Spell Check!

Just to say in the last write up...it should be pork trotters and not totters. Damn! must have been all tottered up to do that!

And on spell check, aren't there times when you want to tell your computer that you don't need a spell checker shadowing you at every word!

Talking of spell check, just love this: 

A Little Poem Regarding Computer Spell Checkers... 

 Eye halve a spelling chequer
It came with my pea sea
It plainly marques four my revue
Miss steaks eye kin knot sea.
Eye strike a key and type a word
And weight four it two say
Weather eye am wrong oar write
It shows me strait a weigh.
As soon as a mist ache is maid
It nose bee fore two long
And eye can put the error rite
Its rare lea ever wrong.
Eye have run this poem threw it
I am shore your pleased two no
Its letter perfect awl the weigh
My chequer tolled me sew.

Soup-y Saga

I don't know if any study has been done on why we crave soup when there is a chill in the air, when its biting cold, when it rains heavily, when the weather plays foul. Stupid, its the hot liquid that any sane human would want to down by gallons to up the body temperature, many might be tempted to say. Sure! Cupping your palms round a hot cup/bowl/ glass of soup is certainly one of life's greatest pleasure.

There are soups and soups - those in cookbooks, those that are family secrets and those you cook-as-you-go-along-with-what-is-there-in-your-kitchen. For some reasons the last two ones always turn out the best. Then there are the soups your mother makes or made and however much you try to replicate it, something is always missing. If you have grown up in colder climes, heart warming soups are always part and parcel of the daily fare. If I close my eyes I can actually the big casserole of totters soup (pork). The totters would be scraped, washed thoroughly and chopped into medium chunks. A huge saucepan of water would be set to boil, julienned ginger, minutely minced garlic, one or two fresh red chili ( the pepper kind) would be thrown in once the water boiled and a few minutes later the totters would go in. The flame would be lowered, the saucepan covered and left to stew for hours. Sometime in between a couple of peeled and chopped tomatoes would be added, lending a rosy hue to the dish. Then the seasoning would follow- simple salt and freshly ground pepper. As the hours passed and the soup bubbled, the totter pieces would become so soft that pieces of meat and fat would start falling out. The final addition would be a light slurry of freshly ground rice powder and water, the amount depending on the quantity of the soup. A handful of  fresh coriander would go in after that. Often it would be the local coriander- what I now realise is better known as fit-weed, with it subtle coriander taste with that tingly lemony tinge.It is said to be another member of the cilantro family.

Fit-weed

What we sat down to slurp was the yummiest concoction- simple, wholesome and scrumptious. Some of us who didn't actually bite into the totters would, with a fork, mash it thoroughly and mix it into the soup, discarding the bones.Another novelty was the fish soup, yep fish! The fish was usually the sturdy, boneless variety cut into chunks. The fish pieces would be slightly smoked, either over gas fire and often over charcoal fire. The fish would then go into a clear bubbling broth of water, ginger, garlic and chili, seasoned with salt. Often a handful of chopped dill would be added. Stirring was a strict no-no, instead the saucepan would be lifted  by its handles and shaken gently. A teaspoon of freshly ground rice powder and water would be the last addition. We would lick every drop.

Comfort food, call it whatever, every one has a soup story. Somehow everyone seems to be remember every moment related to it. Some are angry stories too! Many years ago, on a flight to Beijing all I could think of was everything Chinese food. It was a long flight, via Singapore. As we approached Beijing, the weather turned real bad and so a diversion it was to another smaller airport. Then came the nightmare of staying cooped in the plane for over five hours.Every half an hour there would be a reassuring announcement, but there seemed to be no taking off. It could have been homicide time but for the American passenger seated next. After every announcement from the pilot, he would promptly call whoever (one, two, many!!!) he was supposed to meet  in Beijing and request them to postpone the dinner by another hour or so. It reached a point where after every announcement, we would all turn to him, waiting for him to make that call and he didn't disappoint us! I doubt if he got his dinner because when he finally landed, it was late into the night and the mad day time traffic rush was missing. Off to the hotel, desperate for a warm shower, a cosy bed and something wholesome and comforting to fill the stomach. The room service menu was fat, but it didn't take much time to zoom on to what I wanted - meat (pork) ball soup with Chinese greens. For whatever rhyme or reason, or rather for no rhyme or reason, the steward insisted on informing me again and again that the meat was pork. And if that wasn't sufficient he went on to educate me that pork meat came from pig. Thank you, yes I know, so can you please hurry up with the order. But nah, our steward wanted to go the  whole hog (sorry couldn't help that!)  It required some oinking of the somewhat rude kind before he accepted that pork that came from pig was was what I wanted to eat. I can still feel the taste, so glorious a number it was.

