Cooking in Calcutta

Baking in a Bengali home

2011-05-16T23:50:00.000-07:00

This blog is about Bengali cooking, but our home cooking history and account would be incomplete without a mention of baking. I love baking, and so does my mother.

When I was a child, the only Western food concept that was firmly set in our house was cake. My mother was an expert in baking simple cakes. I would be her assistant who gladly volunteered to stir the batter. I remember the frothy egg in a large bowl after vigorous whisking. I remember the gradual addition of sugar, butter (white, unprocessed and unsalted white butter), flour (mixed with baking powder), essence (usually vanilla), and, sometimes, nuts. She would put the batter in a pan and the pan into an oven that might have become an antique by now. It was a dinosaur. The oven was a big black iron box with a glass door secured with a little latch. The oven’s source of heat was not inside it; it would be placed on a chulha.
But the cake that would come out would be perfect.

Another way my mother would bake a cake was by putting smouldering coals on the lid of an aluminum pot with the batter in it set on a chulha. The cake would turn out just as fluffy, rich, and light.

Whether it was the low-tech gadgets or my mother’s magic I don’t know, but something worked well every time. The cake would be just right – light, moist, yet fluffy and flavorful. (The only thing my mother never learnt to do is icing. My father often urged her to learn icing from the Russian women who lived in Bhilai, but she never took active interest.)

Ghee vs. butter: Two siblings, rival

2011-05-10T21:41:00.000-07:00

I love ghee, or clarified butter. For too long, ghee has been closeted or relegated to Indian cuisine. I grew up eating ghee in my home, and still love the incomparable flavor of pure ghee, and I think it could give butter a run for its money. I prefer the more delicate flavour of cow’s milk ghee to that made from buffalo milk. I am glad that ghee is finally emerging from the Indian pantry to win the hearts of Western cooks.

Recently, I read in Mint newspaper the column of a British baker and blogger who substituted pure ghee for butter in shortbread cookies (close cousins of nan khatai). She found the results more flavorful and crispy than what butter had earlier produced.

In the same newspaper, I read a few weeks ago another column, this one on healthy food, that provided a recipe for preparing ghee. Ah, making ghee from scratch! The recipe calls for cream skimmed off fresh milk over several days and cooking it until the ghee separates. Another way to make ghee (even though the article didn’t mention this) is to, well, clarify butter, especially unprocessed.

I remember my mother making ghee both ways when I was a boy. When she would make ghee from white, unprocessed butter, she would ask me to go tear some leaves from a lime tree growing in our backyard. She would put a few in the sizzling butter to infuse the ghee with a limey flavour. How I long for the heavenly fat!

Which of the fats do you prefer?

Chutney: Homey -- and exotic

2011-03-19T19:49:00.000-07:00

Chutney (chuht-nee), n. From the East Indian word chatni, this spicy condiment contains fruit, vinegar, sugar, and spices. It can range in texture from chunky to smooth and in degrees of spiciness from mild to hot.

I grew up, as most Indians do, eating chutneys. We never seem to think much about chutneys, do we? At least, I have always taken chutneys for granted. I have eaten since childhood unripe mango and papaya, pineapple, amla (Indian gooseberry), and, of course, tomato chutneys. A chutney is something that Bengalis eat at the end of a meal in small quantities, sometimes merely as a ritual, to give the repast a finishing touch, perhaps just before dessert, if that is served, too.

Over the past several years, though, I have seen the chutney going upscale – some creative chefs from all over the world are using chutney as a garnishing sauce or a special touch for their creations. The humble chutney, if you will, is becoming exotic. It is, in fact, earning its rightful place.

I gave the chutney dignity in my own way this past week by replicating a simple, but classy recipe conceived by my mother and executed by – of all cooks – the housemaid in our Kolkata home a few weeks ago, when I was visiting. The chutney is made from fresh strawberry, which is prohibitively pricey in some parts of India -- for a chutney. (My wife glared at me and called me extravagant during preparation!)

The strawberry chutney, prepared Bengali style, turned out to be delightfully rich in color and velvety in texture, with some chunks thrown in for some bite. Have you eaten strawberry chutney, dear reader? If not, I will show you how to prepare it. Stay tuned for the recipe.

Burnt milk: Stink or flavor?

2011-02-25T22:39:00.000-08:00

I burnt something the other day in the kitchen. My family was away in Kolkata, and I was working at my computer, all by myself. I was engrossed in my work when I smelled something smoky and pungent. I realized I had put on the gas stove a pan of milk and forgotten all about it.

I ran to the kitchen. By that time, much of the milk had overflowed, bathing the burner. I regretted my mistake and filled with the burden of cleaning up the mess. After I stood there for a moment, though, I smelled something more pleasant than the bitterness of a silly error. I smelled something smoky, but nostalgic, reminiscent of my mother's fondness for something -- the flavor of half-burned and caramelized milk.

As I took off the pan of milk from the stove, I inhaled deeply. I smelled "kheer," or evaporated, half-caramelized milk. I could eat the remaining milk in the pan with roti.

Putting my regret behind me, I recalled my mother's liking for burnt milk. She had always admitted with embarrassment her weakness for the flavor, a singular fondness for half-burnt milk that she would scrape with a serving spoon to eat.

She now lives in Kolkata, about 2,000 miles from my home in Mumbai; she is now sick and old in an equally old house in the heart of an older city. I remembered her. And I remembered something -- my own fondness for a sweet, a dessert that is almost the same as burnt milk. I remembered "pora pithe" -- a sweet famous in the state of Orissa. That is similar to creme brulee, too!

I love it. I have begun loving burnt milk! What about you, dear reader?

A vegetable both plain and exotic

2009-07-27T20:50:00.000-07:00

I am on vacation in Calcutta, my home town, and I can’t find a topic better than parwal, or pointed gourd. For this vegetable is native to this part of India. While this is a familiar vegetable for people in eastern India, it’s relatively exotic in other regions, like Maharashtra, where it is four times as expensive as in Bengal (an eastern state). And in the United States, it sells for $7 a pound!

Parwal’s Latin name is Trichosanthes dioica. Called parwal in Hindi and potol in Assamese, Oriya, and Bengali, it is widely cultivated in the eastern part of India, particularly in Orissa, Bengal, Assam, and Bihar, and parts of Uttar Pradesh.

It is a vine plant, similar to cucumber and squash, though unlike those it is perennial. The fruits are green, mostly with white stripes; the size can vary from small and round to thick and long — 2 to 6 inches.

It is used as ingredients of stew, curry, or eaten fried and as “dorma” with stuffing. Pointed gourd is also converted to a sweetmeat in Bengal.

For more on the possibilities of parwal, please be patient. This post is merely a prelude. For what you can do with parwal, watch out for another post. I will need to ask my mother for help on that.

Let us make an omelet

2009-07-13T22:40:00.000-07:00

I love egg in all its forms: omelets, and fried, boiled, and poached egg. But, I have a special weakness for omelets.

Omelets come in varied forms, too – what infinite variety egg provides! There is the classic French-style omelet, folded, with stuffing inside – cheese, sautéed vegetables, chicken, fish, or pretty much anything that tastes good. And there is the frittata. But, the homiest – at least for me – is the Bengali-style omelet, which is a cross between the French style and the frittata style.

The Bengali style involves mustard oil, which adds a strong, distinctive flavor. (Unlike extra-virgin olive oil, mustard oil doesn’t lose much flavor even on heating.) The omelet has chopped onion, green chilly, and tomato – sometimes chopped cilantro, too – along with seasoning, all stirred into the egg and whisked vigorously. The frothy mixture is then poured into a pan lined with heated mustard oil. The omelet is cooked in the usual way (tilting the pan and lifting the edge of the omelet to let uncooked egg run underneath) or flipped; it is then folded.

The result is a fluffy, tangy, strongly flavored breakfast – or lunch accompaniment. This is no gourmet stuff; roadside eateries, even vendors on the sidewalk armed with nothing but a “chulha” or kerosene stove, make the omelet perfectly. (Egg is egalitarian; that’s one more reason I love it.) Try making this omelet!

Mango makes summer mellow and fruitful

2009-06-29T12:30:00.000-07:00

Earlier I wrote about the bounty of summer in India. In spite of the sweltering weather that summer brings, it is worth living because of the several juicy fruits that nourish, sate, and delight us during the season.

