BAR BINGE, MERRY PLOUGHBOYS AND GRAVEDIGGERS

For a long, long time I've been wanting to go pub hopping in Dublin, much to the amusement of those who know that I simply detest the taste of beer. Never mind, I would shrug. Now I can say with much amusement, it needn't be beer; it has to be apple cider. If that sounds tame, wait till you go through a bottle or two. For one given to chugging glasses of apple cider from Himachal Pradesh, the Irish variety is certainly much up there. Don't know if it was the fact of being on a family holiday, the ambiance and the cool climes or whatever, but one actually looked forward to it right from the morning! First there was Bulmers and then Rekorderlig, whatever the brand the apple cider held sway. There's orange cider, apricot and more but apple remained the queen bee.

 

 

 

Every Dubliner and every visitor to the city will tell you that Temple Bar Street is where all the action happens. You're telling me! The spouse in all his wisdom and his proclivity to be close to the arena of action and his aversion to travelling from the outskirts to the city, booked the service apartment right on top of the iconic (or notorious depending on your spiritual incline, this time literally!) 175 year old Temple Bar (established in 1840!) The irony is that we could never go in for drinks there, not for lack of want, but simply because the damn bar seemed to be choc-a-bloc from morning to late night, make that to morning, because it seemed to be packed with merry makers twenty-four/seven. The only time that the raucous revelry was absent was from 5am onwards to a few hours. But don't worry there was enough music, or rather clangour of another type, to wake the dead - the rolling away of empty metal barrels by the hundreds to be carted away and their replacement. Every morning in a foggy state from the window, straight up, I looked down on the military like operation and attempted to count the barrels, I gave up every time. Doing additions in a sleep deprived state  is not a suggested task especially to one severely maths challenged.

 

 

Whatever the time of day or night, every attempt to find even standing space in Temple Bar was in vain. What was initially irritating but later fun was to see the little open courtyard of the bar every time one went up to or down from the service apartment and have people, in several stages of intoxication, wave at you especially if you were armed with a camera. Well there has to be some magnetic charm about a bar that has the entire area named after it, Temple Bar Road.

 Call it poetic irony or whatever, I just loved the fact that diagonally opposite The Temple Bar was a pharmacy, called what else but The Pharmacy!  It had a bright facade and hanging basketful of beautiful colourful blooms and on its glass panes on either side painted in bright yellow was the legend, you are my sunshine. Yep, very true, what with all the hangover cases walking in for some relief and the till going ping ping.....

So, on the first evening, realising that getting into The Temple Bar was a herculean task, we moved on looking for another pub with good music and that took us to Fitzsimons. The live music was really good but once again the crowd and the huge of group of young women indulging in extreme decibel merriment, had us moving to the terrace ( a wee respite there!). Incidentally, during the time we were there groups of women, young and middle aged and gangs of pre-bridal parties seemed to be really, really letting their and more down. Their sense of joyousness and unmitigated fun was totally infectious.  In fact, at one point right in the middle of the road, a little away from The Temple Bar, a  pre-bridal gang had hijacked a street band demanding that he sing their lyrics which was a one-liner shouted at the top of their voice - 'for she is a horny bitch' all the while running a wobbly circle around the one in the centre who wore a sash proclaiming bride-to-be! All wore bright pink short dress with black slashes proclaiming 'friend of the bride.'

If you are in Dublin then it goes without saying that the Guinness experience is a must. Call it a tourist trap, call it done to death, call it whatever, there is always a first time and the first time is memorable. Sure you have to contend with hordes of tourists, sure you know you are becoming a sucker but sure you know you have to do it come what may, after all there must be something to Guinness to last over 250 years and still remain at the top! Despite telling oneself not to be taken in, the first sight leaves one laughing. The damn building is shaped like a humongous pint of Guinness!  And one learns that if filled it would hold 14.3million pints! There's all seven floors that takes one from its origin, its making and all that. But as anyone who has been there will tell you, the itch is to get to the Gravity Bar on its top with a 360 degree view of Dublin. The bar is naturally packed to the gills but if you bide patience, you will find a favourable place to take in the view while quaffing Guinness. Naturally, it was apple cider for someone!