As the weather turns brr cold, quilts and blankets are sunned and fluffed up, the kitchen too sees some changes in the menu. The all time favourite is the all-in-one-meal  soup. Easy, no rocket science and tasty. 

Chicken meat ball, vegetables and noodle soup

For the meat ball

Chicken mince, 500g

Ginger, grated, 1 tablespoon

Garlic, grated, 1 tablespoon

Chili, 2, diced (de-seed if you can't stand the heat)

Chives or spring onion, diced, a handful

Lemon zest, 1 tablespoon

Kaffir leaves, 4, finely diced (optional)

Salt to taste  

Egg, 1

For the soup

Bacon, 2 rashers, diced

Onion, 1 medium, finely diced

Ginger, 1 tablespoon, finely minced, 

Garlic, 1 teaspoon, finely minced

Chili, 1, diced (de-seeding optional)

Carrots, 200g, small cubes or thin sticks

French beans, 200g, finely sliced

Broccoli, 100g, small florets

Mushrooms, 100g, diced

Pok choy (or cabbage), 100 g, if using pok choy just  break them into big pieces, if cabbage, slice finely

Lemon, 1, zest

Kaffir leaves, 6, rolled and finely diced (optional)  

Salt, to taste

Pepper, freshly ground, to taste

Rice Vermicelli, (The best is from Thailand), 150 g

Lemon, 2 (or 1 large), juiced

Put the chicken mince in a bowl, add the grated ginger and garlic, chili, chives(spring onion), lemon zest, kaffir leaves (optional) and seasonings. Mix well, break in the egg and mix thoroughly. Refrigerate for sometime ( If you live in a place where its cold, leave it outside)

Put a thick bottomed casserole or saucepan on gas. Put in the diced bacon and stir, till it starts releasing oil. Add the onion and stir, then put in the ginger and garlic mince and  chili and stir well. Add the carrots, beans, broccoli and stir well. Next add the mushrooms and pok choy or cabbage. Stir thoroughly but lightly. Put in the lemon zest and the kaffir leaves (optional).Add the seasonings. Pour in 2 litres chicken or vegetable stock. If you don't want to bother with that, plain water will do. Let the soup come to a boil.

Take the chicken mince and make small balls and drop, one by one, into the boil soup. This takes a little patience as the soup temperature comes down after you add a few chicken balls. Wait till the soup bubbles furiously to drop in the chicken balls. Once all the chicken balls have been put in and the soup bubbles merrily, break the rice vermicelli and mix in. Then lower the flame and let it simmer for about 5 minutes. Turn off the gas, pour in the lemon juice, mix and serve hot with garlic bread or dinner rolls. 

  

And the Christmas tree stands tall...............

I don't think there are many people who don't like Christmas?  What's not there to like about a festival that is all about wishing everyone much merriness? And all that gorgeous food, the carols and above all, the colour red.Give me red.....

You know that the year will soon be over and there is always the faith that the year ahead will be better, bigger and beautiful. 

I love Christmas because it is going back to childhood when there was still innocence. In the hill town that was my childhood home, there is a giant pine tree that reaches up to the sky in the compound of The All Saint's Church. It is not the needled pine tree that grows in abundance there but the deodar type, the thick branched one and every year the church authorities decorate it before Christmas. We would impatiently for the skies to darken ( and there it is dark by 4-4.30), restless and fidgety, willing the elders to hurry up. It would be siblings, friends,  neighbours,  almost like a mini procession, hopping, skipping, chattering and sometimes singing and wham! there would be the tree- tall, silent and twinkling. It never failed to awe, year after year. Was it better the year before? Yes, no, maybe.... There are more fancy lights someone would comment and everyone would agree. It's so beautiful isn't it, a love laden voice would say and everyone would agree. Isn't this the most beautiful Christmas tree ever, someone else would pipe up and everyone would agree. After all, what was not there to agree about the most beautiful live big tree glittering in the night? 

