Stuff I Ate in Mumbai: Mahesh Lunch Home, Kailash Parbat

I ate at a lot of places in Mumbai, because there was nothing else to do. Not when it was raining like that. Mumbai rain is singular, that's what any native will tell you, but there's times when it gets worse then that. The rain pounds down so hard on your umbrella, you get convinced the sky is falling in, the End of Things. The wind kicks up real strong down a narrow street, ringed by buildings, and your cheap umbrella blows out and you're soaked to the skin, your clothes clinging to you. (Showers at night become superficial, bandaids become a luxury (they fall right off). I wash swirls of dirt off my entire body at night but I don't know what the point is). Mumbai smells of wet-dog mixed with motor oil, and all the kids with their perfect hair wander around with plastic bags over their heads, looking pissed off. The Monsoon that Never Ends.

I went to go have chaat at Kailash Parbat, because I couldn't go to Chowpatty. Not in this weather. It's a small vegetarian restaurant very close to the center of Colaba, and is very well loved by the young and impoverished of the city. It's open air and gets a decent breeze, especially when the rain is pouring down, and they have every kind of chaat you could want, and tons of vegetarian food besides.

Chaat is the catch-all phrase for "tasty Indian snacks that come from the street most of the time but not always." Chaat is the lifeblood of India, the base heart and soul of the cuisine (in my mind) - it's what plain folks eat. Bhel puri, sev puri, pani puri, aloo chaat, bhala papri chaat, and on and on, too many varieties to name. Common ingredients in chaat are potatoes, dahi (yogurt/curds), chopped onion, mango, tamarind sauce, chili, lentil wafers, tomato, and puffed rice. Many chaats also involve chaat masala, a spice mix usually involving amchoor (green mango) powder, cumin, coriander, ginger, and black and red pepper. They're usually served on disposable bowls made of leaves - don't ask where they came from. All chaats share one commonality: they revolve around some form of fried dough. How can you go wrong?



My favorite chaat is bhel puri. The best way to describe it to a Westerner? Savory Rice Krispies. It's a combination of puffed rice, diced potato, red onion, tamarind and chili sauce, sev (fried strings made from besan powder), and fried papri puris (wheat bread). Most places will toss in chaat masala and chopped green mango as well. Every bhel puri cart makes it a little differently, and that's half the fun of it. No bhel puri is ever the same twice. Bhel puri is the iconic dish of Chowpatty Beach, and you are officially Doing Mumbai Wrong if you leave the city without consuming the stuff on that sandy and infamous stretch, fending off seagulls and souvenir-sellers alike. Use the papri puri as a "spoon." Kailash Prabat is said to make one of the better bhel puris in the city, and I'd have to agree. A great ratio of chutney to crunchy stuff, plenty of sweet and savory interplay of flavors, delicious and savory.



I also ordered a mixed vegetable "tawa". Pretty good, if not exceptional. Didn't really need it. Bhel puri is surprisingly filling. They do a fine thali and pav bhaji (buns with spiced vegetables) here as well. A good spot to try Mumbai-style chutney sandwiches. I've never quite "got" them.

I had come to Mumbai wanting to try Parsi food, but was pretty much totally confused. The classic Parsi restaurants seem to offer monumentally depressing menus of "Continental" stuff -think baked chicken, baked beans on toast, spaghetti Bolognese - and none of the reputed ethnic recipes of the subgroup. I remember eating at one of the supposed Parsi/Iranian restaurants and being primarily impressed by its badness. Sort of a half-assed ripoff of the omnipresent Persian and Lebanese restaurants found in the USA, with hummus that tasted powdered. Maybe the only way to get at Parsi food is to make a Parsi friend. Any takers?

I paid a visit to the Mahesh Lunch Home one day. It's one of Mumbai's rather exclusive clique of high-end seafood restaurants. The interior is futuristically blue-lit and small, and the waiters are friendly in the pompous, overly-sophisticated way of Indian servers in all quality establishments.



I ordered the rawas tikka. Rawas is India's "salmon," and it's particularly beloved here in Mumbai. It's a tasty and firm fish, and I ordered it Hyderabadi style - this means the fish is coated in a spice mixture involving plenty of green chili, and given a quick char. The flesh is firm and has a mild salmon-type flavor. Really quite excellent. Had an extremely butter-centric vegetable jalfreezi with. Bring your ghee glasses.



When I got my food, I, as is usual, took out my camera and began shooting pictures. The waiter grandly came over and asked, "Would you like me to take the picture?" Not sure what he meant. Me with the rawas - a family portrait? Taking the photograph of the food itself?