    

 

No, that's not Daniel Radcliffe or Harry Porter!

My personal favourite in the Guinness house was one graffiti that went:

Soon one lost count of bars. Whenever, wherever one felt like it was into a bar. Felt like constantly humming an old Hindi song but of course with some variations in the lyrics:

bar bar dekho, hajar bar dekho

key dekh ne kee chij hai hamaree dil-Bar........ 

Han jee han aur bhee honge dil-Bar yaha, lakho dilo kee ba(ha)r yaha 

talee ho. (Sorry) Talli ho!

 

After the bar bar trips to the bars, it was time for the Merry Ploughboy, a traditional music pub very far from the Time Bar Road. This was a booking done before we left for Dublin and my initial misgivings that it could turn out to be yet another tourist tamasha were unfounded. That tourists would be there is given but what I loved was that half of the people that night were locals including a big group out to celebrate someones birthday, quite past her prime. Merry Ploughboy is located at Rockbrook, about an hour's drive from Dublin, and the gateway to the Dublin Mountains and Wicklow National Park.  It's quieter and more countryside. The Merry Ploughboy here is Dublin's well known ballad group and boy, do they deserve all the kudos. Liam Henechan, Tom Shanahan, Ivan Smith and Gareth Campbell turned out one lilting after another traditional Irish song and music, some foot tapping some soulful but all heart rendering. And when they  sang, 'bring back my Bonnie to me....... ' almost all the audience sang along. It made me think of Mother Cecil and her piano back in my schooldays and her hard rap with a ruler on the knuckles if you didn't keep time. What was totally hypnotic was Ivan Smith's solo drum playing. The magic that Ivan created with his Bodhran, the hand held drum so similar to our dafli, was an other world experience, one held one's breath in sheer awe. And silver haired Tom Shanahan, who took the friendly jokes directed at him by his band members with the right spirit, had everyone swooning over his solo pipe playing. Incidentally the pipe called  Uilleann (couldn't pronounce it at all) might look similar to the Scottish bagpipe (so familiar to us thanks to the army bands) but is played in a different manner.

With the spirits flowing, yes me and my cider again, and huge servings of Irish fare it was a truly great evening, made all the more so by the Merry Ploughboy dance group who put on a breathtaking show with their spectacular footwork . It was a evening that is really memorable with that warm glow of happiness. Time when you thank the one above for his blessings and look forward to more.

But the pub I loved best was John Kavanagh's The Gravediggers.  It has been with the Kavanagh family for over eight generations and today it is run by Ciaran Kavanagh, who doubles as the chef and his wife, Anne Kavanagh who turns out yummy desserts. Situated at the North Dublin suburb of Glasnevin, it is so called because it is right next to one of the biggest cemetery and the gravediggers head for the pub after a day of hard work. It is a simple establishment with old wooden furniture and Anne Kavanagh is clearly the woman-at-full-speed zipping around taking orders, serving and picking up the dishes, all these with a cheery smile and welcoming demeanour. The Gravediggers in fact is split up between the bar on one side and the lounge on the other.  It is clearly not in the touristy circuit and thank god for that.  In fact, Anne claimed that we were the first Indians to ever set foot in the pub! That of course, gave us a kick. We got to know of the pub from a friend of a friend, an Irish educator presently teaching a course in Ahmedabad. Ironic isn't it to imagine an Irish man in a prohibition state!

The afternoon we walked into The Gravediggers, we seemed to be the only outsider. The fully packed place had quite a few families around with angelic little Nina giving her family, particularly her dad,  quite an exhaustive run of the place as she refused to sit still and did everything from attempting a cartwheel to insisting on sitting on the high bar stools adopting a very adult manner.  As I looked around I tried to make out if any among those present was a gravedigger but gave up, besides we were in the lounge section. Incidentally, it is a cash only place, no credit or debit cards. Despite being tourists and total outsiders one felt so welcome and included what with Anne keeping a constant stream of conversation as she moved around with her amazing speed and everybody else throwing smiles and hellos our way. Now that's a place one can really dig!

