Our salad days

Unity in diversity is an important feature of the polychromatic Indian fabric.One such common strand that binds people from Kargil to Kerala, is our love for food as well as the discussion surrounding what is good food. States and even cities have distinctive and unique styles of providing gastronomical delight. Remember? Cuttack ro baromoja, Chattia ro Chenna podo, Lukhnow ke kabaab, Hyderabad ki biryani, Mathura ka Peda, Bengaluru’s bise bhile bhaat, aamchi Mumbai cha vadaa pao….. the list is long and endless.

For all of us, the journey of discovering the zayka of India started in Berhampur.

Dining out was not part of the conservative culture of the sixties and seventies. Ghar ka khaana was considered the best. Mother was the lynch-pin of the family. She was the revered, respected and undisputed queen of the kitchen. From Dal-Roti-sabji to idly-vadaa-sambar, from pakoras and samosas, to gulaab jamoon, barfee, mysore-paak, gujiya, kheer…….a mother had to make everything. She did so with a contended smile on her countenance that comes from the satisfaction of seeing your family well fed.

My first memory of outside goodies is of an old woman with a cane basket on her head who used to make her rounds once a week in Giri Road. Apart from moori, she used to sell groundnut and moori balls bound together in jaggery and two other snacks called dantikilli and supulu (the modern day muruku).

Toffee (pronounced as Tophee- p not silent) was another favourite. There were two kinds of tophees. One was hard, round and invariably organge flavoured. I used to keep it on one side of the mouth and wait till enough saliva had been formed. Then I would slowly suck it in and close my eyes relishing its journey as it travelled across the taste buds and slid down the throat. Wow! What a taste!! Believe me it was the grandmother of Gold Spot and Fanta. The other variant was the brown and semi-solid choclate. I used to stick it to the roof of my mouth and finish it slowly in an hour or so occasionaly rolling my tongue around it to expedite things.

Because of its geographical location, Berhampur was the town where Andhra and Oriya food fusion took place. Girija restaurant followed by the numerous Udipi and other South Indian cafes that dotted the town were much frequented. I was extrememly fascinated by the slate that used to hang outside announcing “Tiffin Ready”. “ Meals Ready” was written on reverse. I used to freak out on idly-saambhar and chatneey and used to make it a point to always ask for a free re-fill of chutneey. Rasam was literally the other hot favourite. It could be sipped independently like soup or mixed with rice, which was mind blowing. The telugu version known as chaaru is made with tamarind and has a more zippy taste.

Berhampur also had a wide variety of papadums. Thanks to the Jade Goody-Shipa Shetty cat-fight, the long overdue international recognition has now been bestowed on it. A handy accompaniment, it was a perfect foil in your left hand while you slurped saambar-rice with the other. I am still not sure what I enjoyed more, the taste of papadum or the crunchy crackling sound it makes when bitten off.

The oriya bhoji was an event to look forward to. We all had to sit down in rows and wait for the food to be served on our brown-coloured kholi potros. First would come a pinch of salt and green chili (lonka). People would then troop in to serve food from steel buckets.Yellow rice, dalma, bhojjaa (fried vegetable), tomato-khajoor chutney and santula (a mix of all the vegetables available in the market) was the standard menu. This was followed by the much anticipated Khiri. Add them all up and you had the finest example of a seven course feast.

Eating gravy Oriya food on a kholi potro or for that matter handling South Indian delicacies on a banana leaf, while sitting cross-legged on the floor, was a sublime blend of science and the art of possibilities. Apart from a sharp eye sight and quicksilver reflexes, one needed a deft hand, nimble finger-work and a good flick of the wrist (like in a backhand topspin) to prevent the food from flowing out. The best way to go about it was to use rice creatively- either as a mountain or as a set of small dams to stop the dalma or rasam from flowing out. Aloo reinforcement were used effectively when the dam threatened to cave in.

Bread was known as pao rooti. In the sixties, it did not have the legitimacy or status it was destined to acquire later. When an elderly lady saw me eating bread she asked with a lot of concern in her voice, “Deho bhallo achee na?”. When I said, I am fine mausi, she then asked, “Taa hele pao rooti kaheenki khauchu?” It was then that I reaslied that bread was something to be eaten only when you had fever and were under medication!

Pokhalo was in a league of its own. It was clearly the Don Bradman of the line-up. An absolute no-no during childhood, I remember the occasional Sunday afternoon Pokahlo and gossip sessions during our hostel days in college. Over-eating, making a slurrrp sound while sucking the food from your fingers and belching loudly was part of the ritual. In fact such gestures would actually mean that you have relished your food. Talking while having a mouthfull of pokhalo was the norm. After all, if Americans can talk and chew gum simultaneously why cant we gossip and gulp? When the stupor would slur your speech it was time for an afternoon siesta. A clear cut case of Nirvana made easy.

I am sure one day a nostalgic NRI Oriya will rope in Penguin publications and come out with a paper-back titled, “Pokhalo bhato for the sleepy Soul”. It’s bound to wake up the rice eaters of the world!

Today, SVCians have taken wings and live across the globe. But I am sure with such an eclectic early beginning, wherever we are and whatever we are given to eat, we don’t whine and complain but adjust and enjoy.

So what are we waiting for- Tiffin over, Meals Ready.