One of those fruits, mango, deserves special mention; it’s definitely worth a blog post. Mango is the king of fruits. Mango brings memories of a boyhood spent in the heart of India, where my father bought different varieties – langra, dussehri, himsagar, etc.

In my present life, in Mumbai, I have access to another, the alphonso. In Mumbai, alphonso is king, considered the choicest variety for flavor and juiciness. But, it’s also the most expensive (a dozen cost, on an average, about Rs. 350.) So, I have few alphonsos and a lot of other varieties, some of which are cheaper but equally delicious, e.g., himsagar and badami.

(Now, that could be a bone (or pit) of contention. Those who swear by the alphonso or export it for business may draw their daggers on reading this. But the business focus on alphonsos is good for us lesser folks: the humble himsagar lets us indulge our love of mangoes without burning a hole in our pockets.)

Anyway, expensive or affordable, mangoes are a delight of the summer. If there is one thing that makes summers bearable, it’s the mango's magnetic charm.

Luchi and puree: Close cousins, but still different

2009-06-16T17:20:00.000-07:00

I grew up eating luchi, a round, deep-fried pastry, eaten as bread in Bengali homes. Its cousin, puree, is more common in India. The difference between the two is luchi is made with refined (all-purpose) flour, while puree is made with whole-wheat flour. So luchi is white, while puree is brown. Furthermore, luchi is generally rolled out thinner.

I prefer luchi, even though puree is healthier. How about you? Have you eaten either?

Shrimp in mustard sauce: An explosion of flavor

2009-06-08T14:12:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I had a taste of a quintessentially Bengali preparation after a long while -- sorshe chingri bhape, or steamed shrimp in mustard sauce. During this period of deprivation, I had survived on ready-to-eat packets of rajma masala (curried red beans), spicy vegetable curry, and tadka dal (tempered, or spiced, lentil). All this while, my family was away in Kolkata and I was busy with several things that I wanted to accomplish during my demanding 3-year-old daughter's absence.

On Sunday I got a jolt of the strong mustard sauce, an explosion of flavor I was dying for. My wife's preparation was intense. I had it for lunch as well as dinner. This experience was the one bright spot of my day.

Stewing or braising versus baking or serving with a sauce

2009-06-02T00:30:00.000-07:00

One thing I noticed when I worked in restaurants or cafeterias in America was that chefs would often sauté a boneless breast of chicken and pour different kinds of sauces over it for a variety of dishes, e.g., chicken piccata. And, of course, I found baking and roasting as two of the most common cooking methods. As opposed to these methods, the Indian way of cooking mostly involves braising or stewing. In other words, the main ingredient (e.g., fish) would be first fried and set aside. Then spices would be sautéed and water added. Once the liquid starts boiling, the fish or vegetables would be added for a simmer. The cooking is done when the meat or vegetables have become tender and the liquid (or gravy) has thickened a bit.

Does anyone think otherwise? Comments welcome.

A moment of reflection at the dinner table

2009-05-25T15:23:00.000-07:00

This post isn’t about Bengali food; this post describes a moment in time, a fleeting thought about food, while eating on a hot summer’s night. (In the heat of the Mumbai summer, when sweat soaks you the moment you step away from air-conditioning or the ceiling fan, one hardly wants to cook. This is the only time of year when I cook only when absolutely necessary.)

As I ate a dinner last night that I had cooked, I ruminated. The house was empty and silent except for the rustle of a pest and the whir of the ceiling fans – my family was away in Kolkata, thanks to my daughter’s vacation.

I ate an Italian dinner: a chicken salad I made and some focaccia I had bought. For the chicken salad, I threw some cooked shredded chicken, sliced celery, crushed black olives, chopped onion, and a mixture of herbs into a pan, and sautéed them in olive oil. To add the tang of acid, I drizzled only a little white wine vinegar. I seasoned the salad, and lo and behold, a simple dinner for a hot summer’s night was ready.

As I ate my dinner in solitude, inhaling the smell of oregano and basil, one thought came to my mind. How different the flavors of the world’s cuisines are. The smell of herbs seemed so far removed from that of the garam masala and the Bengali paanch foron. But they all constitute human food: something that not only nourishes us, but delights us as well.

Asafetida: A flavor bordering on odor

2009-05-18T23:00:00.000-07:00

One of the flavors I have enjoyed since my boyhood days is hing, or asafetida. Its smell today reminds me of a childhood comfort food – toor dal. Hing is a strong-smelling, garlicky condiment. In fact, it can be used instead of garlic. When garlic is forbidden, e.g., on days of Hindu fasting, asafetida comes to the rescue. Just beware. For uncooked asafetida has a fetid odor; the dictionaries call the smell “obnoxious” or “foul.” The condiment is obtained from the resin of a plant of the parsley family.

The strong odor, though, becomes mild and pleasant – redolent of leek – when hing is sautéed in oil. In small quantities, it adds an undercurrent of distinctive flavor to dal, or lentil. My mother has always made urad dal and toor dal spiced with hing and fennel.

Asafetida may provoke extreme reactions, though. Dear reader, do you like the flavor of asafetida?

Poor peanut, despair not

2009-05-11T15:32:00.000-07:00

Peanut has a bad name. It has become a metaphor for something of little value. For instance, people say, “I get paid peanuts.”

Yet, peanuts are ubiquitously valuable. In many countries all over the world, roasted peanuts are a staple snack served with beverages. And people, perhaps under the influence of alcohol, love them and raise a toast to them: “May I have some nuts, please?” That’s a question frequently asked, glass raised, in bars when a bunch of drinking buddies are having the time of their life. And, at home, many of us resort to the humble peanut-butter and jelly sandwich when hunger strikes.

I love peanuts. I eat them as tea-time snack in the afternoon. And peanuts are used in several Indian dishes, including the upma, a dish made from sooji, or semolina. It’s a pan-Indian favorite. I love my mother’s version, which I have grown up eating. For it, roasted or fried (if used raw) peanuts are chopped with a mortar and pestle. In India, another dish, chikki, is crammed with peanuts – or other nuts. It’s a sweet snack of nuts and molten jaggery, cut into squares, often sold in packets in grocery stores.

And remember peanut has a royal connection. Peanuts are a distinctive feature of one of China’s best-known dishes, kung pao chicken, which bears the name of a high-ranking officer of the Ching dynasty. The Szechwan preparation was created in his honor. (Some cooks substitute cashew for peanut, but that reflects merely a personal preference.)

Dear reader, do you like peanuts? (Of course, peanuts would be forbidden for those who are allergic to them.)

Watermelon sherbet a gift of summer

2009-04-28T00:20:00.000-07:00

Last week I made a promise to you. This post is the fulfillment of it. I am going to share with you the recipe of a sherbet my mother made when I was growing up in India’s heartland, a region of unrelenting summers. This sherbet is made best with a watermelon that is dark red inside. The watermelons I pick in Mumbai – these have never disappointed me – are light green, with dark green stripes. These are unspeakably red and luscious inside, with small, sparse seeds.

Ingredients
½ of a small (3 lb) watermelon
3 tbsp castor (superfine) sugar
1 lemon or lime
3 cups water
A few mint leaves for garnish
Ice cubes

Method

Cut watermelon into wedges.
Grate them roughly over a flat grater placed over a large bowl (choose a size just large enough for the grater to rest on the edge of the bowl) to catch the juice and pulp, discarding the seeds from the top with a fork.
Stir in the sugar and water.
Squeeze a slice of lemon or lime and stir.
Put ice cubes in tall glasses and pour the sherbet. Garnish with a slice of lemon or lime, or mint leaves.

Makes four glasses.

Bounty of summer a silver lining

2009-04-20T23:57:00.000-07:00

Summer is here. The torrid, cruel days of April are upon us in India. This is the time of year when vegetables lose their winter sheen and begin to wear a half-withered look; some show up in faded colors. The orange carrots give way to yellow ones, for instance.

But, summer is not all evil. For in this season, some of the juiciest, tastiest, and loveliest fruits show up in the grocery stores and farmers’ markets. Among them are mangoes and watermelon. Several varieties of these fruits flood the market. The watermelons come in light green with stripes or solid dark green; ripe mangoes come in yellow, red, orange, and light green.

Whatever colors or shapes the fruits don, they nourish and cool us with their sweet flesh and juice as though God has created them to respite us from the cruelty of April. The watermelon, especially, quenches our thirst with a delightful color, flavor, and sweetness. Next time, I will share a recipe for fresh watermelon sherbet.

Dear reader, what summer fruits do you like most?