 

 

OFF TO THE FRONTIER!

When you walk into Frontier, The Ashok, Chanakyapuri, New Delhi, the all Black look - walls, ceiling, furniture, linens -  arrested only by the well lit snaky white curving trails on the floor and the snazzy lighting is like stepping into a futuristic world, somewhere in space. Thrown in the swanky open kitchen and one couldn't get a more contemporary dining ambiance. Which is where one gets a little thrown off initially, because the mind focused on gorging on authentic North West Frontier province cuisine, expects the regular rugged decor complete with music from the region. The ultra chic interiors are an expected departure, but after sometime even the incongruity is appealing! After all, which dining out Bible has prescribed that the cuisine and decor should be a boring twin-set!

Then again, to rephrase Tina Turner's song, 'whats food got to do with it?' Especially when the turnout of the dishes is a continuous sensory experience. The restaurant proudly claims that, 'it's about the food from the land, where the men are tough and the meat is tender.' There couldn't be a better slogan than that. The dishes are all about succulence, sparing use of spices and hearty tandoori way of cooking. Regular patrons by now have the restaurant's signature dishes on their fingertips - Pathar Kabab, Kabab-e-Bannu, Jhinga Samarkand and the majestic Raan-e-Alishan.

We kick start the evening with Pink Panther, a pretty pink mocktail of guava juice, black salt, salt, pepper and a splash of Limca, simply tingling and a nice feminine contrast to the robust fare and all the black environ. Later we go for Kala Noor, another refreshing mocktail with Sprite and Frontier's secret Kala Noor mix, a very apt choice to go along with a fare of Pathar Kabab, Kabab-e-Bannu, Moti-e-Zameen, Dal Dera Ismail Khan and Murgh Daraanpur. The accompaniments include Pudina parantha, Keema naan, Tandoori roti and Kulachi Naan.

As the binging  proceeds, what is most impressive is that the basic ingredients - the lamb, chicken, lentil, vegetables - are not swamped by overabundance of spices and oil; instead the intrinsic taste triumphs. Take the Pathar Kabab for instance, the subtlety of the spice is remarkable. Tender beaten pieces of lamb, rubbed with spices and cooked on a hot sizzling stone, cliched as it may sound, it is indeed a melt-in-the-mouth affair. Then there is the Kabab-e-Bannu, tender pieces of chicken marinated in egg, vinegar and pepper and cooked in a tandoor. The marination mix might sound bland but reserve your judgment till you bite into it! What is equally interesting about Kabab-e-Bannu is that all the chicken pieces are jointed, could be the egg at work, and it needs a little push of the fork to separate them.

Kabab-e-Bannu

Pathar Kabab

Black lentil or Kaali dal is a perennial North India favourite, but unfortunately more than  often it is doused with so much butter and cram that the after taste is more of the dairy products that leave behind a greasy trail. Frontier certainly knows its dal and how! For a dish from a rough terrain zone, Dal Dera Ismail Khan is a study in subtlety and improbable as it may sound, sophistication.  The dal is clearly simmered for hours with regular seasonings and butter, but rest assured that the taste is not about butter but all about the dal, a wonder of slow cooking all right. No wonder, Frontier proudly flaunts it as its speciality. In fact, all you need is a bowl of Dal Dera Ismail Khan and a kulcha or naan to feel that undeniable sense of bliss that comes from good food. And a plate of Murgh Daraanpur on the side! Once again an affair of tender pieces of chicken breast stuffed with cheese, minced chicken and spices and cooked in a tandoor. Come to think of it, isn't it quite a smile inducing picture to visualise the Buzkashi playing hardy denizens getting off their horses to dine on fare that takes delicacy to another height?

Dal Dera Ismail Khan!

