Notes from a Goan Table

In all the years that I was a Goa virgin, I never heard a Goa story without the teller going into paroxysms of gastronomic glee. Have you? I don't think I've heard a Goa story without the tiger prawn, the lobster (or crab), and the baby kingfish assuming center stage for at least three-quarters of the tale. And each of them comes into its own only at specific establishments, usually in Baga-Calangute-Candolim. In fact, I think that's one of the primary reasons why I chose the touristy North Goa stretch over the deserted sands of South Goa.

Not my usual hyperbole, don't you know, to say that Goa is amongst the greatest gastronomic adventures possible. It goes without saying that I ate only food unavailable or difficult to get in Bombay. Only prawn and fish curry, Goa sausages, masala-fried and recheado-tossed seafood, sorpotel and vindaloo and sannas, crab xacuti, and all manner of chilli fried meat. I'm sure I'm leaving something out! Certainly, there was the occasional seafood or prawn cocktail and even a butter-garlic calamari, but we've walked out of restaurants not serving Goan food — only after a beer, though!

I consider myself respectably fishetarian but I don't think I've ever even heard of as many different varieties of fish in Bombay: perch, butter fish, sea bass, red snapper, and rock fish. Even though I've eaten mostly kingfish in Bombay for the past few years, I haven't had the pleasure of kingfish as fresh and succulent as I did in Goa. And where shall I begin about the squid? You don't get calamari as juicy and firm in Bombay - it's one in a million chance if you do.I have but one regret about the seafood and it is the lack of crumb-fried mussels. The elder sibling and the ex-reviewer won't stop raving about mussels but don't you know, mussel season begins only mid-November. It became something of a quest finally, the hunt for bloody crumb-fried mussels. God knows, I tried everywhere — from Baga to Calangute to Vagator to Panjim to Utorda.

And let's not forget the chorizo. That most wonderful, worthy, and spicy sausage. I ate it fried, boiled, in curry, in pao, in pulav, and chilli fried. Since that was not enough, we trekked to the Mapusa Friday Market to buy a few hundred to bring back home. While I was at the market, I also bought the only things that can ease being away from Goa — Goan masalas. The ache eases, truly it does, when you've made crumb-fried prawns and kingfish marinated in recheado masala. A wee bit of San Andre Port wine along with the food and the constriction inside begins to lessen... really!

My first proper meal in Goa was at a little bar and restaurant on the second floor of a house 30 meters from Baga Beach. The ex-reviewer's prize culinary find, it's called Alex's and is run by a rumbling, quiet man named Alex and his wife, who is the most incredible cook. We started with masala-fried calamari and some seriously great cashew feni. A failed request for crumb-fried mussels later, a plate of two large crumb-fried mackerels wound up on our table. Finished that up with chocolate-banana pancakes and I couldn't have been happier.

Alex's is certainly one of my favourite places in Baga, not just because of the food but because of the wonderfully relaxed atmosphere: the TV blaring, Alex's mad little son running all over the place, funny British people, and a huge old dog that looked like a stuffed sausage. For our last meal in Goa, Alex scoured three fish markets to buy crabs for us. He didn't find them but he did buy clams, which his wife cooked into the best clam coconut curry I've ever tasted.

The holy trinity of food at Baga-Calangute is easily Souza Lobo, Brittos, and Infantaria. While great local fare is par for the course in Goa, these are somewhat overrated places. They each have a couple of outstanding things on the menu but otherwise, like the ex-reviewer observes, good loos make the trinity.

For example, the elder sibling nearly froths at the mouth about Brittos, but apart from the baked crabs, sannas, the desserts, and the sublimely brilliant palm feni, I wasn't particularly impressed at all. As was the case with Souza Lobo. The roast tongue with Russian salad was brilliant — the quality of the meat was just superb. But I didn't think so well of the Goa sausage chilli fry or the other food. In addition, I didn't like Calangute beach much and that just added to my general impression.

