Mr. Chowdhury’s Chowder
A New England delicacy comes to Calcutta in a new guise
~ FICTION ~
Ranjan Chowdhury returned to Kolkata from Boston with a natty pinstripe suit on his body and an entrepreneurial luster in his eye. He told his wife Sushila in a hushed reverential tone that he had eaten the most delicious concoction in the world.
“New England Clam Chowder. Cream of Heaven. Food of the Gods. We should make this stew, sell it in Kolkata. We’d rake in a bundle, comfortably retire on the profits.”
Mrs. Chowdhury smiled at his enthusiasm but her eyes became marble-like as she read the recipe.
“Bacon! They’re mixing pig with fish? This stew will make people throw up.”
“Clams are not ‘fish,’ dear.” Mr. Chowdhury placated her. “They’re — well, little pig-like things that live in the sea. The combination is delicious. I ate this chowder every day in Boston and still couldn’t have enough.”
Mrs. Chowdhury sniffed and ruffled her brow. “I’d hardly call this the food of the gods.”
“Okay, Sushila, okay. I don’t know if the gods actually eat it,” Mr. Chowdhury conceded. “But the Boston Brahmins do. Good enough for me.”
Then they discovered clams were not readily available in the Kolkata fish markets.
“You and your birdbrain ideas.” Mrs. Chowdhury spoke with the assurance of a person sure of her commanding position. “This won’t work. Forget it. There are better things to do.”
Mr. Chowdhury did not respond; he was not one to give up.
“No clams, no problem. Let’s use prawns,” he said. “We’ll innovate, use mutton instead of bacon. Add a few more ingredients, Indian flavors — chili powder, nutmeg powder, garlic powder. Powder, powder, in the chowder. Change New England clam chowder into Chowdhury’s Chowder.”
Mrs. Chowdhury permitted herself the thought that success could be a possibility.
“All right, let’s give it our best shot.”
They cut the prawns into tiny pieces, sprinkled white pepper as well as black pepper, used curry leaves instead of bay leaves, and experimented by adding grated carrots and shredded tapioca along with the miniature chunks of potatoes. They blended coconut milk into the cream. The result was a chowder unlike any other.
But how were they to get their work of culinary art into the best eateries in town?
They went over their list of connections many times and with much care, before settling on Mr. Trivedi, a wealthy businessman who had started a new restaurant chain, one that had become a fashionable place to be spotted at. The Chowdhurys knew the Trivedis from the Tollygunge Club where the two men often struck billiard balls and clinked crystal together as they sent their Chivas Regal down the hatch, while the women fluttered with cards playing Bridge over gin tonics. But the Trivedis and the Chowdhurys had never, in all these years, dined together, not at the Tolly or anywhere else.
A chomp, a slurp — crude though it sounds these are worth a thousand words of description, the Chowdhurys declared, when they invited Mr. and Mrs. Trivedi for dinner at their home, with Chowdhury’s Chowder as the centerpiece of the meal.
The Chowdhurys left nothing to chance; the Trivedis were fussy and fastidious creatures, especially Mr. Trivedi whose mood could swing from amicable to grouchy merely on account of some little flaw in his surroundings: a drawn curtain that did not darken the room sufficiently, a dog barking across the street. The Chowdhurys scrubbed and mopped their home, polished their furniture, bought new tablecloths and placemats, and filled the vases with bamboo orchids, Mrs. Trivedi’s favorite flower. They found purple candles to match the orchids. Mr. Trivedi had often professed a grudging admiration for M. F. Husain, and Mr. Chowdhury pleaded and cajoled with a friend to part with his oh-so-precious Husain canvas for one evening. They hung the painting in the dining room, and positioned the candles where the flickering orange glow would best highlight the splashes of indigo and champagne.
The Trivedis’ faces glowed as they supped on the chowder, and their ecstatic cries (“Lovely! Divine!”) created a glow of equal measure on the Chowdhurys’ countenances.
Mr. Trivedi leaned towards Mr. Chowdhury as he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin.
“Our restaurants serve wholesome and unusual food that reflects our tastes and values. Your chowder — an original recipe, did you say? — certainly is a good candidate.”
“I thought of offering it to the Tolly, but,” and Mr. Chowdhury leaned forward in a calculated motion before continuing, “but then I thought: why not talk to Sahil Trivedi first?”
“Jolly decent of you, Ranjan,” Mr. Trivedi nodded. “I’ll introduce your chowder — we’ll have to figure out a catchy name for it — into my restaurants first, and have them offer it exclusively to the Tolly. The Tolly’ll be the only club in India to have it, if they agree to our terms, of course.”
Mr. Chowdhury smiled and looked up at the Husain. The time will come soon, he thought, when I can afford to purchase a few of those. He then turned back to Mr. Trivedi, who was asking him, “Tell me, Ranjan, what’s the main ingredient? I figure the potatoes and carrots form the base, but what gives that distinctive taste?”
Mr. Chowdhury beamed. “You won’t believe it. Prawns.”
Mrs. Trivedi pushed back her chair and walked to the bathroom in a clumsy manner. They heard her throw up her food, heard the torrent of water gushing from the tap.
Mr. Trivedi’s face had turned two shades paler. He sweated out four words at the Chowdhurys: “We are pure vegetarians.”
“What? All your restaurants specialize in meat dishes, especially — ” Mr. Chowdhury began, but the look on Mr. Trivedi’s stony face told him not to say another word. He swallowed his words, and each word had the distinct taste of his chowder that he had burned by leaving it on the stove for too long.
And for the first time since he returned from Boston, Mr. Chowdhury did not know what to do.