Your childhood, they say, is always in there within you and so before every Christmas you set up a little Christmas tree in your house - artificial, made in China, glitter, baubles and all. As you set it up, in your mind you see the tree in The All Saint's Church compound and hear the carols that boomed out from the church and the houses nearby. It is indeed, Silent Night, Holy night. It is also jingle bells indeed.

They might have not let you into Sunday School, but midnight mass and early morning mass was open to all. You wanted to go for midnight mass because it would be such an adult thing to do....to stay awake beyond midnight! Arguments, tantrums, chiding and bundled up beyond belief in layers and layers of woolen, you would be finally allowed to go for midnight mass, breathing all make believe smoke rings all the way. And of course every slice of cake was just too good and if only your mother would make cakes like that.

Childhood is not forever and so you pack up and leave, to newer places, new people, new world, always looking for something familiar and you do find it, few and far in between but you do. Like Aunty Smythe (honest to god Aunty Smythe in Chandni Chowk in Kolkata, then Calcutta). Aside- there is a Chandi Chowk in Kolkata, go to Statesman house, stand in front of it, take the right road or rather footpath, cross the road that comes after it and you are in Chandni Chowk- so there! Among the myriad tiny shops, tiny by lanes that snake into dark interiors, there is one short one that takes you to an old. old building, all three floors of it, each room with tall ceilings, huge wooden doors and red stone floors.It was enemy property house and in of the flats lived Aunty Smythe ( A Bengali Brahmin from Tripura who came to the city to train as a nurse, fell in love with a 'shippie' (merchant navy man) fell in love, converted and was was soon deserted. We always tried to trap her into letting us know her real name, we never found out. She let out one huge room to working girls, my paying guests she would say. Early mornings on Christmas eve she would take out her rose cookie mould, everything Christmas Eve evening there would be piles of rose cookies on the table with a plum cake from New Market. We gave her tiny presents, don't give me big present, I can't give you expensive Christmas gifts she would say. We would nod in agreement and finish off all the rose cookies- crunchy, delicate and so delicious.

It is Christmas in Darjeeling. You troop down to Keventer's, make sure you get the best-view seat on its tiny terrace. You blow into your palms and rub it furiously to get the blood going. Everything is freezing cold. Keventer's cheerful Robin is all smiles, you order the greasiest bacon - Daju, you tell, the waiter, pick up the ones with lots of fat- and gorge. Then you drink hot chocolate, admire Mount Kanchenjunga, the fashionable youngsters. In the evenings you go to Planter's Club, briefly to say hello and Merry Christmas, shake a leg or two and down a glass of wine. The final destination is a cosy residence perched halfway on a hill and from you see the lights across the hills wink back at you, the snug charming house  with the huge copper heating pipe, where someone is on the piano and Christmas songs fill the air. As the night darkens, spirited souls (literally!) sing louder than ever, and of course, several different songs at one go!

Planter's Club, Tollygunje Club, Gymkhana Club, Gaiety Club,  homes, hotels, beaches, distant shores, home shores- it's album full of memories, merry memories. The child is grown up-  so both the child and you would like to believe! The midnight visit by Santa Claus is a thing of the past. But you still want the cookies, the goodies and the big fat leg of ham. No more slogging in the kitchen, you simply order the leg of ham and pick it up a day before.  If you are in the capital city, you troop to Steak House (13/8, Jor Bagh, New Delhi, Phone:+91-11- 24611129) a week to ten days before and place your order. You are unlikely to get anything below 4kg or 3.5kg if you are really lucky- the more the merrier you say. And for this one occasion you don't pennies, you count your blessings and thank the Lord for it.

Dig in!

And you know that the Christmas tree in The All Saint's Church compound stands tall; it has to, too many children have and are still praying beneath it .........

      

The Butterfly Kiss

It was by a happy happenstance that I found myself driving to Sonaugi Homestead in the rich Deodhar forest of Kullu (Himachal Pradesh), adjoining an apple orchard. As we drove out from the town, the valley started opening out and soon we  were driving alongside River Beas. It was one of those moments that you leave both awed and feeling blessed. From some inexplicable reason I began to see the river like a naughty child playing hooky from school, gurgling a song as it dashed away. At certain turns it appeared as if it was winking back at one, thanks to the sunlight breaking into it at certain angles.  Soon the road began to wind up and deeper and deeper we went into the forest area, the views at every turn more spectacular than before. The ring of mountains above with snow caps,  the towering trees, the complete absence of artificial noise except for the minute motor(engine) murmurings was, for lack of better phrase, one-of-a-kind experience. 