Infantaria though is my very favourite of the three. I was decently disappointed by the famed Infantaria breakfast because it's not as large as the menu claims and hence isn't value for money. Avoid the feni — too harsh and bitter. But they have best strawberry and blueberry doughnuts ever. The Kahlua Mousse Cake and the Chocolate Walnut Date Tart, and the Crab Xacuti which at 85 bucks is some real value for money. But honestly, a major reason why I loved Infantaria was the *awesome* service that we enjoyed. Should you stop there, ask for John and Michael. They're quite friendly and happy to stop for a chat or invite the ex-reviewer to sing.

There are also a couple of other places that I recommend. One is on the Candolim Road and is called Lloyd's, after the guy who runs it. His mama does all the cooking and the food is excellent, if a little expensive. The potato chops looked delicious but were over by the time we ordered. The fish cutlets are definitely a must-try. The feni's not too good, but he does serve King's. The other place is called Mirabai's Goan Village — featured in the photo below. I wasn't very keen on the place because of a misunderstanding and some overreaction on my part but I'm glad the ex-reviewer convinced me otherwise. The fish was incredibly fresh and well-cooked and the feni smooth and light. Coupled with the lovely ambience, friendly staff, and loquacious owner, I had a really good time there.

I don't think that I'd be doing the Goan experience justice if I didn't mention the alcohol. Especially since a decent effort was expended in the noble pursuit of finding the best local palm or cashew feni. We devoted ourselves to it with such single-minded purpose that we did not suffer a single drop of anything else (but King's) to pass our lips in all that time. Feni is the loveliest high — easy, lazy, and mellow like a summer's day. Pour it over ice, add some sugar (syrup, preferably), sip it gently, and watch the languor unfold. Ah yes, the final verdict on the feni? The best palm feni hands down is at Brittos while the best cashew is available at Alex's.

To end this post, I have just one word of advice. North Goa, long being a tourist haven, has restaurants all over, some of which are run by the most unlikely suspects. As far as possible, stay out of shacks and restaurants not run by Goans. Both the service and food are likely to be quite bad. Also, there's one recurrent thought — for the life of me, I cannot fathom what a vegetarian would eat in Goa. I don't recall seeing any vegetarian Goan food on any of the menus I studied, either on or off the beaches. The ex-reviewer's more worried about the poor teetotallers but I, being driven by my stomach, am terrified for the vegetarians.

****

I've gone through over 500 photos from Goa and would you believe it, I cannot find more than these two photos of the food!! There's only one more and it's a remains-of-the-plate sort of one. There are assorted cats, dogs, hoardings, and hazy beaches, but no food. I suppose I was too busy to take photos, no? :-)

Time Turtles

If you asked for a time line of my sojourn in Goa, I fear I may not be able to furnish one. You see, as I found out, that one great Goa cliche is really quite true — time really doesn't seem to have much meaning here. It only turtles along and wraps you in gelatinous languor. I cannot tell you which day precisely was spent tramping about Colva or which day in Panjim. Nor can I say which days were spent watching the sea or simply staring at it, sometimes idly, sometimes glassy-eyed.

What with it being my first trip, I was labouring under both my own expectations and too many recommendations. So after some deliberation, we decided upon North Goa with a day in South Goa thrown in. A miserable bus journey later I arrived in Baga — in the middle of the Eid weekend. It's true, you know, what they say about Goa in season. There really were far too many people already down in Baga and most of those from bloody Bombay! Of course, things settled once the throng left on Monday (but still!): we got lazy, discovering Baga, Candolim, and Vagator in the silence of the early season.

Goa's the most beautiful country — lush and green and truly, quite like Kerala. Both so abundantly flaunt the blessing of the South-west monsoon in their waving palm trees and mid-harvest fields. The Baga, the Zuari, and other rivers meander across Goa with elephantine grace as do so many rivers across Kerala. Both states also carry the unmistakable stamp of familiarity with the Portuguese. This is especially true of Panjim with its brightly painted buildings in Fontainhas, the Latin quarter, so greatly reminiscent of Jew Town in Fort Kochi.