Aloo bhate and mashed potato: Close cousins

2009-03-24T00:38:00.000-07:00

I grew up eating “aloo bhate,” a version of mashed potato born in the Bengali home. Bengalis eat this on a regular basis as a side dish. The name, I am told, comes from “bhate,” which means “in the rice.” People in an earlier generation used to drop whole, unpeeled potatoes into a pot of rice cooking on the stovetop to make this dish.

There are a few differences between the Western mashed potato and aloo bhate: the fat used, the condiments added, and the shape (aloo bhate is cupped into a ball). The basic aloo bhate is made with potatoes mashed with mustard oil and seasoned with just salt. Some people add roasted or fried crushed red pepper or chopped green chilies, some even caramelized onion. The Western mashed potato, I learned in adulthood, is made with butter, and milk or cream, and seasoned with salt and pepper. The more creative cooks add garlic sautéed in the butter. The more health-conscious (or lovers of olive oil) avoid butter; they use extra virgin olive oil instead.

One thing is common to both mashed potato and aloo bhate: they are delicious and homey. Both are simple but satisfying. Both can be made sophisticated, however, by merely adding the richness of cream or the tang of condiment.

Dear reader, do you like mashed potato?

Grilling on a chulha

2009-03-17T00:20:00.000-07:00

When I was a child, I used to see my mother prepare rotis (a roti is also called chapati, the Indian flatbread) on a chulha, a charcoal-fired furnace made from a steel bucket lined with clay. On the chulha also went vegetables, like eggplant, for roasting. Little did I know then that the chulha was very close to a grill.

Years later, well into adulthood, I saw a grill being used in the United States. As I passed by fast-food restaurants, the smell of meat and poultry being grilled or roasted filled me. It became an integral part of America in my mind.

Recently, I learned about how well-known food writer Mark Bittman prepares chapatis on his grill. As I read the recipe, I felt as though life had come back full circle – from my mother’s kitchen to the pages of the New York Times.

The chulha can rival a grill any day. Unfortunately, the once-ubiquitous chulha has all but disappeared from Indian homes, thanks to the advent of LPG. Soon, the chulha will be a relic of the past.

Dear reader, if you have seen a chulha, do you miss it?

Raw garlic: Too strong to handle?

2008-11-19T14:42:00.000-08:00

Over the past few months, I have been exploring Mediterranean cuisine. One difference I find between it and Indian cuisine is the way garlic is used. Often in Mediterranean dishes, garlic is used raw. For instance, in gazpacho, garlic is blended into a soup that is itself uncooked. Also, in a classic cucumber dip, finely chopped raw garlic, along with mint, gives the dish its distinctive flavor.

In Indian cuisine, on the other hand, garlic is generally not used uncooked except perhaps in pickles. Raw garlic can smell pungent to many Indian diners. Bengali cooks, for instance, think that even quickly sautéing helps to temper the sharp flavor. Frying or roasting, of course, imparts a nutty fragrance to the condiment.

How do you like your garlic, dear reader? Cooked or uncooked?

Cooking in Calcutta covered in newspaper

2008-11-03T14:28:00.000-08:00

This post is a moment of pride. I am glad to report that Cooking in Calcutta was featured last month in an article on food blogs in The Telegraph. Thanks to all of you who read the blog and post messages. Read the article, “Hungry kya?”

Fish with tamarind paste, a homey pleasure

2008-09-09T15:40:00.000-07:00

Recently, a recipe in The New York Times reminded me of macher tok, or sour fish, because the recipe listed tamarind as an ingredient. The dish, curried striped bass, brought to mind rui and katla, which are similar to bass. So, I decided to try it. It had basically the same ingredients – mustard seeds, turmeric, sugar, tamarind – but differed in a couple of respects: the Bengali version, at least the one in our home, doesn’t use onion and coriander leaves.

The New York Times version turned out to be good enough to eat, although I prefer my mother’s simpler version, which calls for lightly frying the fish before dropping it into the simmering sauce, rather than using straight. But, the point is that the recipe, written by a non-Indian for an American newspaper, had connected me to home and my mother’s cooking.

Cream of mushroom soup, flavored with garam masala

2008-08-18T15:09:00.000-07:00

Last week, I talked about the simplicity of the Bengali garam masala; this week's post is a continuation of the same thread. This week, I present a cream of mushroom soup flavored with garam masala rather than with garlic and onion.

This is a strictly vegetarian version (unless you consider fungus as non-vegetarian; I think biologically fungus is a plant) of the cream of mushroom soup, which I became intimately familiar with when I lived in the United States, a decade ago. During those shoestring-budget days (as a graduate student), I often fell back upon a can of Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup (and bread) for dinner.

Here is a low-fat recipe (without cream, thickened with flour instead) for the soup with a Bengali touch:

Ingredients
1 lb. mushroom (almost any kind would do; I used white button)
2 oz. (or four tablespoons) butter, preferably unsalted
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 litre (or 4 cups) milk
1 teaspoon Bengali garam masala (whole, dry-roasted, and ground)
Salt and pepper to taste

Method

Wipe the mushrooms with a damp cloth or paper towel, trim the bases of stems, and chop the mushrooms.
Heat butter in pan and suate the mushrooms for a 2-3 minutes, until just softened.
Add milk and simmer for 10 minutes, stirring once in a while.
Stir in flour into a cup of cold water and add to the soup.
Simmer for 5 more minutes and season with salt, pepper, and the garam masala.
Serve hot with bread.

Serves 4-5

Cream of mushroom soup, a "classic" with a new flavor

2008-08-18T14:54:00.000-07:00

Last week, I talked about the simplicity of the Bengali garam masala; this week's post is a continuation of the same thread. This week, I present a cream of mushroom soup flavored with garam masala rather than with garlic and onion.

This is a strictly vegetarian version (unless you consider fungus non-vegetarian; I think biologically fungus is a plant) of the cream of mushroom soup, which I became intimately familiar with when I lived in the United States, a decade ago. During those shoestring-budget days (as a graduate student), I often fell back upon a can of Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup (and bread) for dinner.

Anyway, here is a low-fat recipe (without cream, thickened with flour instead) for the soup with a Bengali touch:

Ingredients

1 lb. mushroom (almost any kind would do; I used white button)
2 oz. (or four tablespoons) butter
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 litre (or four cups) milk
1 teaspoon Bengali garam masala (whole, dry-roasted, and ground)
salt and pepper to taste

Method

Wipe the mushrooms with a damp cloth or paper towel and chop them.
Heat butter in pan and suate the mushrooms for a 2-3 minutes, until just softened.
Add milk and simmer for 10 minutes.
Stir in flour into a cup of cold water and add to the soup.
Simmer for 5 more minutes and season with salt, pepper, and the garam masala.

Serves 4-5

The Bengali garam masala: Simple, yet elegant

2008-08-11T16:10:00.000-07:00

Garam masala is perhaps as common in Indian cuisine as curry. But, there are several blends available in the market; even home-made ones vary from region to region or from home to home. The Bengali garam masala is a simple mixture or blend (often whole ingredients are used rather than ground) of three spices: cardamom, cloves, and cinnamon. Other garam masala blends usually contain at least two of these in addition to several spices, like cumin, coriander, and black pepper.

The Bengali garam masala has a sweet and nutty flavor because of the presence of cinnamon and cardamom and because of the absence of any minty or fennel-like flavors. A common way to add the garam masala to a dish is to sauté a mixture of the whole spices in oil or ghee at the beginning or to dry-roast the mixture, grind it, and sprinkle it on the dish as a finishing touch. Dry-roasting (on stovetop or oven) brings out the flavor, adding a nutty touch to it, and makes it easier to powder the mixture.

Mustard seed oil: Gaining wider acceptance?

2008-07-29T13:51:00.000-07:00

In an earlier post I wrote about mustard oil, especially in regard to how it compares with olive oil. Mustard oil, I thought, hails from India – it’s a quintessentially Indian oil, as olive oil is essentially Mediterranean in origin.

Recently, though, I came across a mustard oil brand from Australia. And I am happy to note – from a brief New York Times article – that mustard oil is now being used as a specially flavored oil in the United States and other countries.

The brand mentioned in the article is Naturally from Nature (www.naturallyfromnature.com). Does any reader, in Australia or elsewhere, have any idea about this brand of mustard oil? How does this compare with Indian mustard oil?