I politely declined. I always wonder what people in less internet-centric countries and age groups wonder when they see me ardently and extensively photographing my lunch. Kids these days.

I'll put together a Mumbai restaurant suggestions directory in a bit here. Seems like the right thing to do for all the major cities I hit on this here trip.

Eating Stuff in the Car: New Delhi Edition

Hey there. Have been doing all my writing whatnot over at The Long Way to Cambodia. Since I have been traveling in Asia for the past three months. I will be mirroring all specific food related posts over here from now on.


Without further ado...


Delhi, like the rest of India, is a bastion of street food. And the number one Delhi street food is, of course, the almighty kebab. Kebab functions as a catch-all word for a dizzying array of meat products on a stick here in India, but rest assured: whatever it is, it will be incredibly tasty. India being primarily Hindu and Muslim, kebabs are almost always made with mutton or chicken - vegetarian variants with paneer (cheese), potato, and mashed vegetables do exist.

Al Kauser
Off Sarder Patel Marg, near the Assam Bhavan. (Look for the stall with smoke coming off it, and lots of hungry people sitting on their cars. You can't miss it).




Sheila insisted that we try the kakori kebab at Al Kauser one night, and I was of no inclination to defy her. (I am rarely of such an inclination). Sheila, Rajeev, and myself accordingly jumped into the car, wherein Sheila grandly asked the driver to take us to the Kebab Place, and be quick about it. "It's just a stall, of course, but they are simply the most divine kakori kebabs in town. But it's just a stall, really."

(She was looking for an accomplice, in the dark art of Eating In the Car. We both knew it. And I was happy to oblige).

Al Kauser is a bit of a kebab stall institution, beloved by an entire generation of Delhi-ites for its kakori rolls. The kakori kebab roll, for the uninitiated, is made of ultra-finely cut ground lamb, ground to a fine paste and seasoned with garlic, cinnamon, cayenne, cardamon, cumin, and some other tasty aromatics. The result is an incredibly tender kebab that quite literally melts in your mouth, creating a decadently fatty explosion of flavor in one's mouth. As kakori kebabs are delicate things, they are usually served with ultra thin and buttery roomali roti. Traditional condiments are hyperactively spicy cilantro chutney with green chili, and pickled onions. Mix these elements up together and you've got a work of art. Kakori kebab is a foodstuff entirely suited for eating in your car or while standing up - that's the other beauty of them. And did I mention that kakori kebab is cheap?



Al Kauser is best known for its kakori kebab, but they also turn out a popular mutton burra kebab (mutton on the bone with a coating of yogurt and spices). Chicken tikka is on offer for wusses who can't handle mutton, but there's no real reason to bother. (I don't know why people bother with chicken tikka in general). Watching the cooks slap the kakori paste on the table and form it into kebabs at super-human speeds is half the fun. Must not be comfortable to spend all night working in a flaming inferno of a grill stall, but I'm glad they do it. As are a lot of people.

There is something delightful about devouring kakori kebab in the back of a car with a grand dame, dripping cilantro sauce and bits of roomali roti all over the upholstery. Since that is part of the sacred ritual of eating kakori kebab. It must not be abrogated. "God, I do love these!" Sheila commented after we polished off the last batch. She handed me a paper napkin. We both delicately and in a highly lady-like fashion wiped the mutton grease off our mouths. "You have to eat them in the car, darling," she said, as we pulled away. "It can't be done any other way."

Well, I'd concur.



We ended our casual-style dinner at a nearby shopping center, for bhel puri. Sheila has a bhel puri guy there she likes, and the three of us ordered up plates of the good stuff.



A lovely rendition. Plenty of fresh mango and onion, plenty of chutneys. A pleasant overdose of sev and seasonings. Not too dry, not too moist. Crunchier then most. Christ, I love bhel puri.



We adjourned to Haldiram's - one representative of India's ginormous Bengali fast-food chain - to sip on Diet Cokes and watch the locals sink their faces into thalis, samosas, and chaats. Sheila vacillated with the idea of getting some kulfi or some barfi, something like that, but talked herself out of it. "Too fatty," she sighed. "You know that Delhi is in the throes of an obesity epidemic."

Which it is. And we know why.

indian street food: chaat

INDIAN STREET FOOD



Perhaps the first advice offered to vistors to India is "Don't eat the street food." You would do well to completely ignore this. Gastric complaints go away (generally.) Happy memories last forever.

India has an incredibly strong street food tradition, putting the roving dirty-water hot dog stands of our own country to considerable shame. This is due to India having less regulations about basically everything, which means both more variety and more opportunity for sorrow and woe. (Life is like that anyway.) You can pick up everything from kebabs to fruit salad to fried fish to chaat on the street, and variations exist in almost every town and region and state. An exhaustive survey of the delicious treats to be found across India would take much more time and patience then I have, so here's what I encountered. Let's begin with chaat.


