramellised sugar would be a good addition to opo squash curry, and by evening I’d have three friends over to try it out. And they loved it.

My grandmother had an entirely different philosophy about cooking. She wouldn’t cook unless the perfect ingredients were available, even if that meant sending my father on wild goose chases on a Sunday night. She held all the proportions in her head, but they were absolutely sacred. Her attitude towards kitchen equipment was equally religious. Certain ladles were to be used only for curries, others only for yogurt. The vessels meant for milk only ever held milk, but even worse, the vessel meant for cow’s milk may never be used for holding buffalo’s milk. That kind of order was important to her; it gave meaning to her experience of cooking.

For a while, I tried to live up to the legacy of my grandmother. Though my kitchen hygiene improved by leaps and bounds, I found the actual cooking much too constricting. But I made another surprising discovery. I derived far less comfort and satisfaction when I served food that was made to an exact recipe. I felt my friends’ appreciation float over my head, and fly away into the hands of the anonymous creator of those recipes. What they were eating wasn’t mine.

Authenticity is overrated anyway, I told myself. What does tradition mean, inside a kitchen? Chillies are the most important spice in scores of traditional Indian recipes, but they were only introduced to India by Portuguese traders in the 16th Century. The Portuguese forged an unlikely culinary link between South America and India, bringing with them exotica like potatoes and tomatoes. I’d be hard pressed to find an Indian Chef today who could cook without either. The British introduced the concept of baking, and the Turks were responsible for most desserts. I have never cooked without a pressure cooker in my life, but pressure cookers came from the US, in the 1950s.

My father came up to my room as I was packing to leave for the US. He probably had some vague idea of having a heart-to-heart, but I was too worried and tense to respond. Instead, he ended up trying to help me pack, wrapping my kitchen utensils so they wouldn’t dent. As he stuffed spice packets into a saucepan, and then swaddled the whole thing in a t-shirt, he said “This is the most important thing you have learnt in your life.” I stared at him. My father was telling me that packing was the greatest life skill I had? “Cooking.” he clarified “It is very important. I’m so proud of you because you can cook. That is something I never learnt.”

I felt the emotion behind what he said, but I didn’t really understand the words until many months later. As I stood in the aisle of an American supermarket, staring at the unfamiliar vegetables, I thought of that 16th century Indian cook who first saw a chilli. “I can’t cook potatoes all the time!” I told myself, “I need to start somewhere.” So I added broccoli, brussel sprouts and sour cream to my shopping cart. The next morning, the brussel sprouts were simmering in a spiced tamarind sauce. The resultant curry was so good that I posted the recipe on my blog. Within two weeks, friends wrote to me saying that they tried the recipe and loved it. I had conquered the brussel sprout. In all the months of coping with homesickness, that odd sense of accomplishment was the most comforting feeling I’d had.

How the NYT taught me something about India

Avinash — Mon, 03 May 2010 01:08:45 +0000

Over the past few months, I have been obsessed with tracking the coverage of India in the New York Times. I constantly compare their coverage with reports in the local media, trying thereby to understand how they view my country and the region.

It is a rewarding exercise. Sometimes, they are keenly interested in India’s response to global issues – with regards to the Roman Catholic Church, for instance. The Catholic Bishop’s Conference of India is taking a tough line on all allegations of abuse, while the rest of the world still dilly-dallies.

I have also taken umbrage at some of their articles. I once found their coverage of Pakistan bordering on the offensive, on their At War Blog.

But never has the New York Times really given me information about my country that I did not already know or expect – until now. This lovely article about eating in New Delhi surprised me, with its real insider information, and understanding of Indian cuisine. I know it isn’t earth-shattering news, but that’s what makes it so special - the intimacy of the information it provides. Kudos, NYT.

The Transposed Heads

Avinash — Sun, 02 May 2010 17:44:35 +0000

I almost never judge a book by its cover, but don’t you agree that this one deserves to be an exception?

The book in question is The Transposed Heads by Thomas Mann, and this edition was published by Albert A. Knopf. The Transposed Heads is one of those rare books where the story, the language and the design of the book itself work perfectly in tandem to create a mystic, dreamlike experience that’s immensely pleasurable.

The credit for such beauty must go to three geniuses. Firstly, to the indologist Heinrich Zimmer, who probably first narrated this story to Mann, and to whom the book is dedicated. The story comes from the Indian scripture, the Bhagavat Purana, and is a curious tale of two friends whose heads are exchanged, and the strange events that ensue. The second genius is that of Thomas Mann, who handles this tale with a pithy lightness that is just mesmerising. The language is just quaint enough to convey the sense that this is a very old story indeed, and its magic is certainly not lost in translation. The third genius is Paul Rand, who designed this cover in 1941.