The road started climbing down a little and soon we could see Sonaugi Homestead below. Ok, this is no place where you park your car at the portico and have the staff running out to help get your luggage down and all that jazz. Here you hold on fast as the SUV manoeuvres its way down a rather narrow and rough terrain road. After a certain turn you know it would be foolhardy to drive down further ( all prayers won't work either), so you get out and start descending. Something at the back of the your mind reminds you that on the way back, you have to climb up!

Picturesque would be a bland word to describe Sonaugi Homestead, its surroundings and its ambience. A stone and wood construction, it is a beautiful blend of Himachali and European architecture and elements. 

How Sonaugi Homestead came about is local legend. It can even be called a love story in a way. An Italian Eris  Binda, his wife Franchesca and their five children moved into the area and the family began building the house. It is a house built with love and as the family increased, so did the rooms. A linear-ish structure, it is full of quaint crannies, nooks, fireplaces and all that is charming and all that should be in a mountain home. You can almost see the Binda family sitting around a roaring fire, roasting apples and drinking mulled wine while a pizza sizzles in the wood fired oven.But things don't always go as intended and somewhere it changed hands and thankfully into hands that turned the Binda residence into a homestead. There have been additions, renovations, putting in of bathrooms with all the mod cons and above all, a whole new separate structure that is dining hall cum kitchen cum library cum common area - all done in perfect sync with the original structure. There is not a single jarring note. In the dining area the centre of attraction (literally!) is the stone fire pit around whose step you can sit and either sit hypnotized by the warming flames, ( have you noticed that most of us when sitting/standing around a wood/coal fire seem to be for strange reason unblinkingly gaze at the fire!) or read a book, sing a song or simply chill. And while at it, do just check the unusual window blinds that lets in slivers of sunlight into the hall in an interesting pattern - they are made out of dried tree beans!

Near the entrance, one side is the cutest little wooden cottage that looks like it has sprung out of a story book. Rustic, rudimentary and oh so romantic with a baby chimney valiantly throwing up smoke. The pleasant Ashwini Tripathi who runs the show effortlessy, his wife Neha and his cute son Gungun live there while older daugther Soumya is in boarding school in Naggar.  

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On a sit out overlooking the dining hall and just outside the stone cottage is the best spot to take a 360 degree view of the homestead and the surrounding areas. Behind, the hills rise up and up like a thick green carpet while ahead and far below flows River Beas. You look around your immediate vicinity where among other things a heavily laden orange tree stands proud, and you are not sure if you are hallucinating. Are those olives hanging on the branches?  Olives in cold Himachal Pradesh? Nah, can't be. It is, says Ashwini. And not just one but two olive trees, Hallelujah!

When you live among and with nature, they say, you learn how to make the best use of it - like discovering rose tea.  When Ashwini's  amiable wife, Neha made the offer came, I wasn't too gung-ho initially because I didn't like the idea of a cuppa redolent with the scent of roses as,  like an ignoramus I thought the rose petals would be mashed/ground or something like that into the tea water. Idiotic me! It turned out to be most amazing concoction of believe it or not - the central pod that remains after a blooming rose wilts and all the petals fall off and a handful of mint leaves. Just that. I was told that all it required was an adult fistful of the pods and mint leaves boiled together and left to infuse for sometime. The tea was the best I ever had , a bit of natural sweetness and a wonderful tangy touch. Neha needs to market that.

Sometimes you can have a little too much of good things happening to you. After the overdose of natural beauty, the lolling in the sun, the rose mint tea,  the yummy home cooked wholesome meal, the bag of juicy golden lemons plucked off the tree - came the kiss of the butterfly, though on my dirty sneakers. A grey-orange-black beauty chose to flirt around with my right sneaker for a long time and untimely decided to plonk itself on the crown of the sneaker as if it had finally come home to roost. Ah, if only one could have stayed put too. 

If you are looking to escape the mad mad mad materialistic world, snuggle in nature's lap and blow bubbles in the air or do whatever you feel like call Ashwini at +91-8894924259 or email ashwini@sonaugi.com. But remember this is NOT your typical tourist place.  