Another intriguing similarity — you can't go five kilometers in either Goa or Kerala without some symbol or house of religion!

Goa's also amazing food and alcohol country. It's at least a mildly disorienting experience to be in a decently fancy eatery and find that Smirnoff's only 45 bucks to the large. And you know that we're doing something right as a country if we're producing a liquor as fine as palm feni and a beer as mellow and easy as King's. It's such a pity that neither are available in Bombay. I'd like to rant about the food because God knows Goan food deserves the paeans, but then I won't have a next post. But I will say this: as it is usually is with hearsay, I was disappointed with some of the restaurants so long hallowed.

Live in sight of the sea for most of your life and you may begin to take it for granted. I, on the other hand, have learned its true value in the last three years. And so, I rediscovered the sea in Goa. There is such a pure and beautiful joy in sitting in the deepening twilight, reading or writing or talking or being silent, letting the sound of the waves wash over you. In the North Goa stretch, Candolim is the best beach for those evenings. Candolim is also where I walked the sands of my childhood: where memory nibbled in small tendrils of nostalgia. Some roads were familiar and some vistas beloved.

The elder sibling warned me that because of the length of my stay, I might just end up being disillusioned about Goa much sooner than I need be. And perhaps, I was. In season, I don't think there is much of a difference between Baga-Calangute and Juhu Beach. Unthinkably irritating, don't you know, being kept just too far off the beach. Also, since I don't see a point in partying in Goa, I take at least some manner of exception to the loud, intrusive Bollywood and other "music" and the speeding cars along a road wide enough for two bikes!

Over that week, I came to realise that I like some of the big things, like the restaurants, but otherwise Goa is in the quieter and smaller things. In the little "bar and rest" that no one notices. In the genial, rumbling patrao who checks three fish markets to get your crabs. In the homes of people who don't know you from Adam but welcome you warmly at their tables just the same. In the stark, deserted beaches that bring you back in touch with your penguin roots. In the run-down bungalow down a green lane in Colva selling sausage-pao for 10 bucks. In the old, friendly and pushy aunty who sells chorizo at the Mapusa Friday Market but owns a flat in Napean Sea Road, Bombay.

Finally, I'm glad I went with the ex-reviewer. I doubt that I would have seen so much of Goa otherwise - a fact the elder sibling corroborates. Or had such a completely indulgent vacation. He watched me thumb through the guidebook only to finally gleefully let the susegaad win me over. He stopped obligingly on rattling and busy bridges for photographs. He laughed when the feni made me mad in my toes and very, very drunk. He also stole my camera every now and then only to make me the unwilling and tortured subject of too much wasted camera battery. And yes, those will never see the light of day!

Sigh... I'm back.

Getting onto that bus to Bombay was amongst the most depressing things I've ever done. The elder sibling assures me that despite going to Goa five times a year, the depression never fails to come a'calling. Staring at my screen instead of a Goan sunset, feni in my glass, and crumb-fried prawns on my plate feels so incredibly wrong... Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!

Mensis Mirabilis

I have an odd mix of accomplishments to list here today and it seems impossible to not smile about either one.

Today is one year since I quit smoking. After ten years. I quit in a fit of pride; didn't like being told the stick was stronger than me, don't you know. The first few weeks were a little miserable, what with people all over the country trying to tempt me back. But you know that you've really and truly quit when in the biting, early-morning January Delhi cold, you can detachedly hold a cigarette and watch it burn down to the filter and NOT WANT to take a drag. I think I'll always miss the "after a great meal" smoke and the solitary, contemplative smoke but for the biggest part, I'm just glad I quit.

Secondly, I can now stop saying "I am the only 27 year-old in Bombay who can say that it's been 23 years since I last went to Goa." Yup, yup. Am finally in Goa. Under a blazing hot sun. Soaking up the susegad. Eating like it's my last week on Earth. Drinking alcohol in lieu of water. Exploring the smaller stuff. Falling back in love with my life. Rediscovering my photographic eye. Finally having my Dil Chahata Hai moment.

