Chicken with bones? How crass!
The eternal search for home on my plate with a pinch of story
I was nine when I went off to boarding school. On the first Tuesday afternoon away from home a dish with a pungent smell was placed in front of me. I had had the nightmare often enough to believe I was being served rotten food. I simply stared at my plate, the thick creamy texture of what was before me bringing reminders of the custard my mother made on some weekends. Seated at the head of the table was the Chemistry teacher who noticed that I was putting nothing into my mouth yet tasting through my mind. “Just try it, and then decide,” she called out to me. Before long I had come to associate Tuesdays with vegetarian meals, Tuesday lunches with vegetables in white sauce and a hint of cheese (no spice and slightly saline). And I retain a vivid memory of the way in which I was introduced to ‘continental’ food, that in the next decade I would come to like as much as ‘traditional’ food. The introduction was a kind, gentle invitation to embrace a whole new world of food.
Do any of us expats in this world of fromageries beyond the humble cheddar and paneer, remember the first whiff and taste of stinky, bitter cheese? That moment of surprise because of what was served for lunch and my teacher understanding that I came from a home that never cooked cheese or white sauce, resonates feelings of comfort that one hopes to have in this wide world of oddities and differences. Was I embarrassed, afraid or comforted by my teacher’s attempt at comforting me? I can’t be sure. I knew little of class and caste or their inherent links to food yet I remember evaluating whether embracing this new taste would mean a compromise for me or would it simply have to be done to fit in, as I did to understand the world away from home. Too young to consider questions of rich and poor taste, definitely far from telling gouda from parmesan but what I did know was that I was unable to say “The white sauce at home is better,” which was the sentiment echoed by many of my peers.
“Ah! Liver! Poor man’s food.” I was surprised, shocked and embarrassed all at once!
Fast forward fifteen years when I began work, at a law firm in Bombay during dinner, a rather shocking remark was made by a colleague. I’d ordered ‘chicken liver dry’ on one of those long nights at work. As was usual, he asked me what I’d ordered for dinner, the only solace during those wee hours at work and as he saw it, he commented sneeringly, “Ah! Liver! Poor man’s food.” I was surprised, shocked and embarrassed all at once! I responded with a simple, “Sure, I really like it.”
Unlike the memory of white sauce, I doubt if I can recall or describe the moment I ate chicken’s liver for the first time. I wonder how many times I’ve fallen victim to my own unconscious biases and whether through these years of learning and experiencing the world in all its varied ways, have I tried to make space for all likes and dislikes. What liver is to me could perhaps be insects to another person’s diet? Will I find myself to be accommodating or utter disgusted if my colleague ordered a ‘delicacy’ one evening? I cannot be sure.
The law firm in Bombay had the most wonderful food culture and there was love for liver amongst many. As I left the eating table, I’d wonder if I belonged here — and a strange but short feeling of anger and shame would bolt through me as I recalled my colleague insulting my food choices. Perhaps, he was perturbed by my choice of dinner, especially when the client was footing the bill! On hindsight, perhaps he wondered why I didn’t opt for a fancy seafood linguine instead. This memory still sticks with me for suddenly, I felt different and separate from a colleague who otherwise had the same lifestyle as me. It stuck with me.
I am not sure if I felt poor in that moment of utter surprise to white cream with vegetables or the moment of liver mockery. I suppose there was a strange understanding of the unequal world in that moment of receiving a comment on my choice of food by a colleague who also studied law. We drew similar paychecks, took ubers, spent Fridays at the city’s best breweries and yet, there was a mile of separation between our presents. Or was I being simply shallow in allowing for these thoughts to flutter when it was simply a matter of chicken liver hate.
Food unites I’d known but it had never really occurred to me how much food can divide! I’m reminded of a short story by Maugham called ‘ the Luncheon’ where I learned for the first time that peaches and asparagus were served at elite restaurants in Europe. (You must read this story, it’s hilarious!). My mind could not fathom how asparagus (a vegetable I’d never seen or tasted) that looked similar to drumsticks used in sambar could be deemed as exquisite and thus, expensive! I suppose this was my first exposure to exotic foods, even if only in fiction, and my amusement continues till today with turmeric lattes and chia seeds on London café menus. And now I find myself staring at bhoot jolikia pickles on exotic shelves, only to tell my friends that it basically grows in my parents’ backyard.