  

Tile Talk

When we left for Goa  I had one important agenda- to locate the young artist whose hand painted tiles were said to be simply stunning. So between the bingeing and the boating to the ship-casinos; the over eating and getting massaged-to-nirvana, we asked everyone, all and sundry. Viola!  we managed to get his name - Orlando de Noronha and that of his studio- Galeria Azulejos de Goa. Located in a more than 250 years old house in Panjim, both Orlando and his work blew us. Off the main rod you step into a small courtyard floored with multi-coloured- what else- myriad tiny tiles and suddenly, woosh you are decades away from the 21st century. You bring the bell and a voice from somewhere up says, come in please. We do and stand gaping around. A stairway leads up, on the side you step down into a little alcove like place where the walls come alive with stunning tile art, vibrant, alive and so quintessentially Goa. It's love at first sight, Like a greedy child in a sweet shop, I want everything.  The actual studio is upstairs, says the polite shop assistant and we traipse up and come into a small landing , there's stunning tile murals, portraits and much more.  Like Oliver Twist I ask for more. In between gaping and gawking, it seems like someone is watching us quietly. The one room gallery next to the landing has a window that opens midway above the stairs. With the lights behind her a young pretty woman, arms crossed over the sill and a shy smile is looking out. Only she is not for real! The shop assistant with an understanding smile answers our unasked question, that's a life size photo cut out of Orlando's wife Tina.

A little later a rather bashful Orlando walks in, he could be easily mistaken for a college kid. Naturally musically inclined (we are talking Goa remember!) Orlando won a music scholarship to Portugal. While  fine tuning his guitar skills, he discovered the Portuguese art of Azulejos and thank god for that. The studio was launched in 1998 and is the place for exquisite hand painted tiles. He also custom makes any orders.Orlando has also the copyright from Mario Miranda to reproduce some his works on tiles and they are simply dazzling. And if you wondering about price, rest assured they are very very reasonably priced. (In fact, after returning home I came across a decor magazine that featured the tiles in its product page and guess what, the pricing was more than triple!)

And the best part is that you don't have to go all the way to Goa to lay your hands on Orlando's works, he is online and couriers the tile art (www.azulejosdegoa.com) Email him at info@azulejosdegoa.com or simply call at+91-9822976867 or +91-9850930253.    

  
As we reluctantly leave the studio, the little table in the courtyard catches our attention. Simple, artistic and ingenious- a wood table laid with four tiles and a cross frame over it; remove the portable frame and it's a two-in-one table! Perfect.

  

Email: info@azulejosdegoa.com

A Taste of Tibet

With several monasteries, dancing-in-the-wings prayer flags conversing with the gods above, the endless trinket shops packed with silver and stone jewellery - don't miss the lapis lazuli, jade and coral- women with intricately braided hair, some dressed in Bakus, it is inevitable that Tibet is a strong presence in Leh. After having survived the oxygen deprived air, the ride to the highest motorable pass in the world, Khadung La Pass (18,380ft) including a determined climb further up the snow laden slopes to the tiny monastery perched at the top, riding the double humped Bactarian camels at Hunder, a desert at 10, 000 ft enveloped by snow covered peaks and trying to do a catwalk on the sand dunes, struggling it out for two nights at a so-called luxury camp at Nubra Valley and visiting the last and secluded Indian habitation, Turtuk, we decided to celebrate  the end of a wonderful adventurous trip by splurging on an authentic Tibetan meal on return to Leh. It had to be at The Tibetan Kitchen and the main course had to be gyakko, the Tibetan hot pot. Except that the order had to be placed twenty four hours before and here comes the clincher - a minimum advance of Rs 1,000 was a must. Calling the restaurant from Nubra had itself been an ordeal, so how were we to organise the advance payment?  I guess you don't tell hungry Indians - no money, no reservation. No we didn't parrot the ;usual the usual do you know who my father is? Or do you know who I am? Nah, we just made a series of phone calls - before that we scrambled around finding the spots where connectivity could be established and not even breathing hard in case the connectivity was lost. And while we are at it , have you seen an adult man or woman bent at a particular angle, holding the mobile at another peculiar angle and talking at the top of the voice while fervently praying for continuous connectivity at the same time? If you do, don't make the mistake of laughing at them, the consequences can be painful.