I first fell in love with the name, Moti-e-Zameen, literally pearls on earth. A tandoori salad with slices and chunks of onions, capsicum, tomato, pineapple and cottage cheese on a seekh with a dressing of Frontier's understated but  delicious spice dressing roasted to perfection. While a North West Frontier province speciality restaurant might mislead one into thinking that it will be non-vegetarian all the way, that is actually not so. In fact, the vegetarian fares are a plenty and equally scrumptious. The  Bharwan Aloo, potatoes stuffed with delicately flavoured cheese and cooked in a tandoor, the wipe-your-plate Khatte Baingan, eggplant cooked with special spices and served with an option of gravy are sure to win over even the most die-hard non-vegetarians.

Moti-e-Zameen

Bharwan Aloo

Dessert or Shireeni? The latter obviously scores over with its poetic connotations but even in plain English the taste meter is the same. We opt for Intekhaab Sheer-e-Barf (chef's special Kulfi) and Sheer-e-Murmuri, the eternal Indian favourtie, phirni. The proof of the pudding, it is said, is in the eating and we did, scrapping up every last bit. What was out of the usual was the slight grainy texture of the phirni which gave it more punch.

The evening was indeed  an exciting culinary trip into the North West Frontier province!

Mulberry Musings in Shillong

From left its oranges or rather the locally grown small but extremely sweet tangerines.The pile of little green fruits next to it are bay-berry or what the Khasis call Soh Phi (soh in Khasi means fruit), it has such a tarty sour taste that sets the teeth on edge, that those biting into it for the first time are bound to recoil in total shock. When you buy a small polythene packet of Soh Phi, it comes sprinkled with a mixture of salt and red chilli powder. You buy it, find a comfortable place to sit and bite in, involuntarily squeezing your eyes tight the first time, your teeth almost rattle in protest, your tongue goes into  paralysis mode at sucking the squirt of the most sour juice ever. And yet you can't stop at one! Soh Phi in Shillong signals spring, to me it is intrinsically Shillong like the pine trees and the rustling breeze. Soh Phi is also pickled and sold in mom-and-pop stores, but the pickled version is very tame. Incidentally, the same green fruit grows wild in hilly areas of Uttarakhand and Nepal and in Nepali it is called Kafal. There are even songs about the fruit, the most famous one being 'Kafal pakyo, kafal pakyo' (Kafal has ripened) The ripened ones initially turn an orange-ish red and gradually acquire deeper hues of dark red and purple and can often be mistaken for raspberries. The shock inducing tangy quotient reduces and acquires a sweetish touch with still a bit of the acidic. In Khasi the ripe variety is call Soh Shang and in the picture above it sits right next to its green avatar.

Then comes the mulberries! And every time I see them, its immediate transportation to childhood and junior school and that infectious song, ' here we go round the mulberry bush so early in the morning....' In our old house we had a small mulberry tree along with a tomato tree.  If memory serves me right, it didn't bear much fruit but it always seemed to have caterpillars crawling around. It was the too-much caterpillars that ultimately resulted in its untimely death, it was uprooted and done away with. Fruit wise mulberry doesn't have any distinct taste, but what it lacks in punch it more than makes up with staining everything a dark black purple - your fingers and nails naturally from handling them,  your clothes, your face, anything that you touch with your mulberry stained fingers and above all, your teeth. And you realise that being an adult doesn't mean you stop from flashing your mulberry juice dripping teeth at everyone, especially kids while at the time making sure you are cock-eyed!  So there we were, a friend and I, slurping on mulberries at Police Bazaar, Shillong and smiling at everyone! By the way there is a trick to eating mulberry, you hold one by its dainty delicate stem, push the whole thing into your mouth, hold firmly the stem and pull it out. What you get is a mouthful of splattering mulberry in your mouth and a tiny stem in your hand to be discarded. 

