Grandma knows best!

Food that’s cooked using age-old techniques often elevates and accentuates its flavours, writes Ajit Saldanha

Bhut Jolokia

Mexican, Korean, Vietnamese… with the fear engendered by the pandemic slowly ebbing, it’s almost as if the floodgates have opened with a veritable slew of restaurants opening and the array of culinary choices making expert advice invaluable. But how does one know whom to trust? “When all the world is on the move and people fret and chafe about its fearfulness and uncertainty,” said Fred Inglis (Emeritus Professor of Cultural Studies at the University of Sheffield in the UK), “a fine restaurant is a reassurance that certain antique, necessary values may still be trusted.” That’s all very well, Freddy, but what exactly do you mean by “fine” is a question most millennials are likely to ask. With restaurants springing up like parthenium, one has to consider an aspect that most newbies flushed with the enthusiasm of ignorance fail to take into account: only 20% of all restaurants survive their first year in business.

Subjective or objective?

In Bengaluru last year we had over 500 new offerings and Murphy’s Law says that no less than 400 have crashed and burnt. Faced with this unnerving attrition rate it’s not surprising that anxiety, rather than enjoyment, has become a part of eating out. Zagat’s and Zomato follow a model based on diner inputs and the logical premise that the more palates you have on the job, the more likely you are to sift out the vagaries of taste, discernment or honesty. “You can corrupt one man or a couple... You can’t bribe an army,” as a wise man once claimed. However, as we know our cost from a practical standpoint, this laudable democratic principle often results in confusion. Sometimes, just for a laugh, I amuse myself by reading the messy cat’s cradle of subjective reviews on social media.

“Splendid, perfectly plated, a bit hot,” on a Naga restaurant, which may well have inspired me to return to the noble Naga tradition of head-hunting, had I been the owner. Incidentally, the bhut jolokia chilli used in Naga cuisine kicks in at 8,55,000 Scoville heat units and its fiery after-effects can last for three days. If you have an annoying friend who is always boasting about his ability to handle “Andhra food spice levels,” make him an offer he can’t refuse: while he may not wind up feeding the fishes like Luca Brasi, the jolokia experience will make him a better person.

The other problem faced by restaurateurs is user ignorance: a constantly moving target. Some people know what they want to eat but not where; occasionally they are in the mood for a certain type of cuisine but are clueless about its nuances. More unfortunately, culinary ignoramuses are often the most vociferous when it comes to sharing their opinions. This is especially true of regional cuisines where I have watched top chefs smile patiently while some chinless wonder holds forth on what an authentic kori gassi should taste like. It’s usually a man, (women know better) and all he offers in support of his theory is that he has been to a roadside shack with his auto driver who told him it’s where all the locals eat…you get the picture?

The ‘desi’ craze

The other trend which makes the few remaining hairs on my head stand like quills upon the fretful porcupine is this ghastly habit of desifying food: performing the great Indian rope trick to make pasta taste like seviyaan, turn a cauliflower into the manchurian candidate and risotto into pongal. Okay, I made the last one up but you have to admit that the tendency, if left unchecked, can descend into total chaos. It’s okay with momos and chutney, ketchup in sweet corn soup and perhaps Hakka noodles in a college canteen, but dumping vast quantities of garam masala into Moroccan lamb tagine is a crime and so is boiling spaghetti to an unidentifiable sludge and serving it topped with chicken tikka masala.

That said, based on my buddy Anirban Blah’s recommendation, we set sail from Panjim to Assegao for a superb lunch at Avo (Konkani for grandma) for some homestyle Saraswat food. Let the record reflect that Grandma has killed it. Magnificent breadfruit with the lightest touch of haldi and chilli applied with a makeup brush (seriously) dredged in rice flour and fried to a golden-brown perfection, mwah. Amaranth leaves, freshly plucked from the adjacent garden, lightly steamed and tossed with onion and fresh coconut. Slices of fresh chonak, aka sea perch, minimalist masala, dusted with rice flour and pan-fried to that optimum level where the fish stays firm and flaky while the crust has that right amount of crunch. Ambode, aka hog plums, done in a hot and sour curry, redolent with tamarind, chilli and coriander, followed by a slightly sweeter mango curry providing the ideal counterpoint in texture and flavour.

Boiled rice with a tiny portion of chicken xacutti, mussels rava fry and a trio of killer desserts made with pineapple, mango and rava rounded out our meal. I am not a fan of rava but here, the stellar take on it made me a reluctant convert. The brothers who own the eatery are hands-on talented pros who are proud of their roots and who know their strengths which are showcased in their eclectic menu. There is a veritable Godrej almirah of culinary choice and if you’re the nostalgic sort, this will have you swooning with joy.

(The author is an old Bengalurean and impresario of comedy and musical shows who considers himself fortunate to have turned his passions — writing and theatre — into a profession.)