There it was - the steaming hot pot-gyakko. Hmm, it looked as expected, a big brass-copper steamboat placed on an aluminum foil wrapped plate, with huge chunks of meat, veggies, tofu and more bubbling in a clear soup with hint of garlic. Along came the accompaniments - rice, salads and the Tibetan steamed buns of tingmos (without fillings). After the expectations, after the anticipations, to me it was totally bland. Despite lashings of salt, pepper and a greenish gooey chili sauce out of a bottle, I could not make a meal of it. Well taste buds surely vary and I sat back and watched the others gobble and slurp it all up with much relish. I would have given anything for a plate of steaming hot pork momos with the virulent-red hot chili chutney. To each his/her own I guess and no thank you, I do not have mundane, crass taste. But if you are in Leh and prefer a gurgling Tibetan steamboat, call The Tibetan Kitchen (+91-9697811510). And please keep the advance ready!

      

   

Beyond Boundaries

Till 2010 it was out of bounds for tourists. As you climb up the steep rise, cross the old wooden bridge and walk into Turtuk, the last Indian village in Ladakh. Surrounded by towering mountains all around, Turtuk is what you feel Shangrila-La is. Beyond two mountains, a local  points out the Indian outpost and straight across from that, he says, is the Pakistan outpost. They always have guns aimed at each other, he says. Despite all efforts I can't make out any! But who cares when all around is a village that takes your breath away and rosy cheeked kids mill around.

The mountains all around, the fiery Shyok River below, stones houses- including a posh two-storied structure in the making- apricot trees and women and children working in the fields and one can't help but go, how green in my valley!

My village! Well till 1971 it was part of Pakistan and the war that year saw Indian annexing  Turtuk and five other villages. If the village is distinct so are its residents -- they are Baltistanis, a heritage they are very proud of. As we drive towards the village, the different facial features become evident when we meet a group of men and women working on tarring a road; fair, apple red cheeks and perennially smiling they do not at all have anything in common looks wise with the Ladakhis. It's a week day so everyone is caught up in the daily routine, but everyone has time to welcome you and talk. We come across a young man, who looks out of sorts in the village with his trendy clothes, gelled  hair and hipster attitude. He is an accountant working in the Middle East and is home for a brief break. His father owns one of the few little shops in the village. His forefathers were born in the same village, but then it was part of Pakistan. His father, the shop owner, was born before 1971 which means in his lifetime he went from Pakistani to Indian. His aunts and a sister are married and live in Kyrgyzstan!
As we walk around, we hear some murmurs from behind the wall. Finding a little opening to peep in, we see little kids studiously bent over copy books furiously writing.

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   Life, you realise, is the same everywhere, borders or no borders, it goes on. Cheers!

  

Go Goa Gone

Much has been said and done about Goa, some good, some not so good. You feel you know the place-the best beaches, the hot spots, the much touted eateries, the vindaloos and sorpotels, the sausages and of course, susegad!  It may sound farfetched but going to Goa is like visiting your favourite playing spots of childhood and discovering that one little overlooked nook or crevice or that hidden spot and coming away feeling, ah now I know it all!  Then you go back again and there is another hidden discovery and you pull yourself up, both physically and mentally and go just how could I have missed it, it was there beneath my nose all the while. And as you discover the unseen and unfelt, you fall in love all over again with the old.  It’s like coming across an old you-thought-you-had-lost-forever cuddly toy and enveloping it in your arms and feeling that joyous, warm squishy feeling. It feels good; it makes you realize that you can still have fun and laugh uproariously just like that while the ruckus of daily life-in-a-rut can go take a flying leap.

Every place has its quirks and foibles, the roads much seen and the lanes yet strange to strangers.  There are touristy spots and spots one is unlikely to see.  There are houses and there are houses and this time, we found one, over 450 years old.  Some of the fabled heritage mansions are on the tourist map; some are thankfully not on it, though in one case it appears not out of choice. We are staying in North Goa and we hear of the Figueiredo Mansion at Loutolim in South Goa.  We are told, call Aunty Maria, a day before and she will have a full Portuguese launch ready for you. We are also told that Aunty Maria is 80+ so we need to talk a little louder on the phone and if the visit+lunch is confirmed there is no going back on it. As if we wanted to!