April in Shillong is also when the wind blows fiercely, like an angry avenger blasting its way everywhere. Thankfully, there are long breaks in between. If you happen to be out when the strong gusts happen, and if you are wearing dresses, please drop everything and ensure that you pull down and hold your dress for all its worth! Eons ago it was one of the most hilarious, make that howlirious sight to see one 'aunty'  desperately holding in place her jainsem with one hand and her wig with the other! And if you are inside you make sure that the clothes are pegged on tight on the washing line and nothing is left outside that can be literally blown away. At late nights, when few lights twinkle faintly in the hills and there is darkness all around, maybe a car passing in the distance and the furious wind wooshing about violently, it is easy to imagine other world spirits and such on the prowl. This is when you slink in deeper into your quilt

April is also when the flowers are in full bloom in Shillong.  The wild roses are everywhere as are carnations, balsam, geraniums, calendula, pansies, dianthus, daffodils, lilies, cosmos, petunias, fuchsia, more roses and just what have you. Several houses have flowering orchids too, the branch laden down with the weight. Some are just beautiful, some so exotic and haughty, one feels like bowing before them. In the midst of traffic on a busy thoroughfare near the Governor's House one stops suddenly, there is an old structure, the kind not seen around much. It is some government office and before it a bottle brush tree stands regally with its fiery red flowers spreading cheer. There is a Zen feel to it all - the simple white limestone washed wall, the black wooden frames, the naturally coloured wooden doors and the red tin roof. You smile for a long time after that.

Close by on a dirty wall a poster catches the eye. Shillong is not the place one would expect the communist party to be active but there it is, with a yellow background with ' prevent price rise, price of diesel' written in green and red and signed CPI (Communist Party of India). One can't help but remember what is generally said about youths and communism: If you're not a communist before you are 25, you have no heart; if you are a communist after 25 you have no brains (or something to that effect)  I am sure the CPI poster was the first one on the wall or why on earth would it be next to the one that announces, 'Dance for Respect'. Someone  from the Megha Rockers Dance Academy in Shillong surely has a deep sense of humour!    

Another day rushing down long narrow steps it is suddenly time to apply the brakes again. There's a small house, which looks like any other insignificant house in the hills, at a level lower  than that of the steps going down. What makes you smile is the roof turned into a flower garden. Nothing posh-tosh, nothing elaborate, just pots lined up in rows on the two levels of the cemented roof with blooms of every hue. It must be a cheerful feeling for the house inmates to know that above their head is a little paradise.

  

Another day going around hunting for starfruit (don't ask why!) Everywhere I am told its not the season as yet. The search for the missing starfruit takes me to the Laitumkhrah Market and what I see instead are small snails everywhere! I am told the most common way of having it is to boil the snails for sometime, strain it, let it cool and eat it like the way you do with mulberry - hold in your mouth, suck in the flesh and discard the shell. There is no way anyone is going to get me to suck on snails!

A bright red coloured signboard catches the eye. Its for a Khasi food restaurant called Red Rice, named after the locally grown rice with its reddish brownish colour. The red rice is organic, wholesome and very healthy, though not as tasty as fine polished Basmati. A blend of mashed red rice and the locally grown seeded banana is common baby food. We walk into Red Rice, ignore the Chinese section of the menu and order Khasi veg and non-veg platters. What comes makes me laugh - the platter is served on a square steel plate with inbuilt bowls like those you get in school/college dining halls/canteens and army messes and there is no sign of any red rice anywhere. The rice is white Basmati. I call the waiter, could he please exchange the white rice for the red rice? He can't because there is no red rice. Huh! so why name the place Red Rice? And why on earth can you have a Khasi cuisine eatery without red rice?

Time flies and suddenly Barapani (Lake Umiam) is behind you and, ahead Guwahati is much closer. I don't like it but I have no option. Zoom, zoom and Umiam disappears in a jiffy....

 

 

Soon after you have reason to smile again. As you drive from Guwahati to Shillong, there are sections between the borders of the two states where it can get a bit confusing over demarcation. One moment the left side is in Meghalaya, the next in Assam and so on.... The best way to  identify, without fail, which portion lies in which state is to look for the wine shops. Yep, good ole booze shops. There are none on the Assam side, there are more than enough on the Meghalaya side. And they come with the most amusing names- Transcend (you know obviously what!); Grace; Good Will; Doni Polo; Shenki; Capital; Blue Hill; Cash and Carry (love it!); Lakhan; Border: French and so on. For all the grand names the shops are small,  unimpressive, some even hole-in-the-wall affair, some with strong iron grills  between the customers and the shopkeeper.