Striking a relationship with your grocer – II

2008-07-21T11:40:00.000-07:00

Over the past few months, I got a call twice from my old sabziwala, Ashok, in Kolkata. He called long distance to say hello to me in Mumbai, filling me with delight. For I was connecting again with my man in Kolkata, my grocer – no, the word doesn’t just do justice – my vegetable vendor, who brought his produce from rural Bengal.

Ashok sold the most tender and the best breed of cauliflower and okra and drumsticks and, in the summer, mangoes. He sold “ol” and yam and some obscure, quintessentially Bengali vegetables.

When I needed something special, like white onion or country tomatoes – not the hybrid variety – he would procure it for me from his farm or elsewhere. And often he would give away something free.

So, when he calls me, I feel happy and nostalgic. In Mumbai, I haven’t been able to forge such a relationship with any sabziwala.

The two faces of cardamom: One subtle, the other bold

2008-07-14T15:06:00.000-07:00

In an earlier post I wrote about home-made herbal tea. This post is about the nuances of cardamom – how two kinds of cardamom have two distinct flavors.

The two kinds are small and green, and large and black. A while ago, my mother and I tested the flavors of the two kinds in tea. We made the tea with identical leaves and the same method, but the tea sample with green cardamom had an aromatic, subtle flavor, while the one made with the large variety had a bold, smoky flavor. Our conclusion: they aren’t interchangeable.

The large cardamom is used extensively in many Indian dishes, including fried rice and biryani. But, I wouldn’t use it in herbal tea; the green small ones are better for that use.

Yet, in the end, cardamom remains a mystery to me. When I went to Sikkim, a mountainous state in India’s Northeast, I drank flavorful black (without creamer/milk) tea from porcelain cups with heavy lids that looked like small pots. In the quaint eateries on the mountains overlooking the imposing Himalayan peaks, I found the aroma of cardamom tea unspeakably satisfying. I have no idea which cardamom the tea was infused with; all I know is the tea tasted unlike anything I had drunk before. Maybe it was the locale where the secret lay, where cardamom plants grew in the wild and where the mountains added their charm to anything we imbibed.

Dear reader, which cardamom do you prefer? Do you use both?

Where a rice pudding is ceremony and blessing

2008-03-31T16:40:00.000-07:00

Few other Bengali desserts are more homey and ceremonial than payesh, or rice pudding. Payesh is something Bengali mothers cook on their sons’ birthdays; the son eats it as an offering from his mother or a food blessed by her.

Payesh, when perfectly made, is wonderfully creamy, smooth and custard-like, yet eggless. Today, my mother made a batch, complete with a sprinkling of chopped cashew nuts and plump raisins and flavored with bay leaves and cardamom.

I had asked her to teach me how to make it, but she made it when I was sleeping on a Sunday morning. Obviously, she didn’t have the heart to wake me up from my weekend slumber. Today was not my birthday, but I wanted to learn how to make it and eat it, too. I couldn’t watch her make it; here is the recipe as I heard it later. So, this is untested in a lab kitchen, but if you trust my mother, as I do, then go ahead and make it. Remember that the secret to great payesh is constant stirring and adding the sugar after the rice is tender.

Ingredients
1 quart (about 1 liter) whole milk
1 cup water
1/3rd cup sugar
3 bay leaves
1/4th cup flavorful (e.g., basmati) rice
1/4th cup cashew nut roughly chopped
1/4th cup raisins
6 small cardamoms, crushed

Method

Put half of the milk, bay leaves, rice, water, cashew nut, and raisins in a pot and bring to boil.
Cook stirring until the rice is cooked, about 15 minutes, on low heat.
Put the rest of the milk and sugar, and continue stirring until the milk thickens, about 15 minutes, on low heat.
Add the cardamom, stir, and turn off the heat. Serve warm or chilled, garnished with a spring of mint or a swirl of thick honey.

Note: Grate nutmeg on top for a more complex flavor.

In Bengal, a pancake syrup as mellifluous as maple

2008-02-11T11:30:00.000-08:00

In an earlier post, I wrote about pancakes – how I came to love and make pancakes. I wrote about eating pancakes with honey drizzled on top. Actually, one reason I use honey is it’s less expensive than maple syrup in India but the flavor equally good.

Another syrup-like natural product I eat with pancakes is “gur.” Gur is a form of jaggery that comes from the sap of palm trees, including the date palm. Jaggery is a common term for dark, unrefined sugar that does little justice to the glorious syrup called nalen gur or taler gur in Bengal (More about that in a later post). Such gur can be in two forms: either a solid cake or a honey butter texture. It’s the liquid form that I love to drizzle upon my pancake.

In many ways, gur is similar to maple syrup: Both are processed from the sap of trees. Yet, pure maple syrup is more expensive – the cheaper varieties are mixed with other syrups, like corn syrup, to keep costs affordable for the supermarket customer.

In India, I have found a cheaper, but equally flavorful alternative. How’s that? Have you tried anything other than maple syrup on your pancakes?

Striking a relationship with your grocer

2007-12-31T01:00:00.000-08:00

I am vacationing at my home in Calcutta. In the last days of the year, I've been visiting the vegetable market and the fish market I had become used to before I moved to Mumbai.

I am getting to say hello to the fishmonger who had become a friend. He would never cheat at the weighing scale. He is the one on whom I placed my trust. I would sometimes buy fish from other vendors and have it weighed at his stall. If he said I had been cheated I would go back to the stall where I had bought the fish and claim the deficit. I would demand the correct weight.

During my holiday, I am getting to buy from my regular fishmonger again. Over the past two days, I bought from him katla, a fish of the carp family. I also bought parshe, or gold-spot mullet, and tiger prawn, or shrimp, from a woman, a stall owner who I know would never cheat.

Above all, during the glorious days of the waning year, I am getting to chat again with Ashok, my "sabziwala," who buys his produce from farmers he knows. His stuff is always fresh and tender and the best variety. I bought giant, brilliant white cauliflowers, peas in their pristine shells, and tomatoes that aren’t the hybrid variety available all year round. This variety of tomato, though somewhat pale in color, is seasonal, tastier and juicier.

One reason I am enjoying my vacation so much is that I am connecting again with the vegetable vendor and the fishmonger I patronized on a regular basis. It’s a joy to shop when you have a relationship with your vendor. Supermarkets, with their sanitized and spic-and-span environment, can never match this experience of clamor and camaraderie. What do you say, reader?

The many faces of mustard

2007-12-04T01:25:00.000-08:00

In an earlier post, I wrote about mustard oil, especially in the context of how different it is from olive oil. No matter how much I love olive oil, I can never sever ties with mustard products, for I am a Bengali. I come from the land of the fertile delta, where mustard and fish abound. The quintessential image of Bengal’s countryside is a profusion of yellow mustard flowers.

Last week, I was smitten with the humble mustard, something we take for granted. I delved into different kinds of mustard products – “compounded” mustard powder, American-style prepared mustard, Dijon mustard, and, finally, freshly prepared mustard paste, pure-Bengali style. I bought jars of all kinds of mustard with the earnestness of a cook and researcher.

Mustard is eaten in so many forms: whole seeds, powdered, and prepared. The whole seed is one of the most familiar forms. One of my earliest memories of my mother cooking involves the popping sound brown mustard seeds make when dropped in hot oil. The nutty flavor is elemental to the Indian kitchen.

Powdered mustard available in the market usually contains both black or brown and yellow-white seeds, wheat flour and turmeric. English mustard is an example. To savor this mustard, I bought Weikfield’s compounded mustard, which contains essentially the same ingredients in powdered form.

Prepared mustard is generally made from powdered mustard combined with seasonings and a liquid such as water, vinegar, wine, beer or must. The American-style prepared mustard has a distinctly turmeric flavor, tart but mild. That’s because it’s made from white mustard seeds, which aren’t as pungent as brown or black seeds, the kind I have grown up on. On the other hand, the French Dijon mustard, which is also a prepared mustard, is made from brown or black seeds. Yet it is less pungent than English mustard – maybe the vinegar does something to the sharpness of mustard. While the American-style is bright yellow, Dijon mustard is pale grayish-yellow. Both are distinctly tart.

I tried yet another form, the paste. I tried to replicate with the compounded mustard power the ground mustard paste Bengalis use in fish delicacies. I added just enough water to make a paste and let it “bloom” for 10 minutes, according to directions on the Weikfield's plastic jar. It did bloom to full-bodied mustard flavor, I am glad to say. In fact, I found little difference between this paste and the one I produced by grinding a spoonful of brown mustard seeds with a little water in a mortar and pestle. The only difference was that the freshly ground paste had bits of skin, which made a curry I later cooked a little acrid, while the one I made with the paste from the powder tasted just right: mustardy, golden, and smooth. You could achieve the same result from freshly ground mustard, though, merely my straining the paste. (That’s how our house cook makes “sorshe mach,” or fish in mustard sauce.)