More when I'm back. There will be, I am sure, since I'm with the ex-reviewer. Like a good child, I am being harassed into writing, complete with drafting and polishing, every day. :-)

In Search of Ramazan

The November of 2001. For the first time, Ramazan up close, and personal.

It began slowly, with S fasting during exams and going off to pray in the middle of evening tea. A little later came the small dabbas that S's mother sent back to the hostel. Three of us would huddle around a light blue box, drowning in the rich and varied tastes of her home, jostling each other's fingers for favourite bits. Still later was the feast that the entire family brought to campus in time for Iftar. Baskets of egg samosas and assorted kababs, each dabba within filled with some of the most incredible food I've ever had the pleasure of.

And yet, nothing could have prepared me for the delights of the Old City. This particular jaunt was a few nights from going home for the winter. Well past midnight by the time we got past the purana pul but with the screaming waiters outside each little shop, the lights, the traffic, you'd be convinced otherwise. Even the sleepy textile shops that usually shut by 7:30 p.m. were still loudly displaying their garish wares. Come to think of it, it's the only time I've ever seen Hyderabad on the go!

That night, from the chaos of Charminar came one of the most brilliant gastronomic experiences of my life.

Haleem. That most delightful of the riches of Ramazan. I've never eaten something like it and I don't think I will either. No idea what I'm frothing at mouth about? Well, it's broken wheat, meat (usually mutton), some dal, spices, and whole lot of ghee, slow-cooked the entire day in a bhatti, ready in time for Iftar. The resultant gooey, gelatinous, porridge-like mouthfuls, topped with fried onion and a wedge of lime, are amongst the closest one can get to culinary nirvana... ever. Nayab at Pathargatti, Miskin and Shadaab in the Old City proper - there are absolutely no better places for haleem. I know - I tried them all!

From the rosy hues of memory, haleem stands strongest and most beloved. But in fairness, there was some other fantastic food too. The nahari and warm sheermal at Miskin, behind Medina Hotel, is the best I've ever had. Miskin also serves a delicious paya. A novel and perhaps surprising experience, because I saw trotters in the paya for the first time. Actually hanging out of the ladle in the handi. Certainly, I was laughed at - amid choking laughter and polite sniggers, I was asked "Why else would it be called paya then?" How would I know?! In Bombay, it's just the greasy soup, thank you very much!

It's been six years since I was last in Hyderabad for Ramazan. Six years since the taste of paradise upon my lips. Six years, I assure you, is a long, long time. So after reading the last issue of Time Out Mumbai and its piece on the feasts of Ramazan, Bombay style, AND where to get haleem in this city, I plan to set out adventuring in Mahim and Mohammed Ali Road. Tonight.

Wish me luck!

Buried in Books

There is definitely, certainly, and incontrovertibly no such thing as being too broke for books.

In my position right now though, you'd think there was. I haven't worked for nearly three months now. I got paid till about two and a half ago. I spend a part of my time figuring out how to make this break last. For the other, I count my pennies and try not to spend them. Especially since I want to travel a fair bit and I want to meet friends elsewhere. So, I now do what I haven't in 3 years — I take buses, I eat cheap, and I drink cheap. I'm doing my best, see. But as usual, the best laid plans of this woman often go awry when any kind of book store is in sight. Especially when the book store's Landmark and their annual sale is on.

It's pathetic, really, my lack of self-restraint. I don't even bother resisting. Right till the door I'm worrying about how I just can't afford another book. What's more, my mum is going to throw me out of the house because we have truly and officially run out of space for books — one of us needs to move out now! But the minute I step in, it all goes to hell. Suddenly there are all these lovely, interesting books — all of which I must read and own. Suddenly the financial problems, of a few small countries, which were dancing on my head a moment ago are all gone. You know what makes it worse? That bloody restraint is one the meanings of my name?!