 

Long, long ago there used to be one called 'Stagger In'. Sadly that seems to have disappeared. Maybe next time there will be more amusing names. Talking of names, one hotel on the bypass road to Guwahati airport seems to be suffering from a major identity crisis- there are quite a few huge signboards announcing its presence, just that in some it is called  Hotel Bhargav and in others Hotel Bhargab. Sigh, guess it is a question of  ' to v or not to be!'

TRULY CHINESE!

Ni Hao and xeixei are all the Chinese I know! But that hasn't stopped me from having a lifelong love affair with Chinese cuisine. Long before the 'food wave' or rather deluge that has permeated most nooks and corners of urban India, the fare most people ate out was Chinese, or rather what went for Chinese- the usual chowmein, chili chicken, sweet and sour chicken, the momos of course and such. Where I grew up, for some strange unfathomable reason, most Chinese eateries served the dishes along with a small plate of sliced onions and whole green chilies. In fact, most places still do. Then one got acquainted with China Town in Kolkata and above all, the eateries in Tangra. There were several Sundays of getting up early and heading to China Town for breakfast. I had a simple rule, I ate what I could recognise. The five star hotels were of course always there but in one's youth the pocket is not always that way inclined!

When you move places - literally that is - and get to know another city, learning about, being told and discovering eating joints is always a big part of life. Then you walk into one and you know  that's its for keeps. Walking into Taipan, the Chinese rooftop restaurant at The Oberoi, New Delhi, is like meeting up with an old friend. Everything is familiar and warm with a feeling of happiness and a sense of continuance. Taipan in Chinese denotes Supreme Leader and the restaurant lives up to its name every which way. This is one place where the Chinese food is as it should be -authentic to the core. In a world that seems to be hurtling by at beyond the speed of light rate and where traditional cuisines seem to acquire indefinable avatars and so called cutting edges, it feels good deep within to know that some eateries remain constant. Incidentally, The Oberoi, New Delhi celebrates its golden jubilee this year! Taipan, that opened in 1982 is course much younger but what I really love is the decor and ambiance which has remained as it was then - classy and subtle, like a regal beauty ageing gracefully.

To be at Taipan during the Chinese New Year (February 19-26) is to celebrate the Year of the Sheep with a festive menu drawn up by Chef Qian Jian. The special menu is compact but perfect, going from chicken and Chinese cabbage Jiao Zi dumplings to chrysanthemum red snapper with sweet and sour sauce to tofu with black fungus, snow peas and baby corn in a spicy soy sauce to stir fried rice noodles with Chinese cabbage and much more. The convenient part is one can have any of the dishes from the new year menu individually or as part of a  set menu, which to me couldn't have been better because if you are in Taipan and you don't binge on its wide varieties of dumplings, it seems an incomplete meal. And that is exactly what we did - making our picks from both the menus (new year and a la carte) with, naturally, help from Chef Jian.  

I have no qualms in admitting it was binging with a bang! We began with the chicken and Chinese cabbage Jiao Zi dumplings and went on to devour shrimp hargow; the signature four seasons dumplings; char sew bao and shrimp and asparagus dumplings. Every bite was a melt in the mouth affair with paper thin casings, except for the bao which  traditionally has a thick-ish casing while the generous stuffing were all delicious. For the main course we had braised pork dumpling (yes again!) in soy sauce, from the new year menu, with its tantalising sweet and savoury taste; the chrysanthemum red snapper with the delicate sweet and sour sauce; the wok fried string bans with green onion and fresh red chili - the crispness of the bean certainly requires a very deft hand - accompanied by stir fried rice noodles with Chinese cabbage from the new year menu. It was a meal that makes you feel that everything is all right with the world and the one above there is looking down on you with benign blessings.