My experiments wih mustard have left a side-effect: large jars of mustard I have no idea how to consume. I don’t eat hotdogs; nor do I like mustard on my sandwich. The jars now sit idle in my refrigerator.

Can you tell me, dear reader, in what ways can I use up the many kinds of mustard? Salad dressing, maybe?

Cookbooks a healthy pastime

2007-11-11T23:58:00.000-08:00

A colleague of mine says she has dozens of cookbooks on cuisines from around the world. She collects cookbooks like art. And, during her spare time, she reads them. She has read all about Spanish cuisine. She knows a lot about international foods. She knows what gazpacho is and she knows what baklava is; so, no food is Greek to her, although she doesn’t cook a whole lot. She doesn’t try all the recipes in those books.

I, on the other hand, love to try recipes in cookbooks that I have. I like to replicate an Italian dinner, for instance, in my home. And, I have learned to cook from books. I have learned even Bengali cooking, something that is accessible in the family.

But, I have to admit, I do read cookbooks and food magazines during my leisure merely as a pastime. I love to read recipes and food history, and I love to gawk at those lavish photos, as people read fiction to pass the time. For me, consuming such books itself is a gastronomic delight.

How about you, dear reader? Do you have a lot of cookbooks? Do you merely collect them, read them or cook from them?

Herbal tea an exotic product, but homey concept

2007-10-09T00:18:00.000-07:00

Many years ago, when I first heard about herbal tea, it sounded exotic. On some gourmet store shelves in the United States, I found orange pekoe, raspberry, lemon-ginger, and other teas.

Actually, when I think about it, I have been drinking herbal tea since I was a child growing up in India. I remember drinking ginger tea, for instance, as a boy. My mother gave me ginger tea when I had a sore throat. The way my mother made was simple. All you do is grate or grind (on the stone grinder) an inch of fresh ginger root and squeeze it into hot tea liquor. You may add creamer or milk, but just black is better, I guess, for remedial purposes.

Similarly, making lemon/lime tea is simple. In hot tea liquor, just squeeze a few drops of the citrus. For an Indian touch, you may add a pinch of black salt. I make cardamom tea from whole pods dropped in boiling water. How refreshing and aromatic the tea becomes!

These days, even in Indian grocery stores, you find several kinds of herbal teas, including masala chai. I bought the other day a “variety pack” comprising masala, lemongrass-ginger, ginger and cardamom. To alleviate my sore throat, I tasted the ginger tea. It had flavor, but not nearly so strong and fresh as the home-made version.

Dear reader, do you make herbal tea or buy it?

Mustard oil and extra virgin olive oil: Two cousins, poles apart

2007-09-24T14:30:00.000-07:00

I learned about olive oil as a cooking medium many years ago, during my graduate school days, when I learned to cook pasta. I bought regular (or light) olive oil then, for I couldn’t afford extra virgin (which results from the virgin, or first, press of tree-ripened olives).

I fell in love with extra virgin olive oil later, when I made just enough money as a professional to indulge in it once in a while. I learned to make salad dressings, like vinaigrette.

Until a few years ago, olive oil was little-known in India as a cooking medium. In Calcutta, for instance, people thought olive oil is for body massage.

In my family, olive oil was a novelty when I started cooking with it. For Bengali folks used to the strong aroma and taste of mustard oil, olive oil was something exotic and untried; so, they weren’t sure if they would like it. I introduced them to the oil that is so prized in the Western world and the Mediterranean region.

Later, I thought of a commonality between mustard oil and extra virgin olive oil: both are strong-flavored. So, I experimented to see how big -- or small -- the difference is. I used "kachhi ghani" mustard oil, the most strongly flavored oil (extracted in small mills and sold unbranded), in a Greek salad instead of extra virgin when I made the dressing. The salad had cherry tomatoes, fresh basil leaves, feta cheese (the only affordable brand I could find), lettuce and olives.

After having made the good-looking salad, I tasted it, and, man, was the flavor strong! I had my family taste it, and they all felt the flavor was too strong. Uncooked mustard oil is truly overpowering. Mustard oil is spicy, while extra virgin olive oil is fruity.

In the fight for supremacy, mustard oil comes up tops. It just doesn’t jibe with red wine vinegar, though. Olive oil is olive oil.

Dear reader, do you use extra virgin olive oil? What do you think about other strongly flavored oils, like coconut and sesame oils, used as a cooking medium?

A pancake eggless, but perfect, with a fine flavor

2007-09-10T12:43:00.000-07:00

I remember the first pancakes I made, many years ago, when I was in America. I made them with pancake mix available in supermarkets.

They were easy to make: just add eggs, milk, and, maybe, a little water. I ate them with globs of butter heaped on top and maple syrup drizzled on the pyramid.

They were perfect. But, several years later, back home in India, when I tried to make pancakes from scratch – I had never found a pancake mix in a grocery store in Calcutta, where I lived then – the result turned out to be less than palatable. The pancakes smelled of egg. I had used flour, eggs, and milk, no flavoring agent. When offered, my wife ate wrinkling her nose, while my mother refused totally, for she doesn’t eat egg.

Recently, I discovered a pancake recipe for recreating the perfect pancakes of my American life. And, this pancake would be acceptable to all, for these are eggless. To make them distinctive, I added my own twist, substituting a flavor and skipping another.

So, vegetarians, take heart; you can make and eat great pancakes. Just read on.

Ingredients

1 cup all-purpose flour
1 tsp sugar
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp cardamom powder
1 cup whole milk
1 tbsp vegetable oil
1 tbsp water
2 tbsp butter

Method

Mix dry ingredients.
Add milk, oil, and water.
Whisk together until just combined. Do not overmix – let the batter be slightly lumpy.
Let it rest for 15 minutes.
Gently heat butter in a wide pan, and pour two tablespoons of batter into it.
Cook until bubbles appear, and the underside is golden.
Carefully flip over and cook other side.

Makes 10 pancakes; Serving suggestion: Butter and honey.

(Recipe adapted from cooks.com)

Doodh bhat: A childhood "dessert" revisited

2007-09-02T23:43:00.000-07:00

Recently I ate doodh bhat, something I hadn’t eaten in many years. If I remember correctly, the last time I had eaten I was a young boy.

I ate this time fully knowing what I was doing: I was eating by choice. As a child, I used to eat it when my mother forced me to. We – my siblings and I – ate it as a “dessert” after fussing over lunch or dinner, rejecting everything that was offered or eating with a puckered up face.

Doodh bhat is essentially rice with milk and sugar. At the end of our dinner, my mother would offer it to make sure we had enough nutrition: She thought we needed the protein and minerals.

She would pour on my plate a little bit of the milk along with some of the cream skimmed off the surface. Those days, we had buffalo’s milk. I was growing up in Bhilai, in the middle of India, where buffaloes outnumbered cows. I enjoyed the creamy, cold milk poured over rice, all mixed up nicely with a spoonful of granulated sugar. I remember the crunch of grainy sweetness with the creamy coldness of milk. Sometimes, my mother would put gur, or molasses, instead of sugar. Gur tasted just as well.

So many years later, the doodh bhat of my adulthood was comforting and nostalgic. At the end of a hard day, it calmed my nerves and took me back to those childhood years just for a moment.

Dear reader, do you have any such memory?

A shrimp curry, born in Bengal, moves to Mumbai

2007-08-18T22:25:00.000-07:00

Oh, dear reader! How many of you must have returned disappointed from my site over the past several months, thinking I have abandoned my blog!

I owe you an apology. I haven't written a single post during this period.

For I have relocated. This blog originated as Cooking in Calcutta, but I now make my home in Mumbai, where I moved in late June to take up a new job. This move has been a tectonic shift or me and my blog. After I moved, this blog lost its sense of place, of mooring.

Yet, this blog must go on, for it's about Bengali food, which, like any other cuisine, is not bound by geographical boundaries. I cook Bengali food now in Mumbai.