The chaat stand near my office in Bangalore. Note the bags of pani puris to the left.

- Chaat is the most famous Indian street or fast food, a catchall term meaning "to lick or taste." In common usage, chaat just stands for delicious, savory snacks that are eaten either for lunch or at some time between the usual meals. Chaat is almost always vegetarian and generally comprised of some sort of delicious carbohydrate - common ingredients include chickpeas, yogurt, tamarind and chili sauce, and chopped tomatoes and onions. Chaat masala, a distinctive spice mixture featuring dried green mango (amchoor) is also a major player - I bought a bunch of the stuff back home and enjoy sprinkling it on fruit salad. There are roughly two million different varieties of chaat which vary from city to city, which indicates you should probably try as many kinds as possible if you know what's good for you.



Chaat may be found everywhere from gungy and slightly scary street stalls to fancy expensive restaurants - pretty much everyone adores it. I favor getting my chaat from stalls that are one notch above moveable carts (to avoid picking up a stray amoeba), but you can be a wuss and go to a real sit-down restaurant. I guess.


A fancy-schmancy version of bhel puri served up at San Francisco's commendable Dosa.

What chaat varieties do I recommend? Bhel puri is my absolute favorite chaat dish, composed of puffed rice mixed with sev (fried noodles), potatoes, papri puris (little wheat crackers), along with tomato and onion. Chutney is usually added to the mix: I consider the dark sweet kind, composed of dates and tamarind, to be about on level with crack. I put it on everything. Mumbai is reputed to be the ancestral home of bhel puri and I'd believe it. I ate a lot of bhel puri in Bangalore: I must admit, the simple version dished up from Juice Junction was the best. I have many happy memories of spending my lunch break balancing a plate of bhel puri on one knee and a fruit salad on the other, watching the little punks from the Bishop Cotton boys school across the street order up an after school snack: good times.

Pani puri is also delish and everywhere, composed of puffed fried dough filled with a watery broth of tamarind, chili, and potato. These little suckers are pretty much impossible to miss and usually sold by the piece: a nice way to cool down on a hot day. Try extra hard to avoid the super sketchy stalls with these as there are occasional unfortunate issues with nasty water. Occasional. It's best to eat these in one gulp as there could be spillage. You don't want spillage.


A delicious, delicious bowl of dahi papri. Scuse' me while I lick the screen.

If you're in a dairy sort of mood, it's hard to beat dahi puri, which consists of tangy Indian yogurt seved over crunchy puri rounds, mixed with chutney, sev, and god knows what else. Dahi papri is also delicious, featuring fried wheat crackers broken up into chunks and served with the same delicious yogurt topping. It's sort of like Indian nachos with cheese sauce. Only not really. (The person who successfully markets nachos in India will become incredibly wealthy. I am considering it.)

Pav bhaji is another Mumbai speciality, composed of super-tasty buttery buns (the pav) and a spicy potato and vegetable based curry (the bhaji.) Prepared in giant pans on the street most everywhere in Mumbai, it's a tasty and carbohydrate rich former factory-workers lunch that has earned the love of the Indian populace. I'm trying to learn how to make it at home.


A few of Chowpatty's food stalls.

Any mention of chaat would be remiss without bringing up Chowpatty Beach, Mumbai's near-legendary snack food capital. The beach itself is attractive enough and even moderately clean these days, but the real attraction is the food sellers, who shill just about everything from suprisingly elaborate stalls, working out of an authorized area. It wasn't always like this: selling food on the beach used to be illegal. As my friend Aneesa remembers: "You'd be buying a juice or something and in the middle of making it, someone would spot the cops and they'd just all run away and leave you standing there...it was really quite funny."



Chowpatty Beach is all legal now and the hilarity factor has diminished, but the food is still there: bhel puri and pav bhaji are particular specialities, along with milkshakes, ices, kulfi, and falooda, a kind of Persian ice cream parfait. If you want to get all fancy, you can even sit down on plastic chairs. It is now unlikely your juice seller will run away in the midst of making your drink. Sigh.


Here's some pav bhaji - or rather bhaji bit - waiting to be served up on Chowpatty. The bhaji is prepared beforehand in big, impressive rings.

Chaat is one of India's many unexpected and delightful treats: you must not miss it when you visit. It's almost everywhere and seems to be the nations secondary real-people cuisine. Also, it tastes unspeakably good. You cannot possibly lose.