Braised pork dumplings in soy sauce

Chrysanthemum red snapper in sweet and sour sauce

Wok fried string beans

When it comes to sweet dish, I have no hesitation in saying that  if you have a Chinese meal forget the desert and instead go with green tea. Chef Jian however had a pleasant surprise in store, the sweet date dumpling (yes, yes again!) in syrup, also from the new year menu. When it came it looked like a hardened small rasogolla in a watery syrup, but when you bite in, the date filling inside wins over your palate with subtleness. For a dish that gave nun-like vibes and look, just white and almost childlike simple, the taste was just that, restrained yet so winning.

 

Sweet date dumplings in sugar syrup

As we walk out of the rooftop restaurant, overlooking a stunning verdant spread below especially the golf club greens, you realise that for all the world experimenting with food in every which way from molecular gastronomy to what-have-you, nothing can ever score over authenticity, especially in a classy ambiance. It makes you fall in love with Taipan all over again!

CRAB-BY CALLS

There are family tales and legends and one often related in mine is how my mother, pregnant with her first child, binged on crabs! Those were not exotic dishes but simple river crabs, freshly caught and roasted over wood fire. She of course, had nothing to do with the catching, cleaning and cooking- the crabs were served on a platter and she gorged till kingdom come. I guess those days there were no doctors who told pregnant women to be careful when it comes to sea/river catch. Every time I heard the story I would somewhat shudder and wonder how anyone on earth could eat  those claw-y things. Must be hormones I would tell myself. Never play smug is what I have now learnt especially if you have a mother who salivates at the mention of crabs!

My crabby affair started rather late but once it did I plunged into headlong, eyes open and whooping all the way. It's another matter that in the years we lived in Kolkata, I would curl up my nose when it came to crabs despite the crab delicacies specially made for us at one Chinese restaurant in Tangra. I wish it was possible to self deliver a backside kick! And yes I do have a crab story too. That was the time we were living on  Baker Street, Kolkata (Yes there is one indeed, close to Bhawani Bhawan, abutting Alipore and bang opposite the South 24 Parganas  administrative headquarters). It was a ground floor flat with the drawing room windows that opened bang into the footpath outside, which meant the windows remained permanently shut. That was fine but what was not fine was I could never ever figure out why those who built the flat never made windows on the opposite wall that had a small neat garden outside, accessed through the dining room only. That, those in the know say that's what PWD flats are all about; that's the sarkari public works department. So be it. To come back to my crab story - one morning I get up early, walked down the little corridor from the bedrooms leading to the kitchen-dining-sitting area, turn left into the kitchen, switch on the light and start screaming. There were these little creatures crawling all over which in my early morning befuddled state looked like giant insects from a horror movie. There was a bucket with some water in one corner and these little crabs were crawling out of it and all over. Apparently, someone had got tonnes of river crabs for the spouse somewhat late at night and the home guard had left them in the bucket.

Crabs? Does one eat crabs? The home guards looked at me as one would at a child saying no to ice-cream. That's where girlfriends come in - and they did, two of them. We rushed through work and rushed back to tackle the crabs. The two did and we squatted down on floor cushions and had a feast. Well, I had a bit here and there but watched others go loco. A Bombay-based banker (then it was yet to be Mumbai), the spouse's batch-mate, dropped in suddenly. Everyone offered him crabs. Those were the days when newly married and all that, forget crab tongs and the paraphernalia, we didn't even have a fully furnished home. The Bombay-banker, took a big claw and sigh, the claw got to him first -the cut was long and bleeding and all washing, Dettol, cotton pads, gauze bandages finally managed to stench the blood flow somewhat.

Somewhere my equation with crabs changed - ate them/eat them everywhere, anywhere and in any style, though the Singapore chili crabs remain the perennial favourite. Like a continuing story, the daughter first wouldn't touch it with a bargepole and then, like all neo converts developed an almost rabid passion for it.  For a family of crab lovers, strangely I never cooked them at home. I still couldn't get myself to handle them prior cooking, till last Christmas that is. A dear friend from Kolkata, on a visit, decided that Christmas eve meal would be a sea-fare and not the usual giant leg of ham etc. So off she trotted off to INA Market with her daughter and came laden with crabs and more crabs and jumbo prawns.Apparently she first bought the sea crabs though her first choice is river crab and suddenly, in one corner shop she spied river ones and naturally she had to have them too. The duo threw us out of the kitchen and set to work and .............