Here is a recipe for something I cooked recently. A shrimp curry, home-style:

Ingredients

1/2 pound shrimp, medium-sized, shelled and de-veined
1 large onion, chopped
2 medium-sized potato, diced small (1/4 inch)
1/2 tsp turmeric
1/3 tsp red chilli powder
salt, to taste
1 cup water

Method

Saute shrimp in vegetable oil for a couple of minutes. Remove and keep warm.
Saute onion for three minutes, until softened and just beginning to brown.
Add potato and saute for another three minutes
Add the spices and salt, and stir-fry for another minute.
Pour in the water, and let cook, covered for 10 minutes, or until the potato is tender.
Mix in the reserved shrimp, and continue cooking another 2 minutes.
Serve hot with steamed, long-grained rice.

If you do try the recipe, let me know how the curry turned out. The recipe comes from my 73-year-old mother, who still lives in Calcutta. I hope this recipe will make up for my long absence.

Guava jelly triggers boyhood memory

2007-02-20T22:15:00.000-08:00

After many years, I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich recently. As I took the first bite, several memories flooded my mind – my first taste of peanut butter as a child in India; eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches during my stay in America; and the guava jelly my mother used to make in India’s heartland, where I grew up.

The most remarkable is the memory of guava jelly. Guava is essentially a tropical fruit; so, I didn’t see any in the United States, although, it does grow in semi-tropical America, like California and Florida. I grew up eating guava, for we had a huge guava tree in our backyard. I grew up in Bhilai, which was then a part of the state of Madhya Pradesh. The tree was more than a tree – it was a prime presence in our garden, almost a human friend as we climbed the tree, picked fruit, or swung from its branches like monkeys. The fruit was so delicious I have never tasted that variety anywhere else since then. It had few seeds, even the ripe ones; the shape was round, and the flesh flavorful. We would eat even the half-ripe ones with salt – the taste was sweet and mildly tart. What other fruit could beat it in vitamin C content?

My mother packed all the goodness of the guava in her jelly. I was too young – I hadn’t developed the strong interest in food that I have today. But, I remember the distinctive taste of the jelly, a dark brownish red stored in glass jars.

As I recently ate the peanut butter and jelly sandwich, made with store-bought guava jelly, I asked my mother how she made the jelly. (She no longer makes the jelly, for she is 72 and a city-dweller far from our small-town garden we once owned.)

She first diced ripe guava and boiled it in water until soft. Then, she pressed the guava juice and pulp through a cloth or strainer. Next, she added sugar and lime juice, and reduced the juice until the jelly formed.

Back in the present, as I ate the sandwich made with store-bought Druk (Bhutanese brand) guava jelly, I imagined it was the jelly from my boyhood. I recalled the great guava tree in our backyard.

Dear reader, do you have such a memory?

Pumpkin gives all – leaf, flower, fruit, seed

2007-01-29T22:10:00.000-08:00

In some regions of the world, every part of certain animals killed for food is eaten. In parts of rural Eastern Europe, for instance, nothing from a pig is wasted. Apart from the meat, almost all organs are eaten.

Offal is an acquired taste, but how about vegetables that yield every part of them in every stage of their lifecycle? Hats off to them, for they surrender themselves totally to human consumption.

One such example is the humble pumpkin. In Bengal, every part (except the root) of the pumpkin plant and its fruit, including seeds, is eaten. (I learned only recently from a recipe that pumpkin seeds are eaten in America, too). In Bengal, the leaves are eaten as “shak,” which is a generic term for edible leaves cooked simply with few spices.

I have never been a big lover of pumpkin, except as a Halloween symbol. But one part of pumpkin that I really like is the flower. In fact, I like pumpkin flowers more than the fruit. The way Bengalis eat pumpkin flowers is to make fritters of them.

They make a batter of besan, or chickpea flour, seasoned with chilli powder and salt. For texture, a little bit of khaskhas, or poppy seeds, is added. Some cooks add some rice powder for extra crispness, but this is optional.

Here is the recipe:

Ingredients

10 fresh pumpkin flowers (only petals)
2/3 cup besan
½ teaspoon chilli powder (or paprika, if you prefer mild)
⅓ teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon poppy seeds (available in Indian grocery stores)
⅓ cup water
Oil for deep-frying

Method

Remove the calyx and the centers of flowers, keeping only the petals.
Make a batter of all the ingredients, except the flowers.
Heat oil.
Dip each flower into batter, shaking off excess, and deep-fry in batches.
Serve hot, with ketchup or mustard.

Serves 2-3

Try this, and let me (and others) know how it turned out. Until then, bon appétit.

From Bengal to Boston and beyond

2007-01-22T22:00:00.000-08:00

This post is prompted by a reader comment. The anonymous reader says I seem to lack nationalistic pride in Indian cooking.

This blog is about cooking Bengali food, but it’s also about cooking in general, and, to me, cooking knows no boundaries of country or region. True love of food and cooking embraces many cuisines, for food, as an art, benefits from wide knowledge. A healthy curiosity about global cuisines is a hallmark of a good cook, I think.

Today, so many chefs are experimenting with world cuisine: They borrow techniques or ingredients from other cuisines to come up with their own special creations. See how appetizing exchange of culinary knowledge is?

In a later post, you will see how my long stay in America has helped a frail, 70-year-old Indian woman who has never set foot outside her country learn about American food in her home. Stay tuned.

In search of the classic marinara

2007-01-14T19:33:00.000-08:00

In my last post, I mentioned marinara, one of the basic Italian pasta sauces. Spaghetti with marinara is a staple in many American homes.

I wanted to replicate that dining experience recently in my Calcutta home. I bought imported Italian spaghetti and fresh Indian tomatoes – I haven’t so far seen canned Italian tomatoes in Calcutta. And, I made the marinara from a recipe by acclaimed Italian chef Lidia Mattichhio Bastianich, but it wasn’t the same as I had tasted in America several years ago. The marinara ended up too dry and chunky; so much so that it didn’t quite mix with the spaghetti as other sauces do.

Here is my recipe for the classic marinara, as adapted from Chef Bastianich:

Ingredients

3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
4 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed
1½ pounds fresh ripe tomatoes, peeled, seeded and chopped
Salt, to taste
Crushed red pepper, to taste
5 fresh basil leaves, roughly torn (or ⅓ tsp dried basil)

Method

In a medium-size, non-reactive saucepan, heat the olive oil over medium heat.
Add the garlic and cook until lightly browned, about 2 minutes.
Carefully add the tomatoes and their liquid (Because I didn’t have canned tomatoes, I tried to catch as much of the juice while processing them, using a strainer).
Bring to a boil and season lightly with salt and crushed red pepper.
Reduce the heat to a simmer, breaking up the tomatoes with a whisk as they cook, until the sauce is chunky and thick, about 20 minutes.
Stir in the basil about 5 minutes before the sauce is finished (I cheated here – I used dry basil.)
Taste the sauce and adjust the seasoning, if necessary.

After I finished step 7, I had an extremely chunky and dry sauce. It tasted fine. It had the nutty flavor of browned garlic and of the blend of tomato, basil and olive oil. I realize that the sauce is expected to be chunky, but, as I said earlier, my creation was too dry to mix with the pasta well.

What went wrong? Was there something inherently wrong with the recipe? Is 20 minutes too long for the simmer? I do know from Internet research that some chefs use tomato puree instead of, or in addition to, chopped tomatoes. Post your comments.

Winter’s bounty a delight in India

2007-01-10T21:37:00.000-08:00

At no other time does God’s hand in what we get to eat seem more apparent in India than in the winter. This is the season of plenty. This is the season when vegetables are freshest and juiciest – and cheapest. When I lived in America, I used to shop for vegetables in supermarkets, also called grocery stores. Every vegetable seemed available all year round.

But, in India, certain vegetables, until a few years ago, appeared only in winter – tomato, cauliflower and green pea, for instance. Now, thanks to hybrid varieties and advanced farming, some of these vegetables are available all year round.

In any case, though, never are they cheaper and prettier than in the winter. I go grocery-shopping in Central Calcutta on Saturday mornings. Although, there are now several supermarket-style grocery stores in Calcutta, they don’t match the freshness of produce found at farmer’s market-style vegetable “stalls,” which are merely heaps on emptied jute bags laid on the ground. The vegetables make the street come alive with bright colors.