Lance Esplund, in Rand’s biography, writes:

Rand merges three heads, three necks, three sets of shoulders and chests, with three sets of hips, waists and bellies, all into one black, hourglass, figurative form that moves like a Jesse tree. This is placed over a ground made up of an acidic-yellow and orange Indian cloth, with a pattern of tiny headless bodies, and a shocking-pink rectangle; both are separated by a slicing, horizontal white stripe. Pregnancy, the interchangeability and compatibility of forms, the flowing and intermixing of energies and bodily fluids, generational growth and decapitation—all are experienced in this poignant, though oddly anonymous, multi- onion-domed, sexy, Arp-like form.

[www.paulrand.com]

I’ve paused just long enough to write this review, and now I’m going to read The Transposed Heads for the second time in a single day.

Trader Joe’s Desi Treasures

Avinash — Sun, 02 May 2010 17:16:55 +0000

I have long been a Trader Joe’s fan, not least for the extraordinary amount of Desi food available on their shelves. After much sampling and experimentation, I have decided that two items tie for my new award, Trader Joe’s Desi Treasure.

For a mango-starved Desi, Chile Spiced Mango is manna from heaven. Salted and spiced raw mango is a popular Indian street snack, and this Trader Joe’s product is the closest I have found in the USA. However, be warned by the colour: this is dried mango coated in chile powder. Even if you are a spice-hardened desi, it can set your mouth on fire. Literally. My suggestion is to dip it in some full cream yogurt (known as dahi to desis) to take some of the heat off.

There is nothing that compares to Trader Joe’s Vegetable Masala Burger, even in Des. These scrumptious potato patties are studded with little gems of carrot, corn and green beans, and come conveniently frozen. Just slap onto a hot griddle and roast both sides. Then slip it between two slices of bread, and go to Desi Heaven.

Keep it up, Trader Joe’s!

How did I miss this Literary Love Fest?

Avinash — Sun, 02 May 2010 16:40:18 +0000

I know I usually write about Desi news in the international news media, but I just can’t afford to pass up this mention of New York in the Desi news media.

My favourite columnist for my favourite paper was in New York this month, and seems to have had a literary orgasm. Pradeep Sebastian has an article in The Hindu‘s Literary Review supplement today, about his visit to the New York Antiquarian Book Fair. His reverent account of encountering priceless first editions had me salivating about the smell of old books (which is probably my favourite smell in the whole world.)

I’m kicking myself for having missed the book fair this year, so I am already marking it up in my calendar for next year, as should you.

Pumpkin Chickpea Curry / Soup

Avinash — Fri, 16 Apr 2010 16:01:53 +0000

The real star of my Pumpkin Chickpea curry is Black Cardamom (featured bottom right in the image). Known in India as Badi Ilaichi, this rather ugly spice is related to Cardamom, but tastes warm and woody – more like Cinammon without the sweetness. Don’t judge the spice by the pod, it tastes absolutely heavenly.

Black Cardamom is used in a lot of North Indian and Pakistani cooking. Traditionally, the method is to just crush the pod, and drop it whole into the oil. For this particular curry, though, I like to use just the little black seeds inside, and discard the pod.

The Curry combines the silky smoothness of any yellow-fleshed squash/pumpkin, with the textures of chickpea skins and sesame seeds. If you want to convert this into a soup, leave the dried red chilli out, cook it a little longer and mash it up! The recipe follows:

भोपला छोले सब्ज़ी | Pumpkin Chickpea Curry

For 1 lb. (about 500g) of any yellow-fleshed squash/pumpkin, you need

500 g of Chickpeas, soaked in warm water for an hour (or) one can of Garbanzo beans
1 tbsp Sesame Seeds
2 pods of Black Cardamom seeds
1/2 tsp Ginger Powder
1 tbsp Brown Sugar (or) Jaggery
1 Dried Red Chilli, broken
1 Star Anise (optional)
1 cup of water
Salt to Taste
_____

1. Slice the Pumkin as fine as you can. If you have any slightly pulpy Pumkin, this curry is the perfect use for it.

2. Heat some oil in a pot. Add the Black Cardamom seeds, Ginger Powder, broken Red Chilli, Star Anise and Sesame Seeds.

3. Fry till the Sesame starts to brown, then add the Brown Sugar. Fry for a few seconds.

4. Now add the Pumpkin and Chickpeas. Fry it all for a minute or so.

5. Top up with water, add the salt, and bring to a boil.

6. Now cover the pot, and let the whole thing simmer for at least half an hour, or until the Pumkin is pulpy and the Chickpeas are cooked.