The drive from North Goa to the south is a lovely drive, at times the river Mandovi flows alongside. A gorgeous red brick mansion overlooking the river at Ribandar catches our eye; what would it be like to get up every morning, walk out and see the river flowing below and the vast vista spread out in front.  Beyond Margao, we have to ask for directions a couple of time and after 15-20 minites we are in front of this huge mansion that clearly has seen better days and better shape. Aunty Maria and her man Friday are waiting at the porch itself. Up a small flight of stairs and in through the giant entrance of Figueiredo Mansion (House No. 376, Loutolim) and we are hurtled back into another time and place. But even before I look around I stand admiring Aunty Maria (Maria de Lourdes de Albuquerque) turned out nattily in a belted animal print dress, giant pearl studs in her ears, neckwear, rings, trinkets and make-up including a bright lip colour all in place. For someone her age she moves around briskly and talks nineteen to the dozen. Ah! so it’s true, she can outtalk anyone.  Fortunately, we had been warned and while to an outsider it might have appeared extremely rude, we managed to break into the marathon monologue relating the family history, not just the indifference but the allegedly calculated apathy of the government, back stabbing factotums and what- have- you.

Some of these books are over hundred years old; many are first editions and several are in Portuguese, says Aunty Maria pointing at the cupboards in the foyer chock-a-bloc with fragile, sepia toned volumes. We step into the sitting room on the right with floor to ceiling windows. The ceiling stretches on and on and high above, the intricately carved furniture are crying for a coat of varnish and repair works, priceless vases, plates,  art works, delicate lights all pleading for a touch up. Aunty Maria you know loves the place and is doing her best, but the best efforts by a determined woman is too meager for a huge rolling palace like house that needs tons of money and group efforts and of course, love. The floor is a beautiful cream, rust and black tile floral carpet.  The tiles in every room are different. For Rs 50 per head you get a tour of the house rich with invaluable artifacts, exquisite furniture and just about everything that has your head swiveling every which way.

A glass of refreshing chilled lemonade accompanies the appetizers – a plate of triangular pasties and canapés. The latter is Snacks biscuits with a simple but wonderful topping that has us guessing the ingredients. Nah! Aunty Maria will not tell you what it is. However, back from Goa I tried and hopefully managed to get a near replica (See below).  Would she be having wine and beer? Sure, she does, but that’s extra. Of course, we nod in agreement. After the ball room, the tiny chapels, the verandahs that hug the house, the plant laden inner courtyard and more, we troop into the enormous dining room where the side cabinets house one of its kind customized dinner wares that travelled all the way to this sleepy South Goa corner from China, Europe and elsewhere. Aunty Maria is a walking talking repository of the family history, the lineage and the Goa of pre liberation. She and her husband had moved to Portugal but after decades – her children and grandkids still live there – she moved back home to keep the inheritance and the legacy alive.

It’s a Portuguese meal she says as we bite into juicy pork chops, a nut and raisins filled rice dish and a hearty wholesome salad served on century old family porcelain.  The opener was a prawn soup.  The finisher is the delicious orange pudding, the citrusy flavor wafting around tantalizing. I am not sure but there is a hint of kumquat orange too. Sigh, Aunty Maria guards the recipe and nothing – pleas, requests, cajoling and just about everything else- works. The only thing she concedes is a terse Bain-Marie. Sure if it’s pudding it has to be Bain-Marie. Oof!

As we walk out, Aunty Maria waves us off and stands on the porch till we can’t see her anymore.  This house has to be on the tourist map of Goa, but they refuse to do so, she had been saying all the while we were there. If you are ask her why, be prepared to hear about the marathon history, of rivalry and political difference and so much more.   Aunty Maria also runs an inn (yep Heritage Inn).    Call 0832-277-7028.

As we drive back, there is a feeling of both joy and sadness. Time is a great leveler indeed- the regal lifestyle, the palace like mansion, the precious and the beautiful, the wealth and glamour – has all been reduced to a cracked relic crying for renovation and refurbishment. But if you close your eyes, you might still hear the tinkling of the piano, the whirling of gowns caught in a dance move in the ballroom, the clinking of champagne flutes, the murmured clatter of cutlery, and maybe the laughter of children playing hide and seek. So, was it worth the visit, some asks?

Didn’t Prufrock too ask -

And would it have been worth it, after all, 
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, 
Among the porcelain 

It was, it is and will be.

Canape topping

4 tbs, grated coconut

150 g mint leaves

Sugar, a pinch

Salt, a pinch

Green chili, 1 (optional)

Lemon juice, a few drops

For garnish, carrot, 1, grated

Except the lemon juice, grind all the ingredients together. If you a mortar-pestle all the better. Put the ground paste in a glass bowl and mix in the lemon juice, adjusting the seasoning to taste. Just before serving put a spoonful of the paste on snack biscuit, top with sparsely with grated carrot and serve immediately.