I buy from a sabziwala -- or vendor -- I have known for the past several years. He brings his fare from rural Bengal. The eggplants he sells are huge and purple or green with red streaks. Both varieties are wonderful – soft and mildly sweet, never astringent. In the winter, especially, they shine in the morning sun in all their purple or green glory. The cauliflowers are white, firm and hefty. And, the tomatoes blush in their scarlet best. The desi, or indigenous, variety is orange, and has notches running down – they aren’t perfectly round and beautiful, but, as Ashok, my sabziwala tells me, they are juicier. True, they are. Once I tried to make the classic marinara sauce with them. That’s another story; I reserve it for the next post. Until then, dear reader, I have a couple of questions for you. If you live outside South Asia, are certain vegetables seasonal in your country? Do you buy vegetables from supermarkets or farmer’s market-style vendors?

New year resolution

2007-01-01T19:20:00.000-08:00

Today is New Year’s Day. Wish you all a happy and appetizing New Year.

New Year is a time for eating, drinking – and resolutions. Last night, as the year drew to a close, I made one: to write and keep this blog updated. As the clock struck midnight and crackers went off in my neighborhood, I had a pen in hand and a notebook under it.

True, I had a drink by my side, but that was merely a glass of white wine, and I was writing, all by myself, because, as family lore has it, you would be doing all year long what you would do on the first day of the year.

I wrote in my journal: “This year, let the beginning be calm and solitary … Let 2007 be one long night of writing …”

So, keep coming back. And, above all, post comments.

A summer hot as hell, but sweet as an apple pie

2006-09-03T20:18:00.000-07:00

Dear reader, I owe you an apology. I haven’t been able to update my blog for a long while. I have been busy: office work, house work, and baby care. In addition to that, my Internet connection had been cut off for a while.

But, I haven’t stopped cooking – and writing – though. Even in the heat of the Indian summer, I cooked every weekend. One such session was my first pie-baking experience. I made, with my mother, an apple pie the very first time, although I had lived so many years in America.

That experience is recorded in an article I wrote for InMamasKitchen.com, an Internet site run by a gracious lady called Diana Serbe. Read my article on her site, if you will.

Let me know what you think about the article and about baking an apple pie. Don’t hesitate to give me any tips. BTW, thanks to all those who've posted comments so far.

Until then, au revoir.

Live from New York City

2006-03-31T17:45:00.000-08:00

In my mayo-related posts (see "Making Mayonnaise" and "Tuna Sandwich, Transformed in Bengal"), I wrote about the twist I give to the classic tuna salad. The tuna sandwich becomes, in my hands, a bekti sandwich, which tastes as good.

Another classic salad made with mayonnaise is the Waldorf salad, which is a fruity variation of the regular chicken sandwich filling. Waldorf salad originated in New York’s Waldorf-Astoria Hotel in the 1890s.

I replicated exactly the classic Waldorf salad recently. This time I hadn’t wanted to give any twist of my own to a classic. I wanted it to be 100 percent authentic: You could have it in the hallowed NY hotel or the tacky duplex I inhabit in a seedy Calcutta neighborhood, and the taste should exactly be the same. This was my goal from the very beginning.

Every ingredient of the salad that I would normally have in my pantry would be the same anyway – except the apple’s variety. All a Waldorf salad would need is cooked chicken (I prefer breast for a mild flavor), mayonnaise, celery, spring onion, walnuts, lemon (or lime) juice, apple and, of course, seasoning.

For the apple, I wanted Granny Smith, no other. Not that apples are in short supply in Calcutta. In crowded Sealdah, the largest market of its kind in Asia, fruit vendors sell several kinds, among them Red Delicious, round the clock. They are red and sweet, the kind most popular in India. They come from Himachal Pradesh and Kashmir, two Himalayan states in the north of the country.

But, I wanted Waldorf-Astoria in my humble home; I wanted Granny Smith, which is crunchy, juicy, and tart. So, off I went to New Market.

And, lo and behold, I found plenty. Green, round, smooth, firm, with a label, “Washington Apples,” in boxes with the lids ripped off. What more could I have asked for? But, the price? Rs. 150 (about $3.5) a kilogram, which is about 2 lbs. That is a prohibitive price in India. But, I wanted authentic; so, I picked a single apple weighing a little less than 200 grams (7 oz) despite the storekeeper’s murmur of discontent.

“We make no money on one,” he said, putting the apple in a thonga, or a newspaper bag, which is a smaller and cheaper version of the staple brown-paper bag at US supermarkets.

I returned home with the booty. I created the Waldorf salad. Just to compare, I prepared a second batch with a red apple. They weren’t the same. The red apple-Waldorf salad was too sweet for my taste despite my effort to balance the flavor with extra lime juice. Sweet is good when used in desserts or eaten plain, but in chicken or something predominantly savory, I prefer tart. That is another debate, another story, another post, though.

What's the Theme Nonight?

2006-03-29T03:48:00.000-08:00

Several years ago, when I lived in the United States, trying to finish up my graduate degree and living life to the lees, if you will, I cooked for my roommates and friends. Cooking would be the brightest spot of the day, a grand finale, even though it was routine -- my roommates took turns in cooking.

On my turn, especially when I would have guests, I often declared the theme of the dinner ahead of time. "Tonight's theme is ginger," I would say, for example.

On a night, when my roommates were starving and waiting hungrily for me to finish, one of them might ask, "Angshuman, what's tonight's theme?"

A theme, I thought, made me look fashionable, my cooking sound special. A theme, or a single flavor, meant elegance.

Now, I am happy to say, that concept is more than just fashion or elegance; it's a diet idea!

Earlier this year, David L. Katz, M.D., a top authority on nutrition and weight control (and disease prevention), came out with his Flavor Point Diet. He published a book, based on research at the Yale-Griffin Prevention Research Center, that says if people consume a single flavor in a whole day's meals, they would lose weight without starving!

After I wrote to Dr. Katz, a professor at the Yale med school, complimenting on his research and this happy coincidence (my penchant for "themed" dinners), he responded with equally kind words. How great it feels to hear from such a luminary!

In a later post, I will give you a few recipes based on a dominant flavor. How about ginger?

In the meantime, read more about The Flavor Point Diet on ABC News.

Tuna Sandwich, Transformed in Bengal

2006-03-15T21:10:00.000-08:00

True to my promise, this post is a recipe for the fish sandwich I described in my previous post. I use bekti, a fish prized in Bengal for its soft, flaky flesh full of flavor and omega-3 fatty acids, which are so healthful. This sandwich, served with potato chips, could be a simple lunch or even a light dinner.

Bekti sandwich

Serves 4

Ingredients

For the salad:
½ lb (225 gm) cooked bekti, boned and skinned
½ cup of chopped celery or green bell pepper (capsicum)
½ cup of chopped green (or spring) onion
¼ cup of mayonnaise (see recipe in earlier post, “Making mayonnaise”)
2 tbsp of vegetable oil
1 tbsp of lemon (or lime) juice
salt and pepper to taste

For the sandwich:
8 slices of large sandwich bread
lettuce, one head, or four large leaves
2 medium-sized tomatoes, sliced

Method

Mix all the ingredients for the bekti salad.
Place a lettuce leaf and spoon about 1/4th of the salad on each bread slice.
Put tomato slices and press another slice on top. Put extra pepper, if you so desire.
Cut each sandwich diagonally and serve with potato chips or French fries and ketchup.

Note: To get ½ lb (225 gm) of bekti, boil or steam about 1 lb (450 gm) of fresh fish in salted water. In India, canned bekti is unheard of.

The Story of the Tuna Sandwich Retold

2006-01-07T21:45:00.000-08:00

Forgive the delay in this posting. Since my last posting, last year, I have had so many things to do at the same time that I haven't had the time. One reason is my little baby, just a little older than four months. My shoulder smells of her milky spit even as I write this post.

Yet, she is a source of joy, and nothing better could have happened to me last year. My only problem with her is that I can’t indulge in my fondest pleasure as much as I used to.

Yes, that’s cooking. But, I do squeeze out some time from the whirl of office, baby care, and a zillion other things, for there is nothing so energizing, so life-affirming than cooking.

In my next post, I will continue my love affair with mayonnaise (See my previous post). I will show you how I replicate the simple pleasure of the tuna sandwich with Bengal’s very own bekti, a sweet, flaky fish prized for some of the finest delicacies in this fish-loving state.

Making Mayonnaise

2005-11-15T22:36:00.000-08:00

I love mayonnaise. I don't care how much bad cholesterol or how many unwanted calories it may add to my body, although, at my age, I should. I find the creamy concoction with that hint of mustard irresistible.