And while I may have dug an unnecessary hole into my pocket, some of these books have to be seen to be believed. I picked up the illustrated film script of Neil Gaiman's MirrorMask at a mere 150. The original price of this gorgeously produced and exquisitely crafted coffee-table-sized book, I must gloat, is 1513! I bought an absolutely wonderful book on music — Back to the Miracle Factory: Rock etc. 1990's — for a mere 99! And it gets only better. For between 149 and 199, I picked up I'm a Born Liar: A Fellini Lexicon, a Diana Wynne Jones, the children's edition of MirrorMask, and I Hated, Hated, Hated this Movie.

If it had ended there, I wouldn't have felt quite as guilty as I do now. You see, in other impoverishing incidents, that almost silly book store, Crossword, has also had its annual sale. Unfortunately, I found nothing very exciting save for the brilliantly produced and gorgeous Phoenix Poetry series at throwaway prices. And so, the selected works of Ovid, Donne, Byron, Coleridge, Tennyson, and Baudelaire have made their way into my home and my mother's ire.

Ah well. Excuse me while I meander back to bed and read my guilt away.


P.S. On the off chance you thought I was back to my normal derelict ways, allow me to correct that happy mistake. It's been close to a month of hacking like an old crone, watching the world through the haze of my steamer, and dealing with a bad, tender tummy. I'm much better now, thanks very much. :-)

Poetry and Bookstores

I encountered Carol Ann Duffy during the first year of my Masters when a professor read out selections from The World's Wife. Unfortunately, I've not had a chance to get very much better acquainted with her since then because all her books at the British Library are almost always out and I'm yet to come across her at a bookstore in Bombay. To boot, the ever-dependable Internet has too few of the same poems all over the place.

The real, if hidden, moral of the story is that if one of you feels generous enough to want to send me any of her work, please don't hesitate to ask for my address. :-)

So here's an utterly gorgeous poem I came across here. There's another one posted there as well but I liked this one better. Also, you'll find a pretty comprehensive profile of Duffy here.

TEA

I like pouring your tea, lifting
the heavy pot, and tipping it up,
so the fragrant liquid streams in your china cup.

Or when you’re away, or at work,
I like to think of your cupped hands as you sip,
as you sip, of the faint half-smile of your lips.

I like the questions – sugar? – milk? –
and the answers I don’t know by heart, yet,
for I see your soul in your eyes, and I forget.

Jasmine, Gunpowder, Assam, Earl Grey, Ceylon,
I love tea’s names. Which tea would you like? I say
but it’s any tea for you, please, any time of day,

as the women harvest the slopes
for the sweetest leaves, on Mount Wu-Yi,
and I am your lover, smitten, straining your tea.


****

I've always thought there are few places as incredible and intriguing as a book store and that there are too few of that variety in Bombay. On a recent trip around Europe, Plain Jane and K spent a few evenings in Paris during the course of which they explored Shakespeare and Company. The both of them generously thought first of me while they were there. Even more generously, they brought back a wonderful print of a lovely painting of it for me.

An iconic English book store in Paris, Shakespeare and Co has flourished under Slyvia Beach and George Whitman and is quite an important place. For example, did you know that it was Beach who first published Ulysses? From all of K's photos and the ones on the Net, it seems like the most delicious hodge-podge of a place. It's dark, crowded with books in a seeming mess, and looks intriguingly inviting. The best part is that in exchange for working two hours a day in the book store, reading a book day, and making your own bed, you can stay in the upper part of the store as long as you like. And as far as I can tell, while I'm unemployed, I'm definitely in the wrong city!

P.S The Wikipedia article led me to Jeremy Mercer's top 10 book stores. All ten sound really, really delectable, I tell you! Sigh...

Monsoon of Mangoes

Longing is a terrible, terrible thing. A longing that can be satisfied only ten months later is enough to drive a sane woman mad in her fingers. On a rainy evening, by not wanting pizza, it began like this.