Note: If you prepare the canapés before the biscuits will turn soggy.

In place of Snacks biscuits you can also use crackers, lightly toasted bread slice cut into   quarters or even tacos.

He is clearly a stay-back from the Hippie era. Tall, skinny, graying hair in a loose braid, grayish beard that seems to have given up the effort to grow any longer, Hans Peter- Hampy – to the locals lives amidst a rolling  farm atop a hill in Manali, Himachal Pradesh.  While a small portion of the farm is meticulously cultivated, the rest appear to be left to tend (you read right, tend it is!) for itself. A massive three-storied, but incomplete, stone building is where Hampy, his 45 cows (at present count), several dogs, numerous cats and cackling geese live together in harmonious companionship. Harmonious if you shut your ears off to the most unmusical concert put up by the geese endlessly. It was tempting to stand on a podium and wave a baton – just to shush them up. Hampy says the geese are guards and his dogs by now know how to read their cacophonic notes. If there is a little change in the cackling, which no human ear can ever make out, the dogs realize that there is an intruder around and get cracking!

It all started with a local cheese at a Manali café. It was fresh and delicious, literally melting in the mouth. Then someone said, have you tried Hampy’s Swiss cheese, that’s yummier.  Phone numbers were hunted (that’s the beauty of a small town, someone always knows someone, who knows someone, who knows someone who knows Hampy!) Incidentally his Christian name-  Hans Peter- was quite a revelation to many of the locals.  Although he claims to have been living in the same farmhouse for over 40 years, asking for Peter Hans drew a complete blank. Asking for ‘Hampy’ was the key! To get to Hampy, climb up the Hadimba Temple route but don’t enter the temple complex, instead take a left turn and after walking for about 15 minutes or so, first through narrow but motorable road flanked by hotels and homes, the road tapers off to a narrow broken down pedestrian path where the number of houses reduce and cultivated areas increase. 

Just when it appears to be a wild goose chase, as we hit the last tiny wooden shed after which it is agricultural lands, apple orchards and the forests beyond, an old lady clad in the local Pattu comes to our help.  Hans Peter? Nah, there’s nobody by that name. Woh Angrez hai, Gora hai aur, cheese banata hai. Voila! You talking about Hampy, she says. Hampy loves to talk, not just in English but quite impressive Hindi too. His story is long, very long; marriage to a local woman that soured, court cases, fights over properties and what have you, so let’s leave it at that. What he has done with the naturally rambling farm is amazing. There are two chestnut trees – I don’t know how the locals believe that chestnuts don’t grow here he sighs-  a quaint African cucumber tree that produces like fruits that look like mutant cucumbers from the nether world with spikes and all, but delicious!  The expected apple, pears etc abound and vegetable plot is laden with greens, chives, leeks and the works.

But what Hampy impresses one is with the Swiss cheese he turns out in a one room rather basic cheese factory. His cows he says are all Himalayan cows and not the Jersey cow that Indians seem to love. This is the Himalayas, this is where they belong he says and naturally their milk is the best. It is indeed- soft and scrumptious.  The whey left behind after churning the milk goes into making bread that is naturally creamy, in taste and in look too with a delicate shade of cream. A slice of his bread, laden with his Swiss cheese, the lazy dogs, the cackling geese, the sleepy cats and kittens and the mooing calves and its Swiss paradise in Manali. Peter says he earlier turned out kilos of his cheese that travelled as far as to Mumbai besides Delhi, Chandigarh and of course Manali and surrounding areas, but the court cases and personal hassles led him to cut down production. He is jubilant over winning one case (of several) and is all geared up to increase his production. How he delivers his exquisite cheese is another story. If you are a Delhi resident, you call him up and place the order. When it is ready, he packs them and sends them by bus to Delhi, where it is dropped at a petrol pump in West Delhi (The pump owner is a Manali hotelier too!) and you go and pick it up from there. And then of course have a feast! Cheers. Call Hans Peter Hampy at +919816296321. And if you are lucky he might be able to spare some redolent, luscious ghee. And if you are lucky enough to be invited to his farm, you will get a touching see-off from one of his dogs, called Vajpayee for reasons best known to him!