This Curry can be combined with Bread or Rotis, but my preference is to just have it with steaming white rice. If you’re going to turn this into a soup, it might be easier to just toss the whole thing into a pressure cooker. Either way, it makes for a warm and fulfilling dinner.

Pakistan Bootlegs, but so does Gujarat

Avinash — Tue, 13 Apr 2010 15:46:46 +0000

It seems to be fairly established now: prohibition = bootlegging. The New York Times reports in its Peshawar journal that even a ban on alcohol combined with death threats from the Taliban have not deterred illicit liquor trade in Pakistan. What is even more interesting is the little titbit about how a lot of the liquor is pirated from the “Liquor route” between foreign embassies in Islamabad and NATO troops in Kabul.

All this reminded me of my five years in Gujarat, which also has a prohibition law. Needless to say, it is flouted by one and all. Other cities have family physicians, but Ahmedabad has family bootleggers: loyal suppliers who deliver booze to your doorstep. I came across a number of news articles on the subject, such as this one on rediff.com, but the most entertaining story source has to be http://prohibition.in

I frankly don’t understand why countries/communities/religions even bother. People like to drink. That’s all there really is to it.

My Andaz opens on Fifth Avenue

Avinash — Mon, 12 Apr 2010 18:58:25 +0000

When I saw this humongous sign opposite the New York Public Library, I had no idea what it was for. All that struck me was the Hindi/Urdu word Andaz (pronounced un-daaz, with a french d). It is rather appropriately surrounded by curlicues and paisleys on terracotta background. Something smelt desi to me.

Well, I was wrong, actually, The word means style or flair, and in this case, apparently stands for the Hyatt’s new line of boutique hotels. As always, the trusty New York Times reports:

Billing Andaz as “not pretentious and without attitude,” the company says in a press release that it will offer “a highly functional environment characterized by sophistication, innovative design, local identity and casual elegance” — hardly a down-to-earth description.

Hyatt Promises ‘Homey’ Feeling in New Chain [NYT]

I sniffed long and hard on their website, and on the internet, but failed to come up with a desi connection. And the interiors don’t seem to have anything desi about them. Oh well, a fancy boutique hotel on Fifth Avenue with a desi name is exciting enough for now.

P.S. Marcel Wanders will be designing the interiors for the Amsterdam Andaz, just FYI.

Caramelised Bananas and Sour Cream Shrikhand

Avinash — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 23:54:41 +0000

No, you are not allowed to ask me why I like sour cream so much.

When some very sweet friends of mine invited me over for Easter lunch, I decided sour cream would make the perfect accompaniment to cardamom flavored caramelised bananas. Then epiphany struck, and I decided to convert it into a Gujarati sweet dish called Shrikhand.

Then my Austrian friend conjured up some scrumptious pancakes called Palatschinken, and we settled down to a truly international dessert! The recipe follows.

Caramellised Bananas, Sour Cream Shrikhand & Palatschinken

For the Caramellised Bananas, you need:

4 Bananas, sliced lengthwise and then cut into segments
2 tbsp Butter
4 tbsp Sugar (you can use a mixture of white and brown)
2 crushed Cardamom Pods
1/4 cup Water
___

1. Melt the Butter in a griddle or a pan, on a low flame. Add the Cardamom Pods.

2. Add the Sugar and Water, and let it come to a boil, stirring continuously.

3. Allow the Syrup to brown and caramelise, then add the Bananas.

4. Gently turn the Bananas over, allowing the caramel to coat them.

5. Turn the flame off and allow to cool.
___

For the Sour Cream Shrikhand, you need:

2 cups Sour Cream
3 tbsp Sugar
1/4 tsp Cardamom Powder (or) 5 crushed Cardamom pods
___

Whisk all the ingredients together, till it becomes a smooth paste. Taste and adjust for sweetness.

___

For the Palatschinken, you need:

6 tbsp of Flour
2 Eggs
1 tbsp Sugar
1/4 cup Milk
___

1. Whisk all the ingredients together, making a smooth, loose batter. There should be no lumps. Adjust the consistency with milk, if needed.

2. Allow the batter to sit for about 15 minutes.

3. Make thin pancakes (much like omlettes), preferably in butter. The image below should be a good visual reference.

These three parts can be combined in any way to make an amazing dessert, but the best way is to assemble all three, and give it a generous dusting of sugar.