I fell in love with mayo (as it is called in cooking jargon) in America, where I started cooking with real interest and - if I may add - and flair. I first ate it in sandwiches in fast-food restaurants. But, I felt its real charm when I first ate tuna sandwich. This was in Corvallis, Oregon, where I was doing a summer internship. I couldn't believe fish in a sandwich could taste the way it did as I ate the "welcome lunch" for interns at a quaint restaurant I can't place now. The sandwich was magical.

After I returned to India, my home country, I used store-bought mayonnaise for chicken and fish sandwiches. Then, I thought of making mayonnaise myself. I wanted to make Waldorf chicken salad with home-made mayo.

I trawled the World Wide Web for a recipe for the humble mayonnaise. I found several, but, given my phobia of salmonella poisoning, I picked one that involved pasteurizing. I think the site was USDA's - some organization that recommends sterilized mayonnaise.

My attempt turned out to be a disaster. When I warmed the egg yolk in a double boiler with a thermometer dipped into it for precise temperature, it curdled. One egg and some oil wasted from a poor cook's pantry.

The words of a cookbook author, Barbara Beckett, sounded, at that moment, ironical: "It is quite magical to make the first time." (I had read her recipe for mayonnaise in Learn to Cook Poultry, one in the Learn to Cook series of the publisher, Harlaxton.)

Then, I tried a recipe from allrecipes.com. This one was more forgiving - no sterilization required. The lemon juice would be enough to counteract any ill effect of the raw egg. The only variation I did was to use vegetable oil instead of olive oil.

And, lo and behold, my mayonnaise took shape drop by drop. It was, indeed, quite magical to make. Only, it was the second time, not the first.

Since that unnerving first time, my mayo has turned out smooth and nice every time. So, I am no longer a mayo virgin.

Here is my recipe for sure success:

1 egg, yolk separated
1 cup vegetable oil
Juice of 1 lime or lemon
1 tsp of dry mustard paste (with 2 tsp of water)
Salt and pepper to taste

1. Take a bowl - I use a deep glass bowl - and put the yolk in
2. Pour the lime or lemon juice.
3. Whisk with a wire whisk. The mixture should look a pale yellow.
4. Add oil drop by drop, whisking after each addition. If the mixture still looks smooth, you are doing fine. If it looks curdled, you have messed up - start over again.
5. Keep on adding oil, a few drops at a time. As the mayonnaise stabilizes, you can add oil a little faster, but never faster than a thin stream. Keep whisking.
6. Add the mustard and seasoning.

Note: Your kitchen equipment must be spotlessly clean. Store the mayonnaise in a sterilized jar. To sterilize, boil the jar in water for 20 minutes. Screw it tight. The stuff will keep for a maximum of 2 weeks in the refrigerator.

The Joys and Sorrows of Baking Muffins

2005-10-13T23:33:00.000-07:00

I remember the first time I ate muffins. I waited tables then at Faculty House, a dining club for University of South Carolina faculty. I was a graduate student at the university trying to keep body and soul together and my grades respectable.

At Faculty House, after the lunch hour, when the guests had left, my colleagues, including Lianji, my Chinese friend, and I sat down to lunch. I ate blackened wahoo or chicken piccata with rice or whatever was on the menu that day - I just happen to remember some dishes. And, always Lianji made sure we got our muffins. He would carefully stash away in the warmer a few before our lunch.

I would slather butter - I remember the pats with parsley sprinkled on them - on the muffins and watch the butter melt slowly down the sides. Oh, how we looked forward to that communal lunch after a hard shift!

Several years later, I baked my first muffins in Fayetteville, North Carolina, where I lived for almost a year. I had bought a non-stick muffin pan. The muffins came out perfectly fine.

I replicated the success a year ago back home in Kolkata, India. My interest had been rekindled by "Muffins," a book by Elizabeth Alston, the food editor at Woman's Day magazine.

But, I recently messed up a batch of muffins. I'd started out to make orange marmalade muffins. I followed the recipe precisely except for the size of the egg - I had a small egg, while the recipe called for a large egg.

When I folded the wet ingredients - egg, yogurt, butter and vanilla - into the dry mixture of flour, sugar, baking powder and salt, I ran out of the wet portion. The flour mixture became dough instead of batter. I ran to my mother with the mixing bowl in hand. I was sweating profusely in the hot Kolkata afternoon. I was baking this for my colleagues for my birthday treat.

My mother suggested adding another egg or a little milk. I chose the extra egg, beating it into the dough-like mixture.

When the muffins came out of the oven, I gingerly broke one to eat. The marmalade looked and tasted fine in the core, but the texture of the muffin seemed tough and chewy, and, worse, it smelled of egg!

I took the muffins to office anyway. My colleagues ate one each. They downplayed the flaw, but one was candid enough to say the muffin smelled of egg.

When I analyzed the flaw, I thought the last-minute addition of the extra egg undid the muffins. Or, else why would they be so tough? True, I hadn't sifted the baking powder with the flour for even distribution, but was that fatal?

I have no idea. It's for you to judge without eating the muffins - I wouldn't even offer them to you. What went wrong?

In her book, Alston talks about the two main kinds of muffins based on the procedure of mixing: stirred and creamed. I have baked cakes and brownies before with great results, and all I can say is I am more at ease with the creamed method, in which the dry ingredients go into the wet and not the other way round.

But, the big question is: Will I continue to bake both kinds of muffins? You bet.

Bengali Food an Emerging Cuisine

2005-10-13T00:05:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I wrote about Bengali cuisine. Actually, if you live overseas, you might not even have heard about this regional cuisine, for Indian food -- if there is a pan-Indian cuisine -- has long been dominated by North Indian, or Tandoori, Mughlai (the food of the former Muslim rulers) and South Indian cuisines.

Tandoori is, indeed, the face of Indian dining abroad. When I lived in the United States, every Indian restaurant I went to had Tandoori delights on the menu. Ask anyone familiar with Indian food and that person will probably say Tandoori chicken before you can say chutney. Even in India, it's these cuisines that stand for Indian food.

However, Bengali food is becoming popular in India. A recent article, "Bengal on the Menu," in The Telegraph (See the Links section on the right) talks about how Bengali cuisine is finding its rightful place on restaurant tables around the country.

Welcome to Cooking in Calcutta

2005-10-11T22:15:00.000-07:00

Today is Mahashtami Day, the second day of the annual Durga Puja festival in West Bengal (or, in short, Bengal), a state in India. Let this day bring joy and blessing to you, for Durga is a goddess all of Bengal (and, indeed, almost all of India) worships.

On this day of worship, I launch for you, the reader, Cooking in Calcutta, a log of musings on food and cooking -- Calcutta (rechristened "Kolkata") is the capital of Bengal. Cooking in Calcutta is an offering from a devotee who worships food and cooking. As drumbeats fill my neighborhood, I dedicate this blog to you.

I have been thinking of starting this blog (short for Weblog, as you probably know) for a while. After reading about food blogs and just a few entries of those blogs, I realize how similar food bloggers are even though they live in different continents.

I live in Kolkata, a state in the east of India (more about the history and culture of Bengal in later, I promise); yet, I discovered a moment ago, I am so similar to a popular food blogger, Clotilde Dusoulier, of Chocolate & Zucchini (See the Links section on the right).

Clotilde lives in Paris, I live in Calcutta. But, like Clotilde, I am a food fanatic who loves to cook. But, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Like Clotilde, I
-- work in a software company
-- want to be a full-time food writer
-- want to open a restaurant someday
-- spent several years in America before returning to my home country

Isn’t this amazing? Food and cooking geeks have one giant common thread running through them.

Yet, each blog should be individual, quirky, for these are the adjectives that describe blogs best. Cooking in Calcutta is about cooking in, well, Calcutta. But, what does that really mean?

It means this blog is about something specific to Kolkata (and Bengal) and to the writer. Bengal as a region -- as I said earlier -- has its own distinctive history and culture, and that binds two Bengals, East (now called Bangladesh, a separate country) and West (West Bengal, the Indian state).

And, Bengal is about fish, mustard and rice. From the turbid waters of the Ganga come silvery fish, and on the fertile delta of the river grow yellow mustard and verdant paddy.

So, Cooking in Calcutta is about cooking with these things, but it’s also about international (or "ethnic") cuisines and drinks, for, like the bloggers, food today is truly global, and so should the coverage of food be.

So, all ye readers, from Paris to Patna, from Tampa to Timbuktu, jump onboard. Browse the words on the platter I offer you, and rant or rave. I will take all.