Crab-ilicious!

  

Prawns to pine for!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then of course there had to be plum cake from Nahoum's, New Market, Kolkata, dark, luscious, scandalous and to-be-pounced-upon at all cost. 

One moment, it was big and the next- nearly gone!

The recipes that my friend followed was ultra simple, I have always believed that when the main ingredients are to die for it is absurd to go for a complicated recipe. All that the crab dish had was ginger-garlic and garam masala, salt and coriander garnish.The prawn recipe was another simpler affair and all the more delicious for it.

Like someone testing hot waters by tipping in a toe, I decided that it was high time that yours sincerely tackled the crab in my own kitchen. Like all first timers one decided it had to be Singapore chili crab, my style that is, and nothing else. The first attempt was less than passable. But of course, you don't give up, do you. And I went at it again. It was about two and a half  kg of sea crabs and here's how I went about it:

Crabs, 21/2 kg (before cleaning)

Ginger-garlic, 2 tsp, minutely minced

Onion, 1 small, minced

Red pepper, 2, minced (Actually bird's eye chili or tiny red chillies should be used but some in the family have no capacity at all to eat anything even remotely chili spicy!)

Tomato puree, 250gm

Indonesian ketchup, 2 tsp

Shrimp paste, 2 tsp

Salt, to taste

Sugar, 1/2 tsp ( I use what we call mishri, tiny powdered sugar bits because wedding invites or Diwali gifts somehow seem to have mishri packets tagged!)

   

Heat a wok, toss in the ginger-garlic mince, stir briskly briefly, add minced pepper and stir, add onions and stir briskly. Throw in the crab pieces and stir fry for a while till a tinges of orange appear. Meanwhile in a glass bowl mix the tomato puree with the Indonesian ketchup, shrimp paste, salt to taste and the sugar (if you want the gravy slightly thick mix in a teaspoon of cornflour too), pour over the crab pieces and mix well. Cover with a lid and let it cook for 4/5 minutes on simmer, stirring occasionally. 

That's all that needs to be done.

    

                                       

And guess what we had it with? Since I had no clue on how to make the Singapore style Sala pao (the steamed buns served with the crabs) and didn't want the botheration of looking up the menu on the Internet, I decided that, like or lump it, it would be Yorkshire pudding as accompaniment. Call it cuisine corruption of the highest order or whatever but boy did it work! It was just perfect to mop up the slurp-y gravy.

While making Yorkshire pudding I follow a simple formula - the eggs, the flour and the milk should be of the same height, yes same height! Take a glass jar or bowl and break in the eggs (I used 5), mark the height carefully and pour in the eggs into a bigger bowl. It is best to mark the egg-height on the outside of the glass jar/bowl because you have to dry the inside to put in the flour, the level has to be exactly the same height as that of the eggs. Get the drift? Pour the flour over the eggs. Then pour in room temperature milk, yes up to the same level and pour that over the eggs-flour. Put in a pinch of salt and pepper and mix thoroughly. Let the mixture stand for at least half an hour; it would be  best if you could let it rest for more, maybe a couple of hours.  Heat the oven to 250C. I use muffin cups. Grease the cups generously either with butter or oil and put in the empty greased muffin cups into the oven. Yes please empty cups! It will take a minute or two for the muffin cups to heat up thoroughly and the grease to start smoking. Take out the muffin tray and instantly fill in each cup up to halfway. Be careful as there is lot of sizzling and splattering. Put the tray back into the oven (250C) and bake for about 15-20 minutes. Keep an eye as you can see the pudding puffing up furiously. Take the tray out - fat Yorkshire pudding and crabs- that's some combination!

Time to head to the kitchen..................................