Chappan Dukan? Fifty-six shops? What kind of a name is that?
“Bohut sare dukan, sir, khane ka, ( many eateries there),” explained Omkar, as he deftly navigated his autorickshaw through broad avenues and congested service-roads. “Hamare Indore, khane ka capital hai. (Our Indore is the food capital),” his voice had an unmistakable tint of pride which ringed over the din of the traffic.
Food-capital or not, Indore is certainly among the cleanest cities I have
ever been to in our country, I confessed. An old business town, bustling with people and enterprise, nothing manicured and yet functional. Dirt-free roads, walkable footpaths, spotless parks and public spaces.
The auto came to a halt. Omkar stretched his hand to a wide tract where the road has charted itself through a plaza, and declared, ‘Chappan Dukan’. On the eastern side of the plaza is a row of shops at a mezzanine elevation, restaurants and ice-cream parlours, and even a boutique paan shop. But I saw a crowd on the other side of the plaza, with rows of ground-level eateries of more modest dispensation. Real street-food joints. I headed for the cluster of people in front of a shop, and like all sensible tourists inferred, if the locals like it, it must be good.
It was difficult to get to the shop-front, pushing through the crowd — all standing on the footpath and slurping out of their plates. Again, like judicious tourists, I discretely eyed at the plates. What were they having? Some kind of burger, but not burger? I braved the indecent undertaking of asking. “Egg Benjo,” said in unison an obliging group of backpack-dangling students who were enjoying a quick bite before their arduous session of tuition for medical entrance.
Egg Benjo. The name was odd enough to tickle curiosity. Chappan Dukan mein Egg Benjo. Let’s try out. When it finally arrived on my plate, it was a split bun, well buttered, with a patty of egg omelette in between, served hot with tomato sauce and green chutney. Was it good? Well, I got another one.
‘Chappan Dukan’ is a place where you don’t eat just one thing from just one eatery and then stop. That would be sacrilegious. But the problem lay with the galactic choice at hand and my limited capacity to consume. Tikki-chole, kulfi, poha — quite different from their Maharashtrian brethren, rabdi, bhutte ka kees … endless, what? Scouting along the line of shops from one side to another, from one end to the other, ultimately, I settled for Khopra patties. It is a patty with coconut-based filling, a speciality of Indore’s street-food.
Another day and another place. This time the ubiquitous jalebi on my plate, served hot from the cauldron. The twisted tubes are crisp and thick, much thicker than usual. But one crack at it and the yum, juicy, syrup inside burst and melted in my mouth, and as I was not prepared for the deluge, I spoilt my shirt as well.
But who cared? Some kachouri and it was time for tea, but even there, there was a twist. I had to see how they make tandoori-chai.
The earthen pot, the khullar, is roasted in a makeshift tandoor. Ash hot, it is taken out of the tandoor and placed on a flat, high-rimmed vessel. The tea is prepared separately and poured into the scorching khullar, creating puffs of hissing smoke and earthen smell as the tea frothed and overflowed from the khullar to the vessel. The tea is then collected from the khullar and the vessel and served in a regular cup. One sip, and it certainly was a world apart from any other kind of tea.
It was my last night in Indore, and I was itching for another of Indore’s culinary idiosyncrasies. And what better way to end than hand made tawa ice-cream, prepared live. And there I was. Beside Arjun, a young early-thirtyish, who would be making my ice-cream. “From scratch?” I wondered. Arjun smiled. “Dekhte jaiye.”
I presume it was milk or cream which he poured lightly on a chilled metal tray and added to it some flavoured syrup. Then with two spatulas in two hands he deftly mixed the contents.
That was an expert job I wish I could video record. At one point he spread the mixture, now pulpish, thinly on the tray till it formed a crust. Using the spatula, he skilfully culled out rolls of ice-cream out of that crust.
A splash of thick caramel syrup and my hand-made Tawa ice-cream was ready.
“Your hand baggage is overweight, sir,” said the lady at the check-in counter at the airport. I realised it was stashed with dhaniya mirch mathri and dry fruits gajak and doodh channa red chilli and aam jalebi and … oh my god. I forced my most disarming smile and pleaded, “What to do? Taking back a bit of Indore with me.”