On the way to and from some pretty brilliant Goan curries is a little market. It spreads in a clumsy diagonal cross that seems to spill from a round main square into small squiggly lanes. It's a fascinating place because in the evenings, under naked bulbs shaded by waterproof paper plates sit more than one fruit and vegetable seller. The wonky circles of light from under the shiny plate always make the produce look so appealing. Add small beads of rain and there's a beautiful shot.

Knowing that I was going to get out of the cold, out of the rain, and go home to a warm and incredibly delicious meal made me want dessert. And in that moment, the only thing that seemed enticing and desirable, far above even a bar of Galaxy chocolate, was a fruit that wasn't even there — a mango. And with that one thought, I was utterly lost... and still am!

You see, mangoes are nearly a religion in my home, especially with my mother and I. As far as we see it, the only conceivable riches of summer are carton upon carton of mangoes, dozen after dozen of lush aphus and juicy pairee. Each season starts with the usual discussions of how odiously expensive they are, what unconscionable thieves the mango sellers are, and how it will still be a while until we can have the first lot home.

Among my earliest childhood memories is sneaking into the kitchen well past my bedtime to raid the mangoes. It is an achievement beyond most five year-olds, I'll have you know, to be able to identify a single ripe mango from a great, ugly carton of them by smell alone. That in the darkness I could leave the mess of ripped skin and seed in one corner, clean my hands on a towel, leave it lying around, and waltz back to bed qualifies me for prodigy-hood. In fact, it's the only story my mum still tells about me — with pride too!

Many seasons later in Hyderabad, I discovered benishaan, himayat, and rasaal on the crowded streets of Mehdipatnam while scrambling for the 216/217 that took me back to campus. Back in dingy hostel rooms, crowded around the mango-cutter designate, I learned something of the useless arrogance of Alphonso. I learned the new shapes, colours, and textures of an old beloved and fell in love all over again.

Indeed, something about the taste and texture and even the colour of a mango infallibly evokes a sense of well-being. The intermingling fragrance of the fruit and the hay in the carton always speaks of summer holidays and childhood. There is also something so guiltless about a mango. Yes, yes, I know it's got the calories of the world and it makes you break out. But the guilt attached to a chocolate rum mousse cannot begin to compare to the lightness, the simplicity of one, two, or even five mangoes — at a single sitting!

Sigh... only for the mangoes, I tell you. Summer, anyone?

Ribbitting

The ex-reviewer sent across an interesting article about Joshua Bell's anonymous busking experiment with the Washington Post. Set up at a metro station in Washington D.C during rush hour, the point was to answer one fundamental question: "In a banal setting at an inconvenient time, would beauty transcend?"

Bell is regarded as one of America's, and perhaps amongst the world's, foremost classical violinists. He uses one of the most well-known violins ever made, one that he paid an unbelievable, staggering near 4 million USD for. I came across this incident a couple of months ago while randomly reading about busking. To be honest, I didn't pay it much attention but once you're done with the article, you can't help but see some of the significance of this experiment.

"Each passerby had a quick choice to make, one familiar to commuters in any urban area where the occasional street performer is part of the cityscape: Do you stop and listen? Do you hurry past with a blend of guilt and irritation, aware of your cupidity but annoyed by the unbidden demand on your time and your wallet? Do you throw in a buck, just to be polite? Does your decision change if he's really bad? What if he's really good? Do you have time for beauty? Shouldn't you? What's the moral mathematics of the moment?"

In the article, the music director of the Nashville Symphony Orchestra, Leonard Slatkin, when hypothetically asked about the outcome of such an experiment, said it would be a hit in Europe, that a crowd would gather around. I can't help but wonder what sort of reaction Bell, or indeed anyone creating any manner of beauty, would have gotten in India where street performers aren't exactly in abundant supply. Especially not street performers doing Bach and Schubert — not really a part of the average national cultural experience. Does the experience of beauty transcend nation and culture? I wonder what it would have been like for him in Bombay, perhaps at the super busy Churchgate or Andheri stations at rush hour?

The full article is here and at the very end is a Q&A with the author, which is as interesting as the main article. Though the article contains streaming video, you might, like me, not be able to view it.