Food for me has had several journeys, at each juncture, from Nagaland to boarding school to Mumbai and now London, I have found myself trying to find home and also, learn and adjust in such new cultures of food. This journey has been rife with complexities, discoveries, judgments and curiosity. What some would clearly distinguish as native and acquired taste, I have found myself at a loss in putting food in each of these categories. What almost became native at any point, also became alien as I moved cities.
I simply belonged to another world where Mumbai is our New York.
There are several instances in my growing-up years that bring out an understanding of class from food choices; something I have only recently pondered while trying to locate my place in a new country. Faint memories of food discoveries flicker in my mind as I write this — the moment when my friend at law school shared string cheese her uncle brought from the United States (I had no cousins abroad, I simply belonged to another world where Mumbai is our New York). More shockingly to many, prior to moving to Pune for law school I never knew one could buy chicken’s legs separately from the rest of the chicken! I also remember my friends in the city finding my liking for chicken bones particularly strange, they weren’t to blame either, I really did come from a part of India many weren’t sure it was a part of the country at all. While industrialisation has enabled the rest of the world to buy their wings separate from their legs separate from their liver, the hills of Nagaland had not yet started urbanising food habits for me to have developed such “refined” tastes.
The limitless correlation between our cultures/ habits and ethnic/ social/ economic backgrounds was highlighted when I moved to London. Once again, I was trying to find comfort in the new and the old. In my initial days I enjoyed curries but soon, I tried venturing out for Ethiopian cuisine which I later found I wouldn’t have needed to build a palette for at all! I found familiarity in African cuisine — I did not think was possible and yet, I remember being hardly tempted by a McDonald’s burger in law school in Pune. Not out of snobbery or health concerns and conscious eater but junk food chains did not exist in those days where I came from. Funnily enough, I remember feeling alienated as all my friends were excited by KFC popcorn while tandoori chicken was on my mind!
I have led a life of contrasts — as a Bengali born in Nagaland, I acquired a peculiar liking for pork and bamboo shoot, tastes unknown to my parents; as second generation Bangladeshi migrants from Assam, my parents did not eat coconut curries and instead preferred dried fish. Bengali food to most of India means mishti and chanar dalna as I came to understand when I landed in Pune for law school. I realised years later how my tastes were aligned to the erstwhile East Bengal (now Bangladesh), the cuisine there being vastly different from West Bengal. These contrasts were also in my everyday life — I was sent to a boarding school for which my father bought his first car to celebrate; law student at a top law school but the only one in the family to be at university outside of the North East of India; first in the family to ever listen to Floyd and yet the same old chicken — cartilage lover. As a student in London, perhaps the only one with no cousins or family friends abroad which meant I did not have my weekend dose of food that felt like it came from home. Food for me had a long geographical journey and with it came its adjustments. These variations in trying to unlearn and re-learn food, finding home outside of it, really dawned upon me during my Masters in London. I finally felt a sense of comfort in understanding where I came from, what it meant to be part of a resident community where presidents’ grandchildren lived, while I was overjoyed as my father travelled abroad with me for the first time.
In this long journey from North East India to London, my everyday life is filled with magical moments from a shared food journey with my French partner. While carrots and courgettes excite him, I’ve managed to introduce okra and bottle gourd to our daily plates. We love our films, our cultural idiosyncrasies and the jokes associated with them (I still vouch for brushing before breakfast, a concept strange to the French apparently). But most of all, it is our love for aloo bhujia and croque monsieur as equally our dislike for radish dal and soupe à la tomate that binds us.
Food has been a source of solidarity and a unifying factor for many. For most parts, it has helped me find friends, reasons to gather, learn to cook — a myriad of activities and interests garnered through food. There have also been undeniable moments of pain and sadness brought by food, in trying to understand its varying forms, its places, origins and the people it brings together. As I become increasingly aware of my own culture and its place in the world, I also found solace in the ironies of food habits. Pasta, in all forms, is often considered easy, student food in many parts of Europe while in India it is considered by many as a date night classic!
Life is indeed strange. My partner, who makes a tart as if he’s boiling instant noodles says cooking up a curry is very distinctly difficult. Also, turns out, liver pate and fromage are at the heart of French cuisine. Mind you, not at countryside homes but restaurants at Paris 16th , a neighbourhood well recognised by the non-liver